Into the Nothing (Broken Outlaw Series Book 1) (16 page)

Caleb doesn’t react for a moment. He stands, eyes fixed to the ground. Fresh beads of blood trickle down his lips.

I take a few steps forward and his head pops up, his eyes locking on mine. There’s no more humiliation. Only rage.

“
Why did you fucking do that?
” He swipes an arm across his bloody lips and spits a blood clot from his mouth. I almost can’t believe my ears. I just saved this kid from a complete ass kicking and he’s mad at me.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Caleb? Get in the truck.” I turn and head back toward where I parked when I hear him take a few quick steps closer. If looks could kill…

“They would’ve stopped soon. They always do. Why did you fucking do that?”

“Dude, fuck that. I’m not going to just watch that shit happen to you. Get in the truck, Caleb. Come on.” A few teachers and students have noticed us. The teachers quickly avert their gaze as if they never even saw the beaten boy crying on the pavement.

“They’ll never leave me alone now,” he sobs. I look around awkwardly, unsure of how exactly to respond. I’m not cut out for these kinds of situations.

“Caleb,
get
in the truck,” I say sternly and he finally complies. I follow, throwing him a towel from the bench seat, and he presses it to his face as he climbs in.

“Why do you let them hit you like that? One, two, three, it doesn’t matter…you gotta hit back. They get bored with the ones that stick up for themselves. It’s no fun anymore when you’re getting hit right back.”

He looks at me and scowls, the bloody rag clutched tightly in his hands. “And how the
fuck
would you know anything about that?”

“You fucking kidding me, kid? You think I was always in shape? You think I grew up two hundred pounds? You think I grew up easy? Fuck no. When I was fourteen, I was your size. When I was fourteen, I was in a fucking orphanage.”

He’s no longer humiliated or angry, only skeptical. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“Nah, I’m not the type to fuck around. I’m serious. Just like you, I grew up in a boys’ home.”

“Are you fucking with me?” he repeats.

“I’m not. You don’t want to go toe to toe with me on what a rough life means. You had it hard, no doubt about that, but you got it really fucking good now. Your parents love you. They take care of you. They’re there for you. It’s more than a lot of kids have. It’s more than you or I had starting out. It’s something I never got.” I hold up two fingers. “Two things you gotta take away from this conversation. One, start working out… start hitting a heavy bag, start fighting back. Play a fucking sport or something, for Christ’s sake. And two, don’t ever think you got it so bad again, because really, you don’t. You had it damn hard, and by the grace of God you found people that truly love you. Appreciate that. Got it?”

He looks stunned, his mouth wide, as if my words were in a foreign language. Either that, or they were the worst thing he’s ever been told.

“Got it?” I repeat. He nods his head very, very slowly.

The rest of the drive back to the Watson house is pleasantly quiet.

I
t’s been four days since Xander and I spent time on the dock. Four days since our first kiss. Four days since I felt my heart grab hold of him.

We haven’t seen each other much, other than at family dinner where conversations are mostly generic and light, and flirty eyes pass between us at all available moments. Caleb has seemed to lighten up lately, which doesn’t necessarily mean he’s been pleasant, but he eats now at least.

I’ve wanted to spend more time with Xander alone, but he’s been working late with Dad every evening and passing out soon after dinner. I can only assume he is scared shitless about my little open mic request, but it hasn’t stopped me from putting Post-it note reminders on the guesthouse door. And in the guesthouse. And on his truck door.

That man
is
playing. I don’t care what I have to do.

As I position another post it against the guesthouse door—my last day to do so before Whittaker’s open mic night—I hear the rustle of Xander’s work boots against the gravel driveway behind me. I turn and his beautiful smile greets me, looking more effervescent than usual from the contrast of his deepening tan. The dirty wife beater clings tightly to his abs, the sweat making it almost see-through. It takes everything I have not to stare; or not to stare
that
much at least.

“Did I catch you off guard there, stealthy?” He smiles again, seeming to not notice my sudden hot flash—or at least giving me the courtesy of not pointing it out.

“You’ve been avoiding me, mister.” I shake a finger at him, stepping down from the guesthouse porch, trailing the porch rail with my finger.

“No, ma’am. I’ve just been busy. I have a job to do, you know.” He stands just before me, eyes glancing at the back door of the main house.

“They aren’t here. You know that.”
Am I being too flirtatious? What if he’s avoiding me for reasons other than the open mic night? What if he regrets the kiss?

