Fat Girl (7 page)

And honestly, I’d like nothing more than to vent—but Lena’s not the appropriate person; and I’m not the venting type. I bottle. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Um-hm,” she says on her way out.

I take one, two, three fortifying breaths until my private line rings. “Deeana Chase,” I answer, putting as much professional distance between us as possible.

“Dee.” His husky baritone carries a note of intimacy that reduces my efforts.

Annoyed, I pick up a foam stress ball and roll it in my palm, repeatedly squeezing and releasing my fingers. “What do you want, Mick?” I ask, skipping the pleasantries. He doesn’t deserve any.

“To continue our conversation.”

“If hurling insults is what you call conversation, then no thanks.”

“Dee…wait. I’m sorry about yesterday.”

His apology is unexpected and stops me from breaking the connection.

“I shouldn’t have come on so strong or grabbed you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” But the memory is on me in seconds. Pebbling my skin beneath the layer of navy gabardine and tightening my nipples to painful center points. Appalled by my body’s Pavlovian response, I glance around at the benign surroundings. There’s nothing sexy about brick walls, polished oak furniture, or stacks of law journals. But staring at the spot where Mick pinned me to the wall, and pressed hard against me, makes my sinful thoughts run amok.

“Will you at least grant me one thing?”

“What?” I reply with an embarrassing croak.

“That I was provoked by your cool reaction. I swallowed my pride in coming to you, and you wouldn’t give an inch.”

Nothing could have quelled my lust faster. Wounded pride is all he feels about my leaving? I had thought as much, but hearing him say it is a slap to the face. “That’s your idea of an apology?” I strike out, and risk giving my hurt away.

“I’m trying to explain myself here.”

“
Excuse
yourself is more like it.”

“I’ve apologized for my behavior. But I’m not going to pretend that I understand or defend the way you left. But neither do I want our past to stand in the way of you helping Dwayde.”

“Do I need to remind you again that you have no authority to hire me, and given that Victor doesn’t want my help—”

“That’s changed. Victor’s wife wants to hire you.”

For a second I don’t breathe. My convenient road block has just been removed, and I can feel myself heading straight into the danger zone.

“I didn’t tell Isabelle or Victor that you hadn’t quite agreed,” he says without a trace of contrition, “but I assume you will now.”

That gets me breathing again as I consider the gall of this man. “In other words, you backed me into a corner to get what you wanted.”

“Just listen before you fly off the handle. There’s no time to waste. Dwayde’s grandparents have threatened to get a—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” I raise my voice, cutting him off. I’m mad now. Furious. Scared and shaking with it. “I didn’t give you any indication that I would take this case. On the contrary, I told you I was busy with a full caseload.”

“I assumed when you said that, it was your defensive position, not fact,” he says and I hear the frustrated breath that follows. I can practically see the muscles straining in his jaw and his fingers raking through his hair.

“You assumed wrong,” I retort with a petty desire to provoke him further.

“Are you telling me that nothing I said yesterday made a difference to you?”

It made the biggest difference. I just can’t afford to let it. “What I’m telling you is an unequivocal no.”

“You’re a coward, Dee.” His accusation scorches me. “You’re so afraid to face your past that you won’t help a boy who has much more to lose than you do.”

“I’m not afraid of facing anything.”

“Then prove it when Isabelle calls.”

FUUCK!
JAW CLENCHED; READY TO blow, I plow my hands through my hair and prowl the expanse of the living room. No other woman has ever evoked such strong emotions in me. With Dee, my feelings have run the gamut. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ve gone from regret, to lust, to outrage, and back again, more times than I care to count.

And on top of that, the goddamn memories won’t shut off. They keep flashing in my head like movie clips. Replaying the scenes I’ve tried so hard to forget. The first time I
admitted to myself that I was drawn to her golden-amber eyes, sexy tumble of curls, and soft, bountiful curves. And the first time I realized that it was more than an undeniable physical attraction: I’d fallen in love with her.

My treads across the hardwood grow more agitated as I struggle against the memories. But last night’s dream, still fresh in my mind, takes me back to that afternoon…

I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH time passes before my father stops kicking me and leaves me balled up on the floor, groaning. The sun is no longer shining, and each move I make shoots stabbing pain to my ribs. With effort, I drag myself to my feet, using the corner of the desk for leverage, and make it into the hall. I rest there a moment, and my eyes glimpse my reflection in the mirror. The right side of my face is swollen and caked with blood. Red stains are crusted on my neck and spot my white T-shirt. I look like something out of a horror show.

Resuming my labored movements, I hold my breath when I reach my old man’s room. Springvale’s finest is passed out on his bed. I eye the gun lying on the end table beside the empty whiskey bottle, and for a split second I think to pump a round into his chest, to end this shit.
No. Six more months
, I tell myself. I’ve done hard time for eighteen years. I can make it another six months until NYU.

Creeping through the house so I don’t wake him, I slip out the back. In only a T-shirt and jeans, I lumber across the snow-crusted yard to the white bungalow and use the spare key hidden beneath a loose plank on the deck to open the door. I can breathe here. The quiet of my safe haven envelops me as I stand inside the Torreses’ kitchen for several moments, clutching my ribs.

The clock on the stove reads 1:57. No one will be home for the next hour and a half. That will give me time to clean myself up, get my head together, and manufacture a story. I amble down the hallway toward the bathroom. All the bedroom doors are open, except for Dee’s. I hear the low rustle of movement inside and pause outside her door, wondering why she’s not in school. Then I remember that today’s Thursday, and she doesn’t have a class last period.

I can’t let her see me like this. I pick up my pace and grit my teeth against the pain. The old wooden floor creaks under my weight, and the sound of Dee’s door opening reaches me just before her voice does.

“Gawd, Mick! You scared me.”

I stop but don’t turn around. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Calc now?”

“Uh…yeah.”

She’s coming up behind me, and I have two choices. Make a sprint into the bathroom or make up a fast lie. The sprint isn’t an option. “Don’t freak out, okay? I just had a little accident.”

I turn and, of course, she freaks out.

“Oh my God…oh my God…oh my God,” she gasps and her hands fly to her mouth.

“Ssh…it’s okay. I just slipped on the ice. It looks worse than it is.”

Her eyes go glassy and the color drains from her golden complexion. I hope she’s not going into shock or something.

“Dee,” I say and slowly move toward her. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just a cut and some blood. No big deal.”

She looks me over and I sigh with relief when her hands drop and some of the tawny hue returns to her face. “Sorry,” she says, “you asked me not to freak out and I did.”

“Hey, I’d freak out too if the roles were reversed.” I conjure up a smile to show I’m all right. “Will you grab me an ice pack while I clean myself up?”

She nods, not quite back to herself yet.

I head to the bathroom and turn to the task, but my ribs are throbbing, and all I’ve accomplished in the short time Dee’s gone is to run a cloth under water.

“Here, let me do it,” she insists, back in control again.

“You don’t have to.”

“You’re in no position to argue with me.”

“I never am. You’re gonna make a great lawyer someday,” I say, knowing of her plans to go to Amherst in the fall and eventually law school.

She rewards me with a crooked half smile that lifts my heart. I’m used to girls smiling at me without me putting out any effort at all. With Dee, it’s a rare treasure.

“Sit down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, liking the idea of Dee taking care of me a whole lot more than I should. It has the makings for my next chapter. Dark Shadow wounded in battle and Princess Dionna nursing him.
She gets a bowl of warm water and a sponge to clean his wounds. Her clothes are in tatters from fighting the enemy invaders. Princess Dionna changes into a thin white dress she doesn’t realize is translucent when she steps before Dark Shadow in the firelight. But he does. He takes in the shape of her—

“Mick?”

“Huh?”

“You’re not sitting.”

“Oh.” I ease down onto the toilet seat lid and bite back a groan. I don’t want to have to explain any more damage than the gash on my cheek.

“Daydreaming about a story?”

“Yeah,” I answer. She knows me well. But not well enough to notice I’ve had a major crush on her for years now.

“What’s it about?”

I look up into those amber eyes, and it takes a lot for me not to tell her she’s the inspiration behind my story, or to whisper in her ear every vivid fantasy I had of her while writing it. “It’s about a princess who wears thigh-high leather boots and kicks ass.”

That startles a laugh out of her. It’s not all high and giggly like other girls’ laughs. Dee’s laugh reminds me of late summer nights—sultry with a soft breeze.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t princesses usually wear glass slippers and get saved by the prince?”

“Sure, in boring fairy tales. But in my story there is no prince. Her ally is from the dark side and they save each other.”

“I like that.”

“I thought you would.”

Dee looks at me strangely. “Will you let me read it when you’re finished?”

She’s read most of my stuff. “If it turns out well.”

“It will be as brilliant as all the others,” she says with her unwavering confidence in me.

She comes forward to stand between my knees. The small confines of the bathroom amplify the impact of her nearness. I breathe in her scent, something light and floral. My blood heats.

“So how did you fall?” she asks, leaning closer to gently dab at my cheek.

The swell of her tits, subtly outlined through her baggy sweatshirt, is at eye level, and I try not to think about how all those curves she’s hiding would look in a see-through dress—or better yet, with nothing at all. I avert my gaze and clear my throat. “I didn’t notice a path was icy and lost my balance.”

Her brow furrows and I can practically see her mind churning behind those beautiful eyes. “I ditched classes this afternoon. I guess karma knocked me on my ass.”

“If you fell on your butt, you wouldn’t have a cut on your face.”

“It’s just an expression.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs. “Where were you?”

“On the way home from school.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“What’s with the cross-examination?” I snap.

She flinches and her eyes fill with hurt. I feel like a dickwad for being the one to have caused it. But I can’t say that I sought the safety of her house before my father could wake up and finish what he’d started.

“Sorry for taking my shit out on you. It’s the cut,” I offer as an excuse.

Her body language softens in sympathy. “This looks like a lot of damage from just a fall on the ice. It needs stitches.”

“Nah.” Mama T works as a nurse at the hospital. There’s no way I can go there. Plus, my father would kill me if questions were raised.

“If you don’t have it seen to properly,” she warns, “you’ll have a scar.”

I shrug. Scars on the outside fade. It’s the ones on the inside that never will. But so she doesn’t read anything into my reluctance, I include a little cockiness for good measure. “It’ll give me a tough-guy look.”