Against the Wall (14 page)

I jump to my feet and start running.

I spent half the day at SDSU with Kelsea and the crime scene investigators.

Noah's visit really made a difference. After he left, Officer Jenkins got replaced by two real detectives. Then some CSI guys came in and studied all of the creepmail. They wanted to see every threatening or inappropriate message sent to the women's center. There was a lot to share.

I didn't tell them about the physical altercation with Chip, but I was honest otherwise. I'm not sure if he's a suspect or not. According to his Facebook page, he's on a plane to Cabo San Lucas, ready to party.

I'm already drained by the time I get to work. I hustle my ass off for six hours,
DIE SLUTS
flashing in the back of my mind. At the end of my shift, I change into my street clothes and stuff my uniform in my bag.

I don't want to smell french fries. Ever. Again.

I'm on my way to my car when a guy crosses the parking lot to intercept me. This is nothing new. We have homeless in the area who try to dig in the trash cans, but most of them don't approach me for food. They ask for money. I clutch my shoulder bag tighter in anticipation of the usual question.

“Do you have any spare change, miss?”

Before I can say no, another figure bursts toward us. He grabs the homeless guy by the front of the shirt and draws back his arm, fist raised.

It's Eric.

The homeless guy cries out in surprise, putting his hands up to ward off a blow. Thankfully, Eric doesn't deliver one.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eric asks him.

“Nothing, man! I'm just hungry!”

“He wanted spare change,” I say. “Let him go.”

Eric releases his shirt. The man takes off running and disappears around the corner. Now I have another enemy in the neighborhood.

I turn to Eric, arms crossed over my chest. “What is
wrong
with you?”

“Sorry. I thought he was dangerous.”

“He wasn't.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Why are you here?”

“Noah sent me.”

I realize that Noah told him about the vandalism. Eric saw the homeless man and jumped to my defense. I don't really blame him, but I'm glad none of my coworkers are around. Sighing, I continue to my car. “Get in.”

Eric climbs in the passenger seat. He seems calm now, as if he didn't just explode across the parking lot like a freight train. It's chilling how fast he can strike. When he attacks, he does it with shocking aggression.

As I pull out of the parking space, it occurs to me that I could use Eric's bodyguard services tonight. I need to collect my belongings from Chip's apartment. My schoolbooks and laptop are essential items. I don't have any clean underwear, either. I had to borrow a pair from April this morning.

“Do you mind if I stop by Chip's apartment? He's gone, and I want to get my stuff.”

“Where did he go?”

“Cabo.”

Eric grunts at this news. “No problem.”

I drive to the apartment complex and park in my usual space, swamped by memories of Saturday night. I feel safer going in with Eric, but I hold my breath as I unlock the front door, as if Chip might be lurking behind it.

He's not. The place is empty.

It's also kind of trashed. There are beer bottles and pizza boxes scattered around the living room. It smells like cigarettes and something else I can't identify. I ignore the mess and head straight to the bedroom.

Eric follows me there and glances around. His jaw clenches at the sight of the broken furniture and holes in the drywall. He doesn't say anything.

I grab my rolling suitcase and fill it with clothes. I throw in my toiletries from the bathroom and shoes from the closet. I leave the fancy dresses and expensive high heels that Chip bought me. The jewelry, too. I don't want it.

As I zip up my bag and move it off the bed, an item falls from the comforter to the floor. Eric picks up the tangled scrap of lace for me.

But I hesitate to accept the panties, because I don't have any that color. I also detect the scent I noticed earlier. It's the smell of sex and sweat and strange perfume. “They're not mine,” I say, recoiling in shock.

Eric drops the panties, his mouth thin.

Chip brought a girl to our apartment last night. He felt like I betrayed him with Eric, so he decided to do the same thing to me. It shouldn't surprise me, because he's self-centered and immature. It also shouldn't hurt me. I don't know why it does. I'm shocked and sad and disappointed that I wasted so much time on him.

I wish I'd come to my senses sooner. We were never right for each other. I stayed with him to avoid the pain of a messy breakup, but my strategy backfired. I miscalculated his feelings and his volatile temper. Now here we are, in an ugly place.

I gather my laptop and schoolbooks. I have other things scattered around. Most of the kitchen utensils are mine, but I don't care enough to take them. I scan the dining area and notice a pale blue square on the floor under the table. I picked up my letter the other night, but not the envelope. I kneel down to retrieve it, my pulse racing.

I crumple the sentimental evidence in my fist and head toward the trash can in the kitchen. Eric grasps my wrist before I reach it. My eyes flood with tears again.

“Why do you have that?” he asks.

“None of your business.”

“Did Chip see it?”

I refuse to answer. He's holding me prisoner and I don't like it. I'm suddenly thrown back to Saturday night, when Chip crushed my face with his hand. I wrench my wrist from Eric's grip and take a wild swing at him. He's not the enemy, but he's here and I'm hurt. I can't stop the flood of emotions. I have to lash out at someone.

He turns his shoulder toward me, letting me pummel him when he could easily overpower me or block my fists. My blows glance off his hard body like nothing. The fact that he doesn't consider me a threat is infuriating. I'm five nine and no delicate flower. I don't want him to just stand there and take my abuse.

I want him to react. I want him to get angry.

I swing higher and he ducks, sweeping his arm around my waist to pick me up. He carries me across the living room. I'm still hitting him, kicking my legs and sobbing like a crazy lady. He sits down with me on the couch. I try to break free, but it's no use. He keeps his arms locked around me until I stop fighting. Then he cradles me against his chest while I cry.

After a few minutes I start to calm. I'm embarrassed that I've melted down twice today, once with April and once with Eric. That's my quota for the whole year. Where I come from, crying is something you do alone, and infrequently.

The shoulder that was my punching bag is now my pillow, damp from tears. He's wearing his worn gray button-down shirt, rolled up to the elbows. His tattoos remind me of newsprint. Almost every inch of skin is covered. I stare at the hollow of his throat, where the silver chain disappears underneath his collar. This morning he had a hint of stubble. Now his jaw is smooth again.

I press closer, twining my arms around his neck. One of his hands is resting on my knee, where there's a rip in my jeans. His thumb makes lazy circles on my bare skin. I think his touch is innocent, and maybe not even conscious, but my body responds to the stimulation anyway. I'm sitting in his lap, sharing his heat. I can see a pulse throbbing at the base of his throat. He smells like April's laundry detergent, mixed with warm male skin and a hint of antiseptic. Maybe they use that at the tattoo parlor.

His hand moves suddenly from my knee to my hip. I lift my gaze to his. He moistens his lips. I drift closer, trembling with anticipation. All of my senses are on alert. I'm desperate to be kissed and touched by him.

Please. Do it.

When his mouth covers mine, it's like fireworks. It's like coming home and finding your place and finally, finally getting that thing you've needed all along. No one has ever kissed me the way he does. His tongue plunges into my mouth and takes full possession. He buries his hand in my hair, groaning against my lips. He kisses me if he's been dying for it, dreaming of it, obsessed with the idea of it.

He kisses me like a man who's thought of nothing else for three years.

I kiss him back with equal enthusiasm, digging my fingernails into the nape of his neck. I want to rip his shirt off and explore those well-muscled shoulders. I want to lay back and feel his hard weight on top of me.

He growls against my mouth and cups my breast, kneading my soft flesh. My nipple pebbles in his palm. I squirm on his lap, tongue tangling with his. I need to be naked underneath him immediately. I need his hands and mouth all over me.

I break the kiss and tug off my tank top. My bra has a clasp at the front. I undo it and watch his eyes go dark.

“Fuck,” he says, staring.

I lean back against the couch cushions and he gets on top of me, taking my mouth again. He fills his hands with my breasts. I fumble with the buttons on his shirt. We're both panting, trying to feel more. Trying to fit together. When he reaches down to rub me through the seam of my jeans, I shudder with pleasure.

Oh God.

I forget about his shirt and lower my hand to his fly. He's hard and thick, straining the denim. My fingers mold to his shape. He stops kissing me and goes very still, as if the stimulation is too much to bear. It's too intense.

He feels so hot against my palm, so hungry and responsive. This is what I want. His cock. I squeeze him and bite my bottom lip, thrilled by his size. I don't think I appreciated it enough during our short time together. I'm eager to do a better job now, to suck him and stroke him and rain kisses over his hot skin.

Before I can get the rest of my clothes off, my elbow bumps the remote and Chip's plasma screen roars to life. His favorite porno comes on in high-definition, with surround-sound female moaning. Eric and I spring apart as if Chip himself barged in.

He might as well have.

The sixty-inch, larger-than-life blowjob is like a bucket of ice water. It's messy and ugly and the opposite of sexy.

I disentangle myself from Eric and turn off the TV, flushing. The space doesn't feel private anymore. It's Chip's apartment. His bad vibes are all over the place. I've had sex with Chip on this very couch, while he watched that exact video.

Eric doesn't need an explanation. I fix my bra and put my top back on. He moves to the other end of the couch. The envelope I had crumpled in my fist is now on the carpet next to an empty beer bottle, slowly unfolding.

I get up to put it in my bag.

He follows me to the kitchen, his jaw tense. “I shouldn't have touched you. It won't happen again.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

I have a pretty good idea. Noah didn't approve of us dating back then and he won't approve now. My brother can't tell me what to do, but he can ask Eric to leave. I don't want Eric going back to his gang friends because of me.

“Chip read the letter,” I say.

“Why did you keep it?”

I lean back against the counter, deliberating. “I guess I couldn't let it go.”

“What did it say?”

“Private things.”

“Like what?”

“If you're so curious, why didn't you open it?”

“You don't think I wanted to?”

My throat closes up. “Did you?”

His mouth makes a hard line, as if the question bothers him. “I kept it for two weeks and my fucking hands shook every time I touched it. I wanted to open it so bad, I could taste it. I imagined you licking the envelope and I got so hard I couldn't walk. I smelled it and held it against my skin and practically fucked it.”

“I don't understand,” I say.

“It was three years, Meghan. I couldn't let you waste three years of your life on me. I'm the one who fucked up. Why should we both pay the price?”

I can't believe what he's saying. He lied to me. All this time, I thought he didn't care. “That was my decision to make. You took it away from me.”

“I'd do it again in a heartbeat.”

“To protect me, or yourself?”

He shrugs, as if it doesn't matter who benefitted the most. He thinks he did what was best for both of us.

“And now what?” I ask.

“Nothing has changed.”

I just stare at him, incredulous.

A muscle in his jaw flexes. “You're about to graduate from college. I'm on parole, living in your brother's garage.”

“So what?”

“I can't take care of you. I can't
be
with you.”

I don't need to be taken care of, but I don't want to be dismissed so cruelly. His flat refusal cuts me to the bone. “You might be out, but you're not really free. You're still punishing yourself.”

“I killed a man,” he says coldly. “I did a lot of other bad shit. Am I supposed to pretend everything's cool now because I served my sentence?”

“You don't have to pretend everything's cool, but you can move on. You deserve a second chance. You're a good person.”

“I'm not a good person. That's where you've always been wrong.”

“You are—”

“You don't know what I've done,” he yells, startling me. “You don't know half of the things I've done.”

“Before you went in?”

“Since I got out.”

“No,” I say in a hoarse voice. He hasn't been selling drugs again. I don't believe him. He's just trying to scare me away.

“I almost attacked that guy earlier tonight,” he says. “Once a thug, always a thug.”

I study his handsome, troubled face. “You didn't hurt him. You walked away from Chip. You're not a thug.”

“I hooked up with Oscar's ex-girlfriend the other day.”

My stomach drops at this news. Oscar is the man Eric killed. The rival gang member. “You didn't.”

“I saw her again this morning,” he says, twisting the knife.