Before my thoughts get the better of me, Xander takes me into his arms and looks into my eyes. He stares for a moment and what should be awkward feels far too comfortable.

He doesn’t just look at me. It’s like he sees right through me.

Xander kisses me, softly at first. Just lips. A little tongue now, and it’s like electricity travels back and forth from my mouth to his. His hands slide down to my ass, settling there, then he pulls me into him. A gasp escapes my mouth, but he kisses me even harder and longer. An ache takes hold.

He breaks the kiss and pulls me inside the guesthouse, closing the door behind him. His hands brace my hips firmly, but he pushes me carefully against the door. He grabs my wrists and pulls them above my head, holding both of my hands with one of his own. His other hand cradles my face. He kisses me again making everything below my knees feel useless.

For what is probably only five minutes—but feels like much longer—he kisses me, his hands touching the skin beneath my shirt. He fights to keep them from where his hands shouldn’t go. But where I want them so damn bad.

I don’t want him to fight it, but I’m glad that he has the willpower to. This man’s restraint is impressive.

He pulls his lips away from me slowly, and all I can do is stay right where I am, eyes closed, resting in his arms and my lips ready for his.

“I’ll sing tomorrow.”

My eyes open instantly. “Are you serious?”

He leans in so close I can feel his warm breath on my lips. “For you…” he breathes the words against my mouth, “and only for you. But you have to sit right in the center of the bar, so any time I get nervous, I can look at you.”

Just take my fucking heart, damn it.

I grab his cheeks and pull him in for another kiss.

“You don’t even have to ask. I’m there. I’ll always be there,” I say, kissing him again, pouring every ounce of promise into it. Then I reluctantly leave the guesthouse, since my parents will be back shortly.

His hand fidgets against my leg nervously, his guitar case held tightly between his legs. As we make our way to Whittaker’s, I can see another pep talk is in order. I find him irresistibly cute when he’s nervous. To see this man who’s obviously strong become so vulnerable is quite endearing.

I place my hand on his and squeeze it lightly, drawing his attention. He looks at me, catches my wide smile and shoots me a nervous smirk in return.

“You’re going to do great, Xander. I have no doubt.”

He laughs genuinely and says, “That makes one of us!” The laugh fades and he picks at the edges of his aged case.

“Stop! You’re going to kill it. I’ve heard you before, remember? Just play as if only for me.”

He looks at me, his eyes sincere. Grabbing my hand, he pulls it slowly toward his lips as I park the car in Whittaker’s lot. I’m trying my best to keep my attention on the lot and not his perfect lips meeting my skin.

Goosebumps race across my skin. Little hairs stand on end. He stirs a heart that’s been idle for quite some time and it’s hard to make sense of it all.

He pulls my hand from his mouth and then places it on his knee. Smiling, he says, “Right in the middle, remember?”

“I won’t move a muscle.” I wink and hop out of the car, my heart still pounding in my chest. Xander follows soon after.

The crowd is light for an open mic Friday night, but I’ve been coming here long enough to know it won’t stay this way. I won’t let Xander in on that though.

He makes a beeline for the bar where Brandi waits impatiently, a goofy smile spread across her face. Xander orders two Jamesons and a Coors as his nervous eyes flit around the stage at the other end of the bar where amps, cords and mics are being set up. He downs both Jamesons in the time it takes him to pass me my Coors.

I see Bryson Whittaker, the owner of this establishment, emerge from a back office and I meet him near the bar. He lets me know Xander will be fourth up, which causes my stomach to churn a little. Whittaker’s will be busier by then.

I meet Xander back over by the bar as he downs another shot of Jameson. His guitar is tucked against the bar behind a stool as if he hoped no one would see it. My hand touches his back and glides up to his shoulder. I give it a good squeeze or two.

“Don’t be nervous. And don’t be so drunk you can’t play.”

He glares at me with a playful smirk fighting to break through. “Woman, you know three shots of Jameson for me is just a warmup.” Just as he says this, Brandi brings another shot. He looks at me guilty.

“You’re going up in like forty minutes, I remind him. “Just relax.” His eyes go wide and he quickly throws back the shot that was just placed before him.

“Xander!” I say as sternly as I can.

“Alright. Alright. I’m good now.” He motions to Brandi for one more as if I’m not right in front of him, then acts surprised when he turns to see my best ‘what do you think you’re doing’ look.

“Just one more.” He puts both hands together and pretends to plead with me.

“Xander, you have as many as you want. I’m not your mom. But I don’t want to hear it when you’re too drunk to sing and you’re booed off stage.”