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She was right.
It wasn’t cool.
“And watching you two have the reunion of the century on the first day of class also isn’t going to make the list of top one hundred things I want to repeat in my life,” Paige added, and I could also understand that. This conversation wouldn’t make my own list. “So I’m going to repeat myself just to make sure there’s no confusion. He’s my boyfriend. Stop acting like he’s yours.”
The tardy bell rang.
Paige straightened and flipped open her notebook as Mr. Santos started the class. My gaze crawled over the seats in front of us. No one appeared to have heard what she said to me, but I’d heard it loud and clear.
Message received.
* * *
Thursday evenings meant I fended for myself when it came to dinner since Rosa and Carl typically didn’t get home until nine on Tuesdays and Thursdays, sometimes later, depending on what came in through the hospital. I didn’t have much of an appetite, though.
Neither Rosa nor Carl had brought up the issue of Rider during breakfast, but he wasn’t far from my mind. What Paige had said in class lingered, and every time her words popped into my head, I cringed, but it didn’t stop me from worrying about him. Where had he disappeared to? And was he hurt or in trouble? Of course, my mind went to the worst possible scenario, even though I figured Paige would know if something bad had happened and wouldn’t have spent the time virtually warning me away from her boyfriend.
I barely touched the bowl of microwaveable rice, even though I’d loaded it with so much sodium that Rosa would’ve snatched the bottle of soy sauce right out of my hands.
Giving up on eating, I stowed the bowl in the fridge and headed upstairs. I pulled my phone out of my bag and tapped on the screen. No messages. I opened up the last and only text from Rider. Should I message him? Would it be weird if I did?
Ugh.
I tossed my phone on the bed and then pulled my hair up in a loose knot. Too restless to do my homework, I walked to the linen closet out in the hall and grabbed a bar of soap. I snagged the bag of tongue depressors Rosa had stashed away for me in the closet and carried the little bundle back to the bedroom.
I would need to soften the soap with warm water. I also needed to get a grocery bag or something to trap the shavings, so I didn’t leave a huge mess behind.
Staring at the wrapped bar of soap, I tried to think of something to carve. I’d already done trees, stars, footballs, ducks, boats, and Lord knows what else. Some were pretty simple, taking only an hour or so. Others had taken days if they were more intricate.
I started to peel the wrapping off the soap, but stopped. I didn’t want to get the shavings all over my school clothes, which inevitably would happen. I sat the soap and depressors on the desk then changed into a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. Grabbing an old shirt out of the dresser, I tugged it on over my head. Too big, it kept slipping off my shoulder.
Turning to my desk, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror hanging on the interior of the closet door. I looked like a hot mess. Stepping closer to the mirror, I exhaled as I turned to the side. Pressing my hand on my lower stomach, I frowned. My belly was soft. My gaze dropped, and I winced.
The shorts were probably not a good idea. They were loose, but my legs were definitely...sturdy. Thighs were thick. Plucking at the hem of my shirt, I lifted it up. The tank top had a built-in bra, but the material was thin, just like the shirt. It didn’t hide any lumps. I was definitely not little. I was sturdy.
The bar of soap sat untouched on the desk.
How many people my age carved soap? Right now Keira was probably just getting home from cheerleading practice, and if Ainsley wasn’t with Todd, she was writing—she was always scribbling down short stories. Or shopping. For someone who didn’t have a job, she did that a lot, too, thanks to a hefty allowance. If she was with Todd, then she was probably making out. Something else she did a lot.
Something I was also kind of jealous of.
Embarrassing factoid I didn’t like to think about was that I’d never been kissed. Hell, I’d never talked to a guy on the phone, and definitely never gone out on a date. Ainsley had tried to fix me up with a friend of Todd’s, but I had totally bailed on that. The idea of meeting him made me want to hurl.
Months shy of turning eighteen, and I didn’t know what it felt like to be kissed or what it was like to be...to be wanted—to be loved in that kind of way.
Was I lacking in something?
I glanced down at myself and wiggled my toes as I narrowed my eyes. Sturdy. My body shape was sturdy, but Rider had said I was beautiful. Without any warning, an image of him formed in my thoughts. Brown eyes with golden flecks, broad cheekbones and incredible lips—lips I bet gave really great kisses.
Oh my God.
I could not, should not, be thinking that.
Shaking those thoughts out of my mind, I opened my eyes. What I was lacking wasn’t thinner thighs or a flatter stomach. It was courage. The fact was, I was a giant scaredy-cat. How could I be thinking about a guy’s lips when I couldn’t even get mine to work to form words?
My gaze drifted back to the soap. I guessed soap carving was a hobby, but it was a silent one and it required no words to complete, no thoughts. How appropriate. I didn’t have to put myself out there. Not like Keira did with the cheerleading. Shopping really wasn’t a hobby and writing didn’t involve getting out there, but Ainsley was outspoken, friendly and talkative. She didn’t just step out of the box, she played happily outside it. Me? I carved soap. Maybe I should’ve—
From my nightstand, my cell phone dinged. Figuring it was Ainsley since I wasn’t online, I headed over to pick it up.
It was not Ainsley.
R u home?
It was from Rider.
My breath caught.
Another text came through before I could get my brain to respond.
Alone?
My eyes felt as big as planets as I stared at my cell. This time I was not going to be crippled by indecision. I sent back a quick yes.
A couple of seconds passed. A minute turned into five, and I began to wonder if I was totally imagining things, but then a new text appeared and my heart stopped.
Two words.
I’m outside.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_c0202eed-695d-5ecd-bc49-45973f6cfce8)
Holy crap.
For a second I was completely frozen as I stared at the text. He was outside? No, he couldn’t mean he was actually outside the—
The doorbell rang, echoing from downstairs, and I whirled around, my lungs expanding rapidly.
Holy crap balls.
My brain sort of clicked off as I darted out of the room and down the hall, my bare feet flying down the steps. I almost barreled right through the foyer, stopping just shy of throwing the door open.
I wasn’t stupid.
Stretching up onto the tips of my toes, I peered through the peephole as I bit down on my lip. All I could see was the back of his head and the breadth of his shoulders.
It was Rider. He was really here.
Still clutching the phone and having no idea how this was happening, I swallowed hard as I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Rider turned at the waist, and I ended up eye level with his chest. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to answer.”
My gaze flicked up, and a strangled sound escaped me. I reached out, gripping his arm and all but dragged him inside. He caught the door with his other hand, closing it behind us.
“Your face.” My grip tightened on his forearm. “What happened?”
His brows furrowed as he reached up, touching the skin around the inch-long gash above his left eyebrow. Blood had dried around the cut and a bluish-purple shade had already begun to spread out around it. “This? Oh, it’s nothing.”
I stared at him. “It doesn’t...look like nothing.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Looking around the foyer, he peeled my white-knuckled grip off his arm. Instead of dropping my hand, he threaded his fingers through mine. “I thought you’d ask how I figured out which one was your house. I’m pretty impressed with my craftiness.”
Yeah, I was curious about that, but he was going to end up with a matching scar above his left eyebrow now. “Rider, your forehead...”
He glanced down at me as he squeezed my hand, grinning. “You told me you lived in the Pointe, so I took the metro to the Center and walked the rest of the way. Wasn’t too hard to figure out.” With his other hand, he ran the tips of his fingers over the fake daisies in the vase placed on the entry table. “I just looked for your car. Lucky me, it was in the driveway. So maybe I’m not that crafty.”
Crafty or not, he was hurt and that made me feel sick. I started tugging him toward the living room.
“What are you wearing?” he asked, letting me pull him along.
My eyes widened. I’d totally forgotten I was dressed for bed and that the sleepwear showcased my sturdy body. “I was getting...ready for bed.”
He arched his brow and then winced. “What time is it? Seven?”
“Seven-thirty,” I murmured, guiding him out of the hall and into the living room.
Taking in the spacious room, his attention lingered on all the potted plants in front of the bay window, then moved over the entertainment center and the built-in bookshelves. Then he turned to me. His gaze dipped, taking a slow slide down the length of my body, and I felt my toes curl against the hardwood floors. A rush of heady warmth followed his gaze and the answering tight shiver did strange things to certain parts of me.
Our eyes locked.
The stare held that same level of intensity from the day before. The temperature in the room zipped up several degrees and my breath suddenly felt short. He shifted closer.
He was still holding my hand. “I probably shouldn’t have come here.”
“You shouldn’t?”
His head cocked to the side, and I saw then that the collar of his shirt was torn. My heart dropped, and he shook his head as he let go of my hand. I thought he might leave, so I stepped forward, practically closing the distance between us. “Sit.”
Rider looked down at me, his expression indecisive.
“Sit,” I repeated. “Please?”
He looked behind me, seemed to have shuddered, and then he moved a pillow to the side before he sat. “Now what?” he asked, staring up at me with familiar yet strange eyes.
“Stay here.” When he leaned back on the couch, shifting his attention back to the bookshelf, I hurried out of the living room.
In the downstairs bathroom, I grabbed the peroxide and a few cotton balls and didn’t let myself think too much about this or worry about Carl and Rosa. I knew if they came home early, I’d be in so much trouble it wouldn’t even be funny, especially after the conversation yesterday. And though Rider’s presence might be a match to kindling, I honestly didn’t know how they’d react if they came home and found any boy in the house. I’m sure that was another thing that never crossed their minds.
Or mine.
Rider was where I’d left him, and I exhaled softly as I skirted the coffee table. He looked at what I carried, and a half grin appeared. “I’m fine, Mouse. Seriously.”
I shrugged as I came toward him, getting between his knees and the coffee table. “What happened?”
“Just some...some trouble,” he said, rubbing his palm along his jaw. “It’s nothing I want you to worry about.”
Unscrewing the peroxide cap, I soaked a cotton ball and then placed the bottle on the table. The sharp scent went straight to my nose. “You...you always made everything sound like it’s not a big deal. You’re doing that now.”
His lips continued to curve on the right and the dimple appeared. Then he sighed and scooted forward, spreading his legs. His hands suddenly landed on my hips, and I almost dropped the cotton ball at the unexpected contact. My breath caught as he lowered me so I was sitting on the edge of the coffee table and he kept moving forward, the inside of his legs sliding against the outside of mine. The rough material of his jeans touching my bare skin sent a raw, drenching rush of sensation through my veins.
“That better?” he asked, peering at me through lowered lashes.
I blinked, having no idea what he was talking about, and then I realized that seated like this, it was easier to reach him. His hands dropped from my hips to rest on his thighs, and they were oh so close to mine.
Stretching toward him, I gently swiped along the gash, and when he sucked in a breath, I pulled my hand back.
“It’s okay,” he said.
I tried again, and this time he didn’t move or make a sound. “Are you going to tell me...what happened?”
A moment passed, and I glanced down at him. “This reminds me of old times,” he said, and his lashes lifted. As his gaze drifted over me, it was focused but all too brief, because he looked away, a muscle working along his jaw. “Kind of.”
A flush raced across my cheeks as I switched out the ball for a new one. He was right—this was like all the other times I’d cleaned him up. Well, when I was younger, I tried to clean him up, but had no idea what I was doing, but as we grew older, and he got into fights defending me or for some other reason, this was our routine.
Except I was pretty sure that when his gaze roamed over me just now, he’d checked out my breasts, and that was definitely something that hadn’t happened before. Back then I doubted he even realized that I had them.
Probably because they didn’t appear until about two years ago.
My thoughts whirled to the car in the parking lot and to what Keira had said the day before as I cleaned up the cut. Was this a result of the shady people he was hanging out with? Would he now have matching scars above both eyebrows? I didn’t like the idea of that. “Why haven’t you been in class?”
“I had some stuff to take care of.”
“That’s not an answer.” When he said nothing, I tried again. “Are you... Are you safe, Rider?”
He turned his cheek toward me, and I almost dabbed him in the eyeball. “That would’ve stung,” he murmured, catching my wrist. He plucked the ball out of my hand and tossed it on the coffee table. “I’m safe. I’m always safe.”
I shook my head. “All those times you put yourself—”
“Mouse...”
“You put yourself in danger for me. You did, over and over again.” Anger snapped at the heels of the concern welling in my chest. “You never really stopped to think about...what could happen to you.”
He tilted his head back, meeting my gaze. “I knew what I was doing.”
“You...” My throat thickened as memories rose like a vile, tainted wave. “You took beatings for me. You—”
“Mouse,” he said gently. “I knew what I was doing then and I know what I’m doing now.”
Was he basically telling me that he was now taking a beating for someone else? Without him saying any more, I knew it. I knew the bloody gash on his forehead wasn’t because of something he’d done, but something someone smaller, weaker had done. “Are you a masochist?”
