The Love Story (The Things We Can't Change Book 4) (5 page)

“You’re welcome,” I say breathlessly. He’s still so close to me, his broad chest so close to mine that I can sense his heart beating in a strong, steady rhythm. One of his legs is just barely touching my left inner thigh, a sturdy weight and careful touch that sends a bolt of lightning straight through me.

“You were right.” He’s still whispering, bending his head down so he’s even closer to my face, closer to me in every way, entering my personal space. I don’t mind at all. I barely even notice but for the ripples of delight and anticipation it sends through me.

Zeke continues, “It does help with Cindy, with honoring and missing her, with my mom, dealing with all my feelings. Especially the ones about you.”

“About me?” My voice is a squeak and I want to kick myself but I’m too distracted by Zeke. By his scent, part cologne, part just overwhelming man, pure masculinity. By the way he’s somehow slowly backed me up so my back is to the door and he’s in front of me, his body pressed up against mine in the most wonderful of ways. By the way his teeth flash in a grin, white and strong, at my words. And how his compelling eyes never leave my own.

“Yes, you. I don’t think you understand just how long, Evie, I’ve had a thing for your hair.”

His hand comes up and plays with a curl, finger unconsciously brushing my ear. I have to work hard to control a shudder at the intimate touch. His hand disentangles itself from my hair and he braces his palm against the door next to my head and the other hand comes up to the other side, caging me in.

Before I can grow uneasy, thinking of how the trapped position reminds me of Tony, Zeke’s head is lowering and then he’s kissing me.

I forget everything. All and any memories of Tony flee because nothing about this kiss has any similarity to one with Tony.

Zeke is kissing me softly, gently. His lips are soft against mine, not a bruising force determined to dominate like so many kisses of my past. His lips are smooth and the whole thing is made even more erotic by the fact that he’s not touching me with his hands, our bodies only brushing together.

He kisses me like that, softly and reverently, for so long that I begin to want more. I’d always thought I would be afraid, have hang ups about kisses or anything sexual, but Zeke’s slow torture is more than I can bear.

Before I even make a conscious decision or realize what I’m doing, I tilt my head, changing the angle of the kiss. Acting on pure instinct, I bite Zeke’s bottom lip.

He makes a noise deep in his throat and his hands immediately come away from the door. One goes around my waist and the other plunges into my hair. I sigh with pleasure at the sensation of his big hands finally
touching
me and the way his hand tugs on my hair. I think of the small secret I’ve kept inside—that I still think of cutting my hair sometimes but know I never can because Zeke likes it so much.

The hand around my waist finds the hem of my shirt and slips underneath, an electric touch against the small of my back, bare skin to bare skin. His knee works its way fully between my legs.

Zeke, coming at me from all angles, covering me, consuming me. It’s as near to perfection as I can imagine.

His mouth pulls away from my own and before I can protest the loss, his lips move to my neck and begin to leave a trail of fire as they rove over my skin. He finds the sensitive hollow behind my ear and pauses there for a moment. My head falls back against the door, my chest moving rapidly up and down. I can’t get enough air and I wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like. Then Zeke’s lips are on my ear, his teeth scraping against the lobe and I realize that nothing in the world could ever feel so good as this.

“Are you okay, Evie?” he asks.

His breath is hot and wet, lips moving against my ear and I can’t control the shivers it gives me. I also can’t formulate any kind of reply through my foggy brain.

“Evie, are you all right? Is all of this okay?” His voice is more insistent this time and all of the sudden his lips vanish from my ear. He’s looking down at me, concerned.

“Fine,” I manage to say breathlessly. “I’m fine. More than fine.”

He grins suddenly but his eyes are still dark and hot. “You look a little winded,” he teases, his voice containing a husky note I’ve never heard before.

“I’m fine,” I insist more forcefully. “I’m not winded at all.”

He gives a small huff of laughter and leans forward, pressing his lips to mine in one of those achingly gentle kisses. Pulling away slightly, he rests his forehead against mine, our noses brushing.

“Still, I think we shouldn’t press our luck. I’m going to pretend to be a gentleman here and leave you with just a goodnight kiss and see you safely inside.”

His hands slowly fall away, leaving me feeling bereft and cold even in the warm night.

“At least it was a really nice goodnight kiss,” I say glumly, pushing open the door at my back.

Zeke’s laugh follows me inside and I can’t help but smile too. He catches my hand as I cross the threshold and I half-turn.

“Goodnight, Evie,” he whispers, kissing the palm of my hand, just above my wrist.

I break out in goose bumps. “Goodnight, Zeke,” I whisper back.

He pulls the door closed and then he’s gone.

Ezekiel

88

I go back to the car, get inside and just sit for a long moment, resting my forehead against the worn leather steering wheel. My body is still on fire, burning with a raging heat that isn’t simply lust. Oh, lust is there, all right, but I’m floored by the way it’s all so different with Evie.

My heart is beating double time and I press a hand over it, willing it to slow down to a more acceptable rate.
Is this what it’s like when you actually
care
?
I wonder. Is that the one small element that changes every little detail, from the way I look at her to the way I hold her hand to the way I kiss her? Is that all it takes to make everything so much better, more intense?

Or is it simply because it’s Evie and everything will
always
be different with her?

Somehow, as I start the car, I think it comes down to that. It was never like this with Tessa or any other girl. They were always a distraction, a way to avoid and escape reality, to forget everything.

With Evie, I don’t want to forget a single detail. Not one. Not the way she looked tonight or how we held hands or how we laughed. Not what she told me or especially how we kissed or the way she bit my lip.

I grin at that memory, feeling a savage sense of male pride that I actually drove her to do
that
, of all things. I could have stood there kissing Evie for the rest of my life, but I know it’s best to stop while we are ahead. I don’t want to scare Evie into retreat when she already seems several steps ahead of where I thought she would be.

My stomach feels a little bit uneasy as I remember all she told me about the dance studio and my skin prickles, but at the moment the feelings seem manageable. Mostly, I think they’re held at bay by the promise of being able to draw when I get home. What I told Evie is true—it really is all easier to handle now that I allow myself to draw.

I park my dad’s car in his spot in front of the apartment and head inside, twirling the key ring around on my forefinger as I walk. I pause on the back porch and pull what appears to be an envelope out from the doorjamb and then walk inside, flipping on the lights so I can look at it. My name is on the outside of it.

Before I can open it, I hear a noise and look up to see my dad standing in the entryway of the kitchen. I jump, surprised by his sudden appearance.

“Holy shit!” It escapes before I can help it. “I didn’t even see you there.”

“Language,” he scolds harshly. For the hundredth time in my life, I reflect on the hypocrisy of parents with filthy mouths who scold their children for following in their footsteps.

Even so, I’m still on a high from time spent with Evie and not even my dad can spoil the memory of her in my arms. I give him a mocking salute.

“Yessir.”

“Where were you tonight?” he asks, just as I’m moving to slip past him and make good my escape.

“On a date,” I reply evasively, not wanting to get into all that just now. But it’s too late. I’ve said the magic words.

“You were with that Parker girl, weren’t you?” he asks gruffly.

I had been intent on escaping and avoiding, but at this, I turn and can’t keep a sardonic edge from my voice. “‘That Parker girl’ has a name, Dad. Her name is Evie. And yes, I was with her. And we had a great time, thanks for asking.”

The glint of anger and annoyance that flashes in my dad’s eyes is a familiar one to me. A sign of what’s ahead. Just as always, we’re about to get into it.
Again.

“Don’t expect me to be there to piece you back together after she runs off,” he mutters, fists dangling loosely at his sides.

“Don’t worry, Dad. You haven’t been there to help me through any other emotional turmoil in my life. I wouldn’t expect you to hold my hand through a break up either.”

His eyes narrow, just as his lips thin and he advances a step toward me. I brace my feet, carefully sliding the envelope into my back pocket.

“Why is it that you are always so ungrateful and selfish?” he asks quietly. “After all I’ve done for you, you’re still always too wrapped up in your own little problems and miseries to care about anyone else. You-”

“
I’m
selfish?” I burst out, unable to keep it in any longer. The hot rush of anger in my veins doesn’t feel sticky and repulsive to me just now. It feels good, healthy. And so I keep letting it out. “That’s really rich, Dad. Because
you’ve
been so wrapped up in all your own problems and issues, and so obsessed with seeing me as a selfish delinquent that you haven’t even noticed I’ve been doing
better.
A lot better. I’ve finally been getting over it all, trying to live again. I’m drawing again like you always wanted, did you know? Probably not, because you haven’t even asked me how school is going. And you know who’s helped me with all that, helped me get better? Yeah, that would be rich, snobby, Evangeline Parker, who you think wouldn’t give me the time of day. So don’t you
ever
tell me I’m selfish ever again. Do you understand me?”

I’ve never talked to my dad like this before. I’ve talked back, cussed, been sarcastic, but never have I actually given him an order. Never have
I
, in a crazy reversal of roles, been the one pointing my finger at him as I am now.

Both of us are breathing quickly, identical eyes wide as we stare at each other. Then my dad’s face goes dark.

“How dare you-” he begins, but I throw my hands up in the air and turn toward the living room.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, boy?” he screams the words at my back. “You get back here when I’m talking to you!”

I turn and walk backward toward the stairs, shrugging carelessly even though I’m trembling all over. “I just realized that I don’t have to just stand here and take all this shit from you. I’m leaving. I don’t have to sit by and be your punching bag anymore, just because you’re mad at the world and how you let it screw you over.”

I turn and pound up the stairs, blocking out whatever else my dad is shouting at me. Blindly, I grab a duffle bag and throw in whatever clothes I first lay hands on, stuffing my backpack with anything else I may need. I’m too angry to think straight and I know what I’ve grabbed is patchy and incomplete, but I don’t care. I can sneak back while my dad is at work one day.

The last thing I grab is my sketchbook and bag of art supplies, forcing it into my backpack so it sticks out oddly. I let it, throwing the bag over my shoulders and grabbing the duffle bag. Then I head back down the stairs.

Dad is waiting for me, trembling with fury just as I am. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

I stare at him, unable to understand any of it. Why he acts the way he does, how he treats me, how he treated Cindy. Is he just suffering from grief, lashing out because it’s all he understands? I should to try and understand, be patient, just
try
. Something, anything.

But I can’t. Not right now. He’s always known exactly how to push my buttons, just as I do with him.

And at this particular moment, we’ve both pushed too many. Now is not the time. I don’t know if it will ever be the right time, but it’s certainly not now. Especially since the next words out of my mouth are, “Like you care. You’ve always wanted me to leave. You’d have left me to rot in juvie a long time ago if you had your way.”

He raises a trembling hand, pointing toward the front door. “Get out of my house.” He says it flatly, no emotion or conflict whatsoever.

I push past him, muttering, “Whatever you say,
Dad
.”

I leave the house and the door slams shut behind me, so hard it shakes the building. The noise hits me two-fold as it echoes across the street and rebounds like a slap in the face.