Little waves of his hips against mine turn my core slick, sending butterflies through my stomach, and making my legs weak at the knees. The hand that grips my ribs moves up higher so it sits right below my breast, his thumb skimming the underside like the other night. The light caress creates a deep throb within me.
In the midst of him taking over my body with his mini thrusts and touch, his lips are demanding, taking more than I’ve ever planned on giving him in the entryway of my apartment. With precision, his tongue breaks the seal of my lips and explores my mouth, tasting every inch of me.
All I can do is settle into the wall and let this all-consuming man turn me into mush with each thrust of his hips, every caress of his thumb, and every lick of his tongue.
My heart is beating out of my chest as my tongue plays against his, begging for more. I want so much more. My body wants to connect with his in every way possible but my brain knows it’s a bad idea, knows I’m only bound to get hurt. Too bad for my brain, my body is winning out, shoving any internal dialogue right out the window.
Moaning, I try to remove my hands from his grip but he holds on strong, using his weight to pin me down. I want to touch him. I need to touch him. I want to feel his abs, feel the well-defined divots, the velvet-soft skin I stare at when he’s dressed in only his suit. Is it as soft as it looks? Would he like my tongue running all along it?
Moving a little deeper, he matches each thrust of my tongue, exploring wildly. His demanding approach is not what I expected from this smart-ass of a man, but hell if it doesn’t turn me on even more.
I’m settling in for a long make-out session, letting every throb and delightful sensation roll through me when Hollis removes his lips away from mine and works them up my jaw.
Yessss . . .
Oh God, yes. Chills spread over my skin from the feel of his scruff against my face, his lips a stark soft contrast soothing the rough marking of his jaw. Moving just below my ear, he kisses me in just the right spot, moving his lips again, putting me on the edge of taking all my clothes off and pouncing this man. How can he do so little but make me want so much more?
Preparing for another orgasm from only his hips rubbing against mine, I brace myself as his lips find my ear. Right when I think he’s going to bite my lobe, he speaks with a dangerous warning tone. “Fuck you, you don’t want this.” His breath is heavy, his words slicing me in half. “Don’t fucking lie to me ever again, Melony. You won’t like the consequences.”
Releasing me, he puts a great deal of distance between our bodies, leaving me cold, breathless, and needy. His hand grips his hair as he studies me from under his lashes.
Shaking his head, he vacates my apartment while calling out, “This is far from over, baby.”
I don’t know how long I stand there, motionless, stunned, completely and utterly shocked from Hollis’s intense physical and sexual attack. Everything he did in the last five minutes was the most exciting, enthralling, and sexy thing that’s ever happened to me.
I’ve had my fair share of men in my life but none of them compare to Hollis. Does that make him different? Would he be the exception everyone talks about? Would he be the one that would stay?
Is that even possible?
Is that even possible?
There are plenty of people out there who are still together, who have found their “soul mates” but that doesn’t mean it would happen to me.
I’m damaged, not good enough to keep around. I’m not the one a man would stay for.
If my own father, my flesh and blood, doesn’t want me to be a part of his life . . . He held my hand. He held me in his arms. He kissed my forehead. He tucked me in at night. He made me breakfast, albeit occasionally.
And then he left.
If I’m not enough for my own damn father, how could I be enough for anyone else?
An unwanted tear slips from my eye that I quickly wipe away, not letting myself feel such asinine emotions. He’s long gone. He chose his life. He chose to leave, to burn a hole so deep inside me that there is no possible filler.
Not even one Hollis can fill. Even if he is the best man there is, and my head knows that’s probably the case, and even though he likes me, I won’t be enough. I won’t be enough to keep him, and I don’t want to cry myself to sleep again.
I don’t want to feel cast aside ever again.
Staring at the flowers, I eye the note tucked within the beautiful blooms. What could he possibly have said in that little note? Is it the joking Hollis who always wants my boob in his mouth? Or is it the serious Hollis, the one that tears my walls down with one heated gaze in my direction, the one who speaks of the possibilities of forever?
Please let it be the joking Hollis. I’m not sure I can handle anything else right now.
With a shaky hand, I reach for the envelope and slowly open it.
His chicken scratch is written in red ink. The note is simple . . . but catastrophic to my desire to stay strong, to maintain my ambivalent façade.
You’re everything I’ve ever wished for in a woman . . . and more.
Tears well up in my eyes as I slump against the wall, flowers in hand, note in the other. I find a seat on the floor, completely deflated.
I’m everything he ever wished for . . .
Then why do I feel so damn broken?
Chapter Fifteen
HOLLIS
“Will the landslide bring you . . . doooooown,” I sing to my heart’s content, glancing over at Holly who is smirking.
“You’re a terrible singer.”
I’m actually not, but I like to fuck around, because, why not?
“Don’t be jealous, sis. Come on, you know this song, belt it.”
“I don’t do the Dixie Chicks. I don’t really care for country.”
“You shut your mouth,” I playfully snap at her. “Country is the heart and soul of a beer can. How can you not love it?”
“I don’t like beer.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn onto the freeway and press down on the gas pedal. “You had beer once and it was piss water, you can’t judge beer off that. You need to have a really good microbrew.”
“You’re such a woman. Microbrews are so hipster.”
“No they’re not,” I counter. “Microbrews are for people with enough education to realize they have well-refined taste buds.”
“Are you saying you have well-refined taste buds?”
I switch lanes and charge past a slow-as-fuck Nissan. Get in the slow lane, fuckhead. Nothing drives me more insane than shitty Californian drivers.
“I know I have well-refined taste buds, Holls.”
“Is that so?” There is sarcasm in her voice, and I just wait for what she’s going to say next. “If your taste buds are so awesome, explain how you can eat Pop-Tart ice cream sandwiches.”
“Easy, they are a delicacy made for the fine and wealthy.”
“They are trash.”
“Your face is trash.” Not my best comeback but then again, she insulted my Pop-Tart ice cream sandwich. I’m distraught.
“Good one, Hollis.” Changing the subject, she asks, “Did you talk to Dad last night?”
“Yes,” I groan. “Real quick, you really want Green Burrito?”
“Don’t deprive me of my breakfast burrito. I worked off the calories already this morning in the gym.” Holly is obsessed with Green Burrito’s bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast burrito. The reason why she likes it so much? It’s huge and has refried beans. Not many places add refried beans to their breakfast burritos. It’s an absolute crime if you ask me.
“I would never even dream of depriving you. Just wanted to make sure because I need to get off this exit.”
“It’s a ritual after combo dryland and weight lifting in the morning. Never break tradition, Hollis.”
“Excuse me.” I laugh. Getting off the exit, I signal to turn right, directing the car toward the Promised Land. “What the hell was Dad talking about last night?”
Holly si
ghs and slouches in her chair. “I have no idea. All I could catch from the high-pitched excited babble coming from him was something about a screen printer and being able to print in mass quantities.”
“That’s what I heard too,” I confirm. “I was kind of hoping I heard him wrong. Please tell me he’s not starting his own T-shirt business.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Holly shrug. “I don’t know. People love the shirts he makes for every meet. It’s frightening.”
“Strangers really shouldn’t encourage him.”
“They really shouldn’t.”
I stop at a red light just as my phone dings in the console next to me. Taking a quick glance, I see it’s from Reese.
Reese: You know the term sweating your balls off? Pretty sure mine just detached from my body. I will keep you updated on their whereabouts.
Chuckling, I set my phone on my lap and wait for the light to turn green while I think about my conversation I had with my parents. “Mom was asking me how eBay works. What do you think that was about? Think she wants to sell some memorabilia? That would be so fucking weird if she did.”
“I would hope we would see some profit.” Holly laughs but then grows serious. “Do you know what would be terrifying?”
“What’s that?” I press the gas pedal, Green Burrito looming up ahead.
“The kind of things Mom would sell. She wouldn’t sell Wheaties boxes, she would sell crazy shit like the first sock you ever masturbated with.”
“Why the fuck would you say that?” I can’t contain the laughter erupting from me. “Christ, Holls, Mom better not have that shit, or even know when I first masturbated.”
“Have you looked in hope chest? She has the weirdest shit in there. There is a,” she gulps and then looks at me, “condom wrapper.”
“Oh come on, Holly.” I cringe and my phone vibrates on my lap. Looking down, I see it’s a text from my coach. What does he want? I reach for it.
“Hollis, look out!”
Her voice rings through my head, her scream carrying through the car giving me just enough time to swerve out of the way from rear-ending the car in front of me.
Everything happens in slow motion: The vehicle loses control; Holly’s cry echoes in the tiny cab; the distinct crunching of my car hitting a tree; the smell and blunt force of the air bag hitting me.
Holly’s cry.
The screeching pain coming from her throat only to quickly die down with silence, the engine steam filling the silence.
Tunnel vision eclipses me. I can only see one thing: Holly’s limp body supported by her seatbelt. Such a weird angle.
So much smoke.
Burning eyes.
Black everywhere, the steam so heavy, the cab getting hotter at an exponential rate.
Why is there so much smoke?
Holly . . .
Glancing over, calling her name, wanting her to wake up, praying to God she’s not dead . . .
Sirens sound off in the distance, Holly still hasn’t moved despite the countless times I call her name. I can’t reach her. All I want to do is reach her.
So much smoke.
Voices call out to me, asking if I’m okay. They sound muffled, not even real. None of this seems real. This isn’t happening. This is a dream. It has to be a dream.
A deafening crunching and sawing sound reverberates in the cab, voices calling out from around us, the words Jaws of Life, stretcher, and paramedics ring through my mind but I can’t focus on anything but Holly.
Smoke, blood . . . so much blood. Sirens, voices . . . so much smoke.
Tears fall from my eyes. News reporters claim it was all an accident. The doctor saying Holly will never walk again. It’s all coming at me in fast motion, speeding through me. The heavy weight of the accident sits on my chest, suffocating me.
Hollis Knightly, car accident, paralyzed sister, hits tree, Holly Knightly’s career is over.
Holly’s diving career is over.
A loud scream sends me shooting up, my eyes fling open and I look around my room. There’s no smoke, no blood, no paramedics. I’m in my condo, in my bed dripping in sweat trying to catch my breath.
“Fuck,” I mumble, running my hand over my forehead while my rapidly beating heart hammers away. It was a fucking dream.
Just a fucking dream.
“Christ.” I sit up against my headboard and try to catch my breath.
This isn’t the first time I’ve relived that nightmare. Nope, at least once a month I get to hear, smell, and revisit the fucking day I ruined my sister. Sometimes, if I’m a true glutton for punishment, my sub-conscious puts the show on repeat for a few days in a row.
Funny thing is, I don’t need fucking reminding. Every day I think about the text message I could have waited to look at, that I could have ignored since it was Coach Wilson telling me I forgot my goggles on the pool deck.
Fucking goggles.
A text about forgotten goggles is the reason my sister never gets to dive ever again.
Such a good reason—said with the most sarcasm anyone has ever used.
It’s fucking routine now, whenever I have this dream. I wake up in a sweaty panic, my mind trying to process where I am, my beating heart taking my breath away. I sit up against my headboard, waiting for my adrenaline to ease, leaving me feeling sick to my stomach and so fucking regretful that sleep isn’t even a possibility.
As my breathing slows down, my stomach bottoms out and one face pops into my head. This time it isn’t Holly. It’s Melony.
I want to hear her voice, I fucking need to hear it right about now. Which fuck, that scares me. Why do I have this feeling I need to talk to her? Has she become that significant in my life already that I feel like she could soothe me?
Fuck, I know just seeing those perfect pink lips of hers would do the trick.
Securing my phone from my nightstand, I find her name and press call. Not caring that it’s in the middle of the night. Her phone rings, and rings, and rings only to be followed by her voicemail. To my dismay, her voicemail is the generic robot answering so I don’t get to hear her voice. I didn’t plan on leaving a voicemail but the phone beeps before I can hang up.
Gripping my hair, I say, “Hey baby. Uh, sorry for calling so late. Just had a rough dream.” Shit, I sound like such a pussy. This sure as fuck isn’t going to win her over. Swallowing hard, I continue, “Sorry, I don’t know why I called. Fuck, forget I did. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Sleep well.”
I hang up before I can embarrass myself any more than I have. Fuck.
Sinking into my bed, I stare at the bright screen of my phone wondering if my call woke her up, if she is listening to my message, if she is thinking about calling back.
But she doesn’t. She doesn’t call me the next day, or the next. And the text messages I send go unanswered as well.
This isn’t over, baby. If only I could believe the words I said as much as I need to.
***
“Have another taco, dude,” Reese says sarcastically as I reach over onto his plate and snag one. “I wasn’t hungry at all.”
“You can order more,” I answer with a mouthful. “Fuck, you couldn’t put any cheese or sour cream on these? What is this, a wheat tortilla?”
“You know I don’t eat that stuff, and yes, it’s wheat. It’s better for you. But you should know that since you’re an elite athlete and everything.”
Leaning back in my chair, I take another bite of the shitty taco and look out over the rolling waves crashing into the shoreline. What a fucked-up week. I am a few days out from having to leave for the final send-off before the diving team heads to Rio and I have yet to hear from Melony.
I’ve tried everything to contact her, even scoping out her apartment like a fucking stalker, but she must be hiding or on some crazy schedule because I never see her. I finally gave in and asked Reese to lunch to get the scoop. Yup, I’m that desperate.
“So, you asked me to lunch, didn’t get lunch you
rself but decided to mooch off my plate. What the fuck, man?”
Huffing, I rest my arm over the back of my chair and stare at my best friend. “Cry about it a little more, Reese. I don’t think the seagulls heard you.”
“You’re being a little bitch today. Care to explain?”
Chewing on my lip, I eye the dessert menu from my seat. “Want to get some fried ice cream?”
“No. That shit would sit in me for at least three days.”
“Fuck, you’re old. Too afraid of a little ice cream because it might sit on your hips?”
“I didn’t say sit on my hips, dickhead.”
“Might as well have.” I cross my arms over my chest, still eyeing the picture of the fried ice cream. I would do an extra set of stairs to put a droplet of it on my tongue. Just one taste . . .
Interrupting my fantasy of fried ice cream, Reese asks, “Stress eating and acting like you just found out you put a tampon up your vagina when you already had one corkin’ your load. You had the dream.”
Reese knows me too damn well.
“How many nights?” he asks, assessing me over his black beans.
“The past three,” I answer on an exhausted exhale. “It’s fucking with me in every way possible.”
“Have you talked to Holly about it?”
“No. Why the fuck would I do that? I don’t want to bring that day back up to her? It’s bad enough she’s reminded every fucking second what happened to her when she’s wheeling herself around. I’m not about to tell her I can’t sleep at night because I keep dreaming about it. I don’t want her to feel bad for me.”
“So in turn, you feel bad for her?” Reese asks, trying to pull some psychobabble on me.
“Cut the shit, doc,” I say sarcastically. “Of course I feel bad for her.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe she doesn’t want you to feel bad for her?”
The thought never crossed my mind and honestly, I don’t care to think about how Holly might feel about the whole accident. We’ve never talked about it and I don’t plan on doing it any time soon. The guilt is too heavy on me. I can’t have any more piled on my shoulders.