“He’s not . . .” I don’t know how to ask the question. It won’t seem to pass over the lump in my throat.
Tessa looks at me, and her eyes begin to fill with tears. “He’s alive, of course, but . . .”
“What? He’s what?”
“She says he was burned.”
A slight and unwelcome pain tries to seep through the cracks in my defenses. Cracks that she caused in the first place.
She wipes one eye with the back of her hand. “Only on one leg. Kim said one leg, and that he’s to be arrested as soon as he is released from the hospital, which should be soon, any minute, really.”
“Arrested for what?” I know the answer before she gives it.
“He told the police that he started the fire.” Tessa lifts her shitty phone in front of my face so I can read the long text message from Kimberly for myself.
I read it all, not learning anything new, but getting a good sense of Kimberly’s panic. I don’t say anything. I have nothing to say.
“Well?” Tessa asks softly.
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you even slightly concerned about your father?” Then, taking in my murderous glare, she adds, “I mean Christian.”
He’s hurt because of me. “He shouldn’t have even showed up there.”
Tessa looks appalled by my nonchalance. “Hardin. That man came there to help me—to help you.”
Sensing the beginning of a rambling spell, I interrupt her. “Tessa, I know—”
But she surprises me by holding a hand up to silence me. “I wasn’t finished. Not to mention he took the blame for a house fire that you caused and was injured. I love you, and I know you hate him right now, but I know you—the real you—so don’t sit here and act like you don’t give a shit what happens to him, because I know damn well that you do.” Violent coughing punctuates her angry speech, and I push the water bottle to her mouth.
I take a moment to mull over her words as she settles her cough. She’s right—of course she is—but I’m not ready to face any of the things that she just mentioned. I’m not fucking ready to admit that he did something for me—not after all these years. I’m not ready for him to suddenly be a fucking father to me. Fuck no. I don’t want anyone, especially him, to think that this somehow evens the score, that I will somehow forget all of the shit he missed, all of the nights I spent listening to my parents screaming at one another, all of the times I rushed up the stairs at the sound of my father’s drunken voice—the way he knew and didn’t tell me all the while.
No, fuck that. It’s not fucking even, and it never will be. “You think because he gets a little burn on his leg and chooses to take the blame that I will forgive him?” I run my hands through my hair. “I’m supposed to just forgive him for lying to me for twenty-one fucking years?” I ask, my voice much louder than I intended it to be.
“No, of course not!” she says, raising her voice right back at me. I worry that she might blow out a vocal cord or something, but she goes right on. “But I refuse to allow you to brush this off as some small thing he did. He is going to jail for you, and you act as if you couldn’t be bothered to even ask how he is. Absent, lying, father or not, he loves you, and he saved your ass last night.”
This is bullshit. “Whose side are you fucking on?”
“There aren’t any sides!” she shouts, her voice echoing in the small space and not helping my ringing headache one bit. “Everyone is on your side, Hardin. I know you feel like it’s you against the world, but look around you. You have me, your father—both of them—Karen, who loves you as her own, and Landon, who loves you much more than either of you will ever admit.” Tessa half smiles at the mention of her best friend, but continues her lecture. “Kimberly may challenge you, but she cares for you, too, and Smith, you are literally the only person that little boy likes.” She gathers my hands in her shaking ones and rubs her thumbs across my palms in gentle caresses.
“It’s ironic, really: the man who hates the world is most loved by it,” she whispers, her eyes glossy and full of tears. Tears for me, so many tears for me.
“Baby.” I pull her over to my seat, and she straddles my waist. Her arms lock around my neck. “You selfless girl.”
I bury my face in her neck, almost trying to hide in her messy hair.
“Let everyone in, Hardin. Life is much easier when you do.” She rubs my head like that of some pet . . . but I fucking love it.
I nuzzle farther into her. “It’s not that easy.” My throat burns, and I feel like the only breath I can catch is when I’m breathing in her scent. It’s clouded by the faint smell of smoke and fire that I’ve seemed to smother the car in, but still calming.
“I know.” She continues to run her hands over my hair, and I want to believe her.
Why is she always so understanding when I don’t deserve her to be?
The honking of a horn brings me out of my hiding place and reminds me we’re at the gas pumps. Apparently the man in the truck behind us doesn’t appreciate being held up one bit. Tessa climbs off my lap and buckles herself in the passenger seat.
I consider keeping the car parked here just to be a dick, but I hear Tessa’s stomach rumble, causing me to reconsider. When was the last time she ate? That I can’t remember tells me it’s been too long.
I pull away from the pumps and pull into the empty lot across the street, where we slept last night. “Eat something.” I push a breakfast bar into her hands. I pull to the back of the lot, close to a cluster of trees, and turn the heat on. It’s spring now, but the morning air is crisp and Tessa is shivering. I put an arm around her and gesture as if offering her the world. “We could go to Haworth, see Brontë country. I could show you the moors.”
She surprises me by laughing.
“What?” I raise my brow at her and bite into a banana muffin.
“After the night you ha-had”—she clears her throat—“you’re talking about taking me to the moors?” She shakes her head and reaches for her steaming coffee.
I shrug, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t know . . .”
“How far is the drive?” she asks, a lot less enthusiastic than I thought she would be. Granted, if this weekend hadn’t turned into complete shit, she’d probably be more excited. I promised to take her to Chawton, too, but the moors seem much more fitting to my mood right now.
“Four hours or so to Haworth.”
“That’s a long drive,” she muses and sips at her coffee.
“I thought you would want to go.” My tone is harsh.
“I would . . .”
I can clearly tell that something about my suggestion is troubling her. Fuck, when am I not creating trouble behind those gray eyes?
“Why are you complaining about a drive, then?” I finish off the muffin and rip open another.
She looks slightly offended, but her voice remains soft and raspy. “I’m just wondering why you would want to drive all the way to Haworth to see the moors.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath. “Hardin, I know you enough to know when you’re brooding and withdrawing from me.” She unbuckles her seat belt and shifts her body to face me. “You wanting to take me to the moors that inspired Wuthering Heights, rather than some place from an Austen novel, has me on edge, more than I already am.”
She can see right through my bullshit. How does she always do that?
“No,” I lie. “I was simply thinking you would like to see the moors and Brontë Country. Sue me.” I roll my eyes to avoid that damn look in hers, not willing to admit that she’s right.
Her fingers play with the wrapper of a breakfast bar. “Well, I’d rather not go there, really. I just want to go home.”
I let out a deep breath and grab the bar from her hands, tearing open the wrapper. “You need to eat something. You look like you’ll pass out any moment.”
“I feel that way,” she says quietly, more to herself than me, it seems.
I’m considering shoving the damned th
ing into her mouth, when she takes it from me for a bite.
“You want to go home, then?” I finally ask her. Not wanting to ask where exactly home will be for her.
She grimaces. “Yes, your father was right. London isn’t as I imagined.”
“I ruined it for you, that’s why.”
She doesn’t deny it, but she doesn’t confirm it either. Her silence and the way she’s vacantly staring out at the trees pushes me to say what I need to say. It’s now or never.
“I think I should stay here for a while . . .” I say into the open air between us.
Tessa’s mouth stops its chewing, and she turns, narrowing her eyes at me. “Why?”
“It doesn’t make sense for me to go back there.”
“No, it doesn’t make sense for you to stay here. Why would you even consider that?”
Her feelings are hurt, just like I knew they would be—but what other choice do I have?
“Because my father isn’t my actual father, my mum is a lying”—I stop myself from calling her the name I want to—“and my biological father is going to jail because I caught her house on fire. It’s a ridiculous drama series on its own.” Then, to try to get a reaction out of her, I wryly add, “All we need is a cast of young girls with too much makeup and impractical clothes, and we would have a hit.”
Her sad eyes study mine. “I’m still not seeing why any of this would make you want to stay here. Here, as in away from me—that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to be away from me.” She says the last part as if saying it aloud verifies it as truth.
“It’s not that . . .” I start, but stumble. I don’t know how to put my thoughts into words—that’s always been my biggest fucking problem. “I just think if we had some time apart, you could see what I’m doing to you. Just look at yourself.” She flinches, but I force myself to continue. “You are dealing with problems that you would’ve never be faced with if it wasn’t for me.”
“Don’t you dare act like you’re doing this for me,” she snaps, her voice as cold as ice. “You are as self-destructive as they come, and that’s your only motive behind this.”
I am. I know I am. It’s what I do: I hurt other people, and then I hurt myself before anyone can hurt me back. I’m fucked-up; that’s just the way it is.
“You know what?” she says after getting tired of waiting for me to speak up. “Fine. I’ll let you hurt both of us in this self-depriving mission of your—”
My hands are on her hips and she’s back on my lap before she can finish. Tessa tries to climb off me, scratching at my arms when I won’t let her move an inch.
“If you don’t want to be with me, then get off of me,” she seethes. No tears, only anger. Her anger I can handle; it’s the tears that kill me. The anger dries them away.
“Stop fighting me.” I gather both of her wrists behind her back and hold them in only one of my hands. She glares, her eyes warning me.
“You don’t get to do this every time something makes you feel bad. You don’t get to decide that I’m too good for you!” she shouts in my face.
I ignore her and bring my mouth to the curve of her neck. Her body jolts again, this time out of pleasure, not anger.
“Stop it . . .” she says with absolutely no conviction. She’s trying to deny me because she thinks she should, but we both know that this is what we need. We need the physical connection that brings us to an emotional depth that neither of us can explain or deny.
“I love you, you know I do.” I suck at the tender skin at the base of her neck, reveling in the way it turns pink from the suction of my lips. I continue to suck and nibble at the skin, just enough to create a cluster of markings, but not hard enough to make them stay for longer than a few seconds.
“You sure aren’t acting like it.” Her voice is thick, and her eyes follow my free hand as it moves across her exposed thigh. Her dress is bunched up at her waist in the most maddening way possible.
“Everything I do is because I love you. Even the stupid shit.” I reach the lace of her panties, and she gasps when I run a single finger across the moisture already collected between her thighs. “Always so wet for me, even now.”
I slide her panties over and push two fingers into her wet flesh. She whimpers and arches her back against the steering wheel, and I feel her body relaxing. I move the seat back farther to give us more room inside the small car.
“You can’t distract me with—”
I remove my fingers from her and plunge them back in, stopping the words before they can fall from her lips.
“Yes, baby, I can.” I bring my lips to her ear. “Will you stop fighting me if I let your hands go?”
She nods. The second I let them go, they move to my hair. Her fingers bury into the thick mess of my hair, and I tug the front of her dress down with one hand.
Her white lace bra is sinful despite its holy coloring. Tessa, whose blond hair and white ensemble contrast in the most extreme manner with my dark hair and dark clothes. Something about the contrast is so fucking erotic: the ink on my wrist as my fingers disappear inside her again, the clean, unmarked skin of her thighs, the way her soft moans and whimpers fill the air as my eyes drag shamelessly up her tight stomach and back to her chest.
I tear my eyes away from her perfect tits long enough to scan the parking lot. The windows are tinted, but I want to be sure we are still alone on this side of the street. I unfasten her bra using one hand and slow the movement of my other. She whines in protest, but I don’t bother to hide the smile on my face.
“Please,” she begs for me to continue.
“Please what? Tell me what you want,” I coax her, the way I have since in the beginning of our relationship. It has always felt like unless she spoke the words aloud, they couldn’t be true. She couldn’t possibly want me the way I want her.
She reaches down and pushes my hand back between her thighs. “Touch me.”
She’s swollen and waiting and fucking soaking, wanting me, needing me, and I fucking love her more than she could ever comprehend. I need this, I need her to distract me, to help me escape all of this bullshit, even if only for a little while.
I give her what she wants, and she moans my name in approval, taking her lip between her teeth. Her hand moves under mine to grip me through my jeans. I’m so hard that it hurts, and Tessa’s touches and squeezes aren’t helping.
“I want to fuck you. Now. I have to.” I glide my tongue over one of her breasts. She nods, her eyes rolling back in her head, and I suck at the sensitive tip while kneading its twin with the hand that isn’t between her legs.
“Hard-in . . .” she groans. Her hands are eager to free me from my jeans and boxers. I lift my hips enough for her to tug my jeans down my thighs. My fingers are still buried in her, moving at a tender pace, just enough to drive her fucking crazy. I remove my fingers from her and bring them to her swollen lips, pressing them into her mouth. She sucks at them, her tongue running slowly up and down my fingers, and I groan, quickly withdrawing them before I come from that alone. I lift her by her hips and lower her back onto me.
We share the same relieved moan, both desperate for one another.
“We shouldn’t be apart,” she says, pulling me by my hair until my mouth is level with hers. Can she taste the cowardly goodbye on my breath?
“We have to be,” I say as she begins to swivel her hips. Fuck.
Tessa lifts herself slowly. “I won’t force you to want me. Not anymore.” I begin to panic, but all my thoughts are lost as she slowly lowers herself back down onto me, only to pull back and then repeat the same torturous movement. She leans forward to kiss me, her tongue lapping around mine as she takes control.
“I want you,” I breathe into her mouth. “I always fucking want you, you know that.” A low sound rips through me as her hips quicken their movements. Holy fuck, she’s going to kill me.
“You are leaving me.” She glides her tongue across my bottom lip, and I reach down to where our bodies are
joined and bring her swollen clit between my fingers.
“I love you,” I say, unable to find any other words, and she’s silenced by my pinching and rubbing her sensitive bud of nerves.
“Oh God.” Her head falls to my shoulder, and she wraps her arms around my neck. “I love you,” she practically sobs as she comes, squeezing all around me.
I follow directly after, filling her with every drop of me, literally and metaphorically.
MINUTES OF SILENCE PASS, and I keep my eyes closed and my arms wrapped around her back. We are both covered in sweat; the heat is still pouring from the vents, but I don’t want to let her go long enough to turn it off.
“What are you thinking?” I finally ask.
Her head is resting on my chest, her breathing slow and steady. She doesn’t open her eyes when she responds, “That I wish you could stay with me forever.”
Forever. Have I ever wanted anything less with her?
“Me, too,” I say, wishing I could give her the promise of the future that she deserves.
After a few more minutes of silence, Tessa’s phone buzzes on the floorboard, and on instinct I reach across and grab it, shifting her body with mine.
“It’s Kimberly,” I say and hand Tessa the phone.
Two hours later we are knocking on the door of Kimberly’s hotel room. I’m almost convinced that we are at the wrong room when I take in Kimberly’s appearance. Her eyes are swollen and she doesn’t have an ounce of makeup on. I like her better that way, but she just looks so wrecked right now, like she’s been crying all her tears plus somebody’s else’s.
“Come in. It’s been a long morning,” she says, her normal sass completely absent.
Tessa immediately hugs her, wrapping her arms around her friend’s waist, and Kimberly begins to sob. I feel incredibly uncomfortable just standing in the doorway, given that Kim irritates the shit out of me and that she isn’t the type that wants an audience while she’s vulnerable. I leave them in the sitting room of the grand suite and wander into the kitchen area. I pour a cup of coffee and stare at the wall until the sobs turn into muffled voices in the other room. I’ll keep my distance for now.