Fat Girl (9 page)

I honest to God want to hug her for caring so damn much. But I have to get Dee off this track. I take a deep breath because what I’m about to say is the hardest for me to admit.

“My mother tried to help me. And she got caught in the crossfire many times because I did a lousy job of protecting her.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that.” Those big, teary eyes are seriously going to do me in. “You were just a little boy. It was
her
job to protect
you
.”

“But I’m not a little boy anymore. And I’m not going to make this Mama and Papa T’s problem. My old man has the power in this town. If they try to go up against him, he’ll crush them. No one will believe us, and their reputations will be ruined. Mama T could lose her job at the hospital. People might stop taking their cars to Papa T’s shop. I can’t chance doing that to them. Not after everything they’ve done for me.”

“I understand how much you want to protect them. I do. But who’s going to protect
you
?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t be.” Her breathing is rapid, her voice desperate. “It’s not safe. You can’t stay there. Move in with us. Please.”

“I can’t do that. It would raise too many questions. But I’ll stay out of his way, I promise. I’ll do all my writing over here.”

Twin tears roll down her cheeks. “I’m so scared for you. I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt. Seeing these…” Her voice trails off and Dee shocks me by leaning over and placing kisses as light as butterfly wings across my bruises.

I know it’s nothing more than an impulse to comfort and soothe. Other girls have seen the yellow and blue marks and assumed it was from basketball or didn’t care enough to assume anything at all. But Dee’s kissing each one. And though my mind registers her touch as a healing balm, my body responds. I try to keep my hands to myself, but before long her scent and the caress of her mouth are too much.

I cup her cheeks between my palms and draw her face up. Our eyes connect and something special passes between us. The emotions I’ve kept underwater surge to the surface. Being with Dee is wrong on so many levels. But her lips are soft and rosy, and I push all the reasons away.

“Dee,” I whisper as I slowly inch her closer, giving her a chance to stop me, but hoping like hell she won’t.

Her eyes stay open, watching as our mouths meet. Her lips are tremulous against mine. Nerves radiate off her and I don’t take it any further. We stay like that, for seconds, for minutes, I don’t know how long, just sharing breaths.

Then her lashes flutter like Spanish fans casting elongated shadows on her cheeks just before they shut, and I can feel the tension leave her body. Still going slow—because it’s Dee and I don’t want to mess this up—I slide my tongue along the seam of her lips. And when she parts them on a hushed sigh, I edge inside. And oh man.
Warm, moist silk.
She tastes like spiced honey and sweet, tempting innocence. The reality of Dee is so much better than anything I ever imagined. And when the tip of her tongue tentatively ventures forward to touch mine, it’s like having liquid desire injected into my veins.

I want to peel off her bulky sweatshirt and lay my hands against her bare flesh. Learn the shape of her body and suck up the scent wafting off her skin. I want to be inside her so badly, it hurts. But Dee means more to me than a race to the finish line. No other girl has ever made me feel anything beyond the greedy lust pushing behind my zipper or the sick need to prove a point to my old man.

I lie back and bring her with me, slipping my palm under the velvety curls to the nape of her neck. Lush boobs flatten against my chest, and even though my ribs ache like a bitch, the cushion of her body is a welcome burden.

My free hand goes to her back and slides along the curve of her spine to the dip at her waist, discovering hidden hills and valleys.

Loving the feel of her, loving her, I close my eyes and sink into the creamy kiss. I lick deeper and she trembles against me. I suck her tongue and she grips my shoulders, emitting a sexy moan, given to me without pretense. Dee’s emotions are honest and I need that more than I’ve known. From her kiss I draw sustenance and strength. I feel it coat my scars and tend my wounds. And once again Dee pulls me away from the darkness.

THURSDAY NIGHT, LEXIE AND JORDYN show up at my house. Despite my objections, they are determined to drag me out. They select an outfit from my closet and shove it into my hands. A pair of unforgiving black stretch jeans and a shimmery V-neck top that reveals more cleavage than it should. Both garments I bought a year ago on some ridiculous impulse, thinking that I might actually develop the nerve to wear them. Of course, that never happened. But arguing with my friends when they’re on a mission is useless.

I dress on autopilot and let Lexie have her way with my hair and makeup. She’s better at it than I am, anyway. It takes her less than ten minutes to style my curls into an artful side-swept ponytail, add smoky shadow to my lids, and paint my lips fire-engine red. Clapping her hands with excitement, she stands back and declares me a bombshell. I roll my eyes. I don’t even bother to check the mirror.

When the cab arrives, I slump against the backseat as we head to the Glam Bar in downtown Brockville. A new hot spot for the singles crowd.

“Come on, girl!” Jordyn says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “You are going to forget about this case and Mick for tonight and have a good time.”

How can I forget about something that will reunite me with everything I ran away from? I let my guilt do the talking when Isabelle Torres called. My every intention was to stick to the “I have a full caseload” excuse, but turning down the man who broke my heart proved far easier than turning down a woman afraid of losing her foster son. I understand loss and I just couldn’t bring myself to refuse. No matter the cost.

Now I’m regretting it. I just want to crawl under the blankets and go to sleep. Right after I eat until I’m numb.

That’s why my friends are dragging my big, sorry butt out—to save me from myself.

“I’ll try,” I say. It’s all I can promise.

There’s a good musical groove going on inside the packed Glam Bar. The three of us are standing around a black-and-chrome pub table, sipping our drinks. Well, my friends are sipping their drinks. I’m pretty much chugging mine. The bass percussion of the techno music resounds in my chest and vibrates beneath my feet. Having downed enough cranberry martinis to loosen me up, I move to the rhythm and soak up more alcohol.

After nearly two years of therapy, I know better than to trade one binge for another. But by the time our server with the Angelina Jolie lips delivers my fourth drink, I’m past rational thought. But not numb.

I still want numb.

Lexie and Jordyn urge me on to the crowded dance floor. And for the next hour, I paste on a smile, I drink, I pretend to laugh, I drink, I dance, I drink. Before long, my smile and laugh aren’t fake anymore. The alcohol surging through my bloodstream makes me feel bold and confident, even in my fat-hugging jeans. I find myself flirting back with men I don’t know. That’s not my usual MO. I’m guarded. I was guarded even with the small handful of lovers I’ve had since Mick. But tonight the attention feels good…better than good. It feels fanfucking
tas
tic. But once I
stop
dodging grabby hands, Jordyn plucks the glass from my fingers and separates me from Ted or Ed.

“Let’s go,” she says, placing an arm around my waist and leading my wobbly form to a cab. “Your chariot awaits, Princess.”

“No…no…no…” I wave my finger at her. “DontsyoucallsmePrincess.”

“Ookay.” She’s humoring me.

But I know what I mean.

The cab drops me off first, and Lexie and Jordyn watch from the vehicle until I get inside. I stumble to my bedroom. I’ve got just enough wherewithal to change into a T-shirt and crawl into bed. Blissfully numb, I’m dozing off when the shrill ring of the phone pierces my partial slumber. I debate letting it go to voice mail. But if it’s one of my friends calling to check up on me, she’ll be worried.

I get out of bed and sway.
Whoa.
With no idea where I’ve left the cordless, I attempt to steady myself by bracing my hands on the walls as I follow the incessant sound through the darkened house.

The flashing light in between the potted plants catches my bleary gaze, and I stagger over to the ledge that divides the living room from the kitchen nook. Without checking Caller ID, I jab my index finger at the speaker button, apparently with a little too much gusto, and send it crashing to the floor.

“Damn it!” I kneel down and pat the hardwood until my hand closes around the upended plastic. Fully expecting to hear Jordyn’s or Lexie’s voice on the other end, I climb shakily to my feet and answer, “Don’t worry, that wasn’t me. I’m still standing.”

“Dee?”

My head spins. But it’s not from the alcohol. I grab the ledge for support. “How did you get my number? I’m not listed.”

“I have my ways.”

Of course, he does. Being rich and powerful would get him any information he wanted, which brings me to the more important question: “What do you want, Mick?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Makes me wonder if he’s pondering that question himself. Then he says, “I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh, I suppose I scored some brownie points for taking the case,” I reply, the liquor freeing my tongue. “Well, before you go applauding yourself for my reform, just know you weren’t a factor in my decision.”

“Whatever your reason, Dee, I’m still grateful.”

“No, you’re nots,” I say, slurring the last word. “You’re an arrogant ass.”

“And you’re drunk.”

His tone rubs me the wrong way. I’m tired of Mick flip-flopping between insults and apology, between thanks and judgment. I’m just tired.

“So what?” I retort. “I needed to unwind from a miserable couple of days.” Let Mick read into that anything he chooses.

“Have I made you miserable?”

I say nothing. I’ve already given him more than enough ammunition.

“Have I made you face things you hoped to run away from? Have I made you think about us? About our nights at the lake?”

I gasp, startled by his reference to our sexual past. And yet the memory incites an erotic need in me that won’t stand down. But I dismiss his taunt: “That’s ancient history.”

“History has a way of repeating itself.”

“Not this time.”

“Oh, we’re going to happen again, Dee.” His silky rasp licks across my skin. “And soon.”

“See? Arrogant! You assume because you’re Micah Peters, I’ll fall into bed with you on command.”

“I don’t assume it. I know it. And not because of my fame—that wouldn’t matter to you. I know you will because of how your body has always responded to mine.”

My thighs squeeze together against an achy wetness. “You’re delusional.”

“I’m right and my memory’s long,” he counters in a low, sexy timbre.
“I haven’t forgotten I was the first man to touch you. The first man to be buried deep inside you. The first man to make you come.”

A moan snakes up my throat.

“And you haven’t forgotten either. Sleep well, Dee.”