Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (10 page)

              She didn’t want to fool herself about what this was – God knew he wasn’t the type to take things slow and chivalrous, so he must not have wanted her sexually. But the unfolding easiness between them kept growing, kept tucking new dimensions into their conversation and lending them a familiarity she didn’t think either of them had expected.

              Today, he was already propped up against the outer wall when she left the classroom. Hands in his pockets, hoodie zipped up against the chill beneath his cut. He needed a haircut, and his eyes were tired, and she drank him in visually.

              “My next class is cancelled; I’m letting them take the day off and work on their papers. So we can actually have coffee today.”

              He nodded and pushed off the wall, his smile just as weary as his gaze. “It’s cold out. That sounds good.”

              Sam buttoned up her jacket and slid an arm through his offered one. It always sent a pulse of awareness through her, feeling the solid hardness of his biceps through his clothes. A gorgeous boy, a playboy…but a strong one, too.

              The breeze rushed over them, as they pushed through the doors into the sunshine, and Sam leaned in a little closer.

              “What’s wrong?”

              “Nothing,” he said, and it was an obvious, stiffly told lie.

              “Girl trouble?”

              He snorted.

              “Family trouble?”

              No comment.

              “So club trouble, then.”

              He made a sound that was neither yes nor no, but she understood it.

              “Talking about it might help.”

              He sighed…and then pulled her tighter beside him as they walked, holding her against his side, his gaze downcast. “Do you ever just know something’s going to blow up in your face, but you’ve got no idea what to do about it?”

              “Yes. Though, in my case, it’s a metaphorical explosion. And with you, there might well be a real bomb involved.”

              He chuckled. “You think?”

              “There’s no telling.”

              He nodded. “Yeah, well…this is a metaphorical one – damn, listen to how you have me talking – at least, I think it is. Mostly.” A frown pressed a deep groove between his brows. In a quiet undertone: “I really fucked up. A lot. And I’ve got no idea how to fix it.”

              Okay, so whatever this was, it was serious.

              They reached the coffee cart and she motioned toward a bench a few feet away in a sunny patch. “What do you want and I can join you in a sec?”

              “Nope.” He dug out his wallet, its chain rattling. “I’m buying.”

              “You don’t have to do keep doing that.”

              “I’m taking up your time, so I’m buying your coffee.”

              “Aidan–”

              “Not listening.”

              It wasn’t their usual back-and-forth. This was tight, colored with his disquiet.

              “Fine.”

              Aidan bought the coffee and they stirred in their preferred flavors: just sugar for him, and hazelnut International Delight for her. A kid with a laptop was settling onto the intended bench as they approached, but Aidan made a face that sent him scurrying.

              “Wish I could do that sometimes,” Sam said as she dropped down onto the cold concrete.

              “What?”

              “The
look
.”

              “You should talk to Mags. I hear she gives classes.”

              “No doubt.”

              The disquiet pressed in more strongly, a cold hand against the back of her neck. Whatever troubled Aidan, he wasn’t just ticked off, wasn’t just stewing. This was heavy; it had clamped down on him.

              He held his coffee and stared down at the toes of his boots, head hanging between his shoulders.

              “Aidan, tell me,” she prodded.

              He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “My dad’s not always an easy guy to please.”

              “I’d imagine not.”

              “I kinda gave up a while back, when I was a kid. It wasn’t possible, so I stopped trying. And I guess that’s why I suck at doing anything right, even when I try.”

              She kept silent.

              “After the accident,” he continued, and her mind filled with an image of him, pale and drawn in Ava’s guestroom, his arms dark with healing road rash, his head supported by pillows; it turned her stomach. “I had a talk with my dad, and I realized – well, I was gonna do things different. No more fucking – I mean, screwing around. I was gonna get settled. I was gonna step up. That was my plan.”

              Sam thought of Tonya Sinclair, and her stomach did another cartwheel. She swallowed. “Settle down as in…”

              “It doesn’t matter,” he said with a snort. “I got it wrong, and I’m an idiot, I guess.”

              “You’re not an idiot.”

              He glanced over at her finally, brows lifted, half-smile sad and mocking.

              “If I’m being totally honest, I think you’re a little selfish.”

              His grin widened a fraction. “Yeah?”

              “You like to have a good time.” She knew her cheeks colored as she thought of the wild MC party rumors she’d been subjected to since childhood. She’d overhead Aidan talking about a stripper once their senior year, just before he’d dropped out, that confident, smooth quality of his voice that said so much more than the words themselves.

              “Not – not that there’s anything
wrong
with that,” she added, and he chuckled. “But you’ve been worried about yourself – about moment to moment experiences, and not the big picture, not the way your actions affect others, or yourself, even.”

              She didn’t really expect him to agree, much less smile about it, but he did both. Nodding, he said, “I don’t impress you for a second, do I?”

              A little tremor of something ridiculous in the pit of her stomach. A flutter in her chest. “Depends.”

              His grin widened for a second, a brief flash of humor and happiness, and then his mood dimmed. His eyes stayed pinned to hers, dark and deep, and full of something she could only guess. “You’re better than me,” he said quietly, seriously.

              “Aidan–”

              “You finished school, you’re about to have two degrees. You go to work, and take care of your family, and you don’t break the law. You’re a good person, Sam. And you’re not selfish, not like me. You’re a better human being than I’ll ever be. But you don’t treat me like I’m not fit to breathe the same air as you.”

              Awareness dawned, and with it a cool prickling along her skin. Anger knifed through her, a possessive, almost maternal urge to pull him in close, stroke his hair. “Who treats you that way?”

              “Doesn’t matter now.”

              “What did Tonya say to you?” she demanded, voice sharp and so unlike herself. She sounded angry. No, not just sounded –
was
.

              Aidan’s expression shifted, became curious. He shrugged. “She was too good for me. But like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

              “What did she say?” Sam repeated. Anger pulsed through her, strongest in her wrists, her throat, right up close to the skin.

              Aidan shrugged. “What do you–”

              “I care,” Sam interrupted, surging to her feet suddenly, “because I’m sick to death of people like Tonya Sinclair” – she spat the name like an expletive – “misusing the entire world on a whim. Like every damn person in her path is just an amusement.”

              Aidan stared at her in surprise and disbelief as she paced in front of their bench. “Wait. You know her?”

              “Everyone knows her. She wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s been making girls hate themselves since birth.”

              “Okay…” Aidan said, but she wasn’t listening.

              She was seeing Tonya: seven and gorgeous even then, