Crushed (16 page)

He rolls his eyes. “You’re hopeless. You totally don’t get men.”

I hold up my hands. “No argument there. If I
got
men I’d know why we’re hanging out in your bedroom instead of sipping an adult beverage in the sun and enjoying patriotism-inspired foods. What’s your stance on Jell-O salad?”

Michael merely shakes his head, but I can tell he’s starting to tune me out again, going back to that brooding part of his brain. Which is, like, almost his whole brain.

“Start talking, Beefcake.”

“At what point in our acquaintance have I ever given the impression that I like talking about myself?”

“It’s not an acquaintance, it’s a friendship,” I say, even though I’m not really sure
what
Michael St. Claire and I have. I know only that whatever I saw on his face downstairs can’t stay locked inside him.

Whatever it was is dark enough to eat him alive.

When he’s still quiet, I squint my eyes. “Let’s see, where was I . . . oh, yes . . . AT THE TWILIGHT’S LAST GLEAMING.”

“Those aren’t the words. Are they?”

“They are,” I say, pretty sure about this.

“I don’t think—”

Okay, enough distracting small talk.

I lean forward, my hand grabbing his. His eyes lock on mine as he tries to pull his fingers back, but I hold fast, knowing the expression on his face, because I feel a little bit of it myself.

It’s panic.

“You can tell me,” I say quietly. “Whatever it is—”

“Is none of your business.” His voice is harsh, and this time he’s successful in tugging his hand free.

“Fine,” I say simply.

But I don’t leave like he wants me to.

Instead I crawl across the bed toward him, ignoring the shocked wariness on his face as I nudge his right arm out of the way and plop myself into the nook.

I put my arm around his waist, my cheek on his shoulder, and it’s wildly inappropriate and yet . . . it feels . . . nice.

“Chloe.”

“Hush,” I say. “I’m not trying to cop a feel. Although those abs?
Nice.
It’s just . . . you need a hug, Beefcake.”

I suck in a little breath and hold it as I wait for him to shove me away, but slowly, quietly, his arm comes around me, pulling me a little closer into his warmth.

“Damn you, Chloe Bellamy.” His voice is shaky.

“I know,” I whisper, my eyes watering for reasons I don’t fully understand.

I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here, but I don’t want to be anywhere else.

I lose track of how long we lay there, his hand resting just above my elbow, his other arm bent behind his head, while my arm drapes over his waist.

The noise from the party is getting louder as the afternoon turns into evening, but I barely notice, and I don’t think he does, either.

“Hey, Michael,” I say. My voice is huskier than I mean it to be.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how you feel about fireworks, but if you had your heart set on a great view, we should probably go stake our claim. . . .”

His fingers squeeze just briefly on my arm. “I don’t give a shit about fireworks right now. But if you want to go—”

“No.” The word is out before I actually think it.

“Chloe—”

“Don’t worry,” I interrupt. “Tomorrow we can pretend like this never happened.”

“Chloe?” he says again.

His voice has changed. More thoughtful than wary.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

“Please,” I say, letting my hand slide teasingly over his abs. “It’s worth it to count your hundred-pack.”

He turns his head slightly, and I feel his breath against my hair.

“Chloe.”

This time it’s neither thoughtful nor wary. It’s desperate, and I tense a little, instinctively knowing that the next words out of his mouth will be
big.

But what he has to tell me is bigger than I ever could have imagined.

Chapter 17

Michael

I don’t realize that I’m going to tell Chloe until the words are out of my mouth.

“Tim Patterson is my father.”

She doesn’t move, and for a second I wonder if I didn’t actually say the words out loud.

I repeat them.

“Tim Patterson is my father.”

Chloe still doesn’t move. “Explain.”

Her response is so simple, so perfect, that I want to press my lips to curly hair in gratitude, but instead I merely close my eyes.

And then I talk.

I tell her everything.

Well, not
everything
. Not about Olivia. Or Ethan.

But I tell her about how I came home that day to my parents fighting with a ferocity I’d never heard in their typical squabbles over him working too late, or her locking them into too many social commitments.

This fight had been fierce.

Brutal.

Devastating.

“Why don’t you just admit it, Mike? Admit that you were late because you were with one of your whores.”

“Don’t start that bullshit again, Michelle.”

“Who was it this time? One of the girls from the office? Someone from the club? One of my friends?”

“What the fuck do you care?”

“You’re my husband.”

“Yeah? Funny how you forgot those marriage vows twenty-something years ago when you let a fucking cowboy knock you up.”

“Don’t you dare. You promised never to bring that up—”

“I promised never to bring it up in front of Michael. I’m not going to let that poor kid be labeled a bastard because you couldn’t keep your legs together. . . . ”

“You heard them,” Chloe says, propping herself up on an elbow and looking down at me.

I don’t meet her eyes as I stare up at the ceiling. Remembering.

“They didn’t think I’d be there. I’d told them I’d be gone for the weekend to visit a friend in Maine.”

“And you didn’t?”

I almost slip and tell Chloe what really happened. That I did go to visit a friend in Maine. Only at the time, I thought she was more than a friend.

And she hadn’t been alone.

She hadn’t even wanted me there.

When has anyone ever wanted you?
I push the nagging thought aside.

“I cut my trip short,” I say curtly.

Chloe licks her lips and sits up, her eyes never leaving my face.

“Do they know that you overheard?”

I rub a hand down my face, torn between regret that I brought this up and relief to finally be saying it to someone.

“Yeah. They know.”

Her warm fingers find my forearm, tracing it lightly. The touch is warm. Comforting.

I shake it off.

Chloe continues as though I haven’t just rejected her simple offer of friendship. “And your mom told you that your real dad was Tim Patterson.”

I continue to stare at the ceiling. “Apparently he came into New York for business years ago. Nothing ever came of the business venture. But he met my mom. Their business turned out to be much more . . . lasting.”

Chloe bites her fingernail. “I just can’t picture Mr. Patterson doing that.”

“What, fucking a married woman? Knocking her up and then bailing back to Texas?”

She glances at her ragged fingernail. “So . . . he knows?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I hate that my voice is rough. “My mom says she never told him. Not after Mike agreed to claim me as his own.”

“And that’s something, right?” Chloe says, her voice kind. “He wanted you.”

“He wanted to save his pride, Chloe. You don’t know him. He would have died before letting the world know his wife carried another man’s seed.”

“
Seed?
That’s . . . biblical.”

We fall silent for a while, her chewing that fingernail and watching me, me staring at the ceiling.

“Are you going to tell him?” she asks finally. “Tim, I mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’d want to know you,” she says. “He’s a good man, and—”

“Don’t, Chloe,” I snap. “Just . . . don’t defend him right now, okay?”

She sighs. “Okay.”

For a blissful moment, I think she’s going to drop it. But this is Chloe, so . . .

“You know what this means,” she asks, jabbing my thigh with her fist and giving one of those big smiles.”

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“It means,” she continues, “that when Devon and I get married and have seven babies, you’ll be the uncle.”

I turn my head to stare at her. “
That’s
what you’re taking out of all this.”

“Uncle Beefcake,” she says with a dreamy voice. “A little weird, but it’ll make for a great story.”

My hand finds her wrist, and I grip it. Hard. “Chloe.”

I wait until she looks at me.

“You can’t tell anyone about this. Okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice is quiet.

I squeeze her wrist harder. “Definitely not Devon. I know he’s like the love of your life, or whatever, but he can’t know about this. Not until I figure shit out.”

“Okay,” she says again.

“Chloe.”

She twists her wrist out of my grasp, but instead of pulling back, she links her fingers with mine. Squeezes.

I feel my shoulders relax.

I feel all of me relax.

Someone to count on.

Finally
.

She looks out the window. “The sun is starting to set. You sure about those fireworks?”

“I’m sure,” I say. “I just need time to think.”

She nods in understanding.

I force myself to pull my hand away from hers, even though what I really want to do is tug her downward so she’s in her former position, curled up against my side.

That had felt more right than anything had in a long time.

In a platonic way, of course.

Instead, I do what I have to for her own good.

Chloe is light and laughter and goodness.

I can’t deal with the thought of pulling her down into my darkness.

“Go,” I say. My voice is a little gruff as she holds my gaze.

She shifts and I force myself not to watch as she walks away.

But she doesn’t shift away from me. She shifts
toward
me, lying down beside me once again, until her cheek finds its now rightful place on my shoulder.

My arm goes around her once more, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her arm winding around my waist only after her palm skims my abs. Again.

I smile. “Always copping a feel.”

“Well, one of us has to,” she says in that happy, matter-of-fact Chloe tone.

I turn to frown down at the top of her head. I’m used to a girl’s hair being smooth and silky, but the top of her head is all wild and kinky. I like it.

“What do you mean, one of us has to?”

She sighs. “You really need to watch more movies, Beefcake.”

“I watch plenty of movies.”

Another sigh. “Not like
Terminator
movies. Like . . .
She’s All That
movies. Or
How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.
Or
Two Weeks Notice
. Or . . .”

“Just spell it out for me.”

She tilts her head up to meet my eyes. “It’s like a
thing
. The guy and girl who are after a different guy and girl, but in the meantime, they’re flirty.”

“Flirty.”

“Yes, flirty. Touchy.”

“Like friends with benefits?”

She makes a grossed-out face, and I tell myself that I’m not offended, but my ego might be stinging. Just a little.

“Not like
that
. Just . . .”

“Never mind.” She looks away.

I rub a thumb over her arm. “Tell me.”

I’m curious, in spite of myself.

She resettles her cheek against my T-shirt and I feel rather than hear her sigh.

“I can’t explain it,” she says. “Not to someone that looks like you.”

I frown again. “You’re being really girly and annoying right now.”

She giggles happily, and it turns my frown into a small smile. “Well, at least I can be girly in that way, huh?”

Great. Another weird nugget that I can do nothing with.

With any other girl, I’d think she was fishing for something, but with Chloe I suspect it’s just some weird complex part of her brain that nobody will ever understand.

I let it go.

“You’re sure you don’t mind missing the fireworks?” I ask, glancing toward the ever-darkening sky out the window.

“Um, I just discovered that you came on a baby-daddy-finding mission to Texas, and that man in question is the love of my life’s
father
. I got your fireworks right here, Sweetcheeks.”

I shake my head. Only Chloe could take a topic that feels like it could literally kill me and act like it’s no big deal.

And with her by my side, I’m half-convinced that it’s not. That it doesn’t matter that I’m a bastard, or a reject, or have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life.

With Chloe, it’s easy to forget that I’m nobody.

Because she makes me feel like
somebody
.

“Chloe,” I say, forcing my voice to have the same casual,
whatever
tone that she has so perfected.

“Mmm?”

I turn my head a little toward her head, letting my lips touch the springy curls, hoping I can play it off as an accident.

“What, Beefcake?” she prods, when I don’t respond right away.

Fuck it
. I kiss her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Chapter 18

Chloe

Michael must have been listening when I prattled on about romantic movie clichés, because we wake up to the biggest cliché in the
history
of romantic clichés.

The ol’
accidentally fall asleep and wake up tangled in the other person
kind of cliché.

And in real life, it’s even more amazing than it is in the books and movies.

I sleep on my side, and apparently Beefcake does, too. It should set us up for the classic spoon position.

What’s happening right now is better than spooning, which I find kind of hard to believe, because despite making it through a couple of sort-of college boyfriends, I also live in a girls-only dorm with iron-clad no-sleepover policies, and, well, I’ve never been with anyone worth breaking the rules for.

Although I confess I have been intrigued by spooning. Mostly because I want to be Little Spoon, so that for once, I can feel, well,
little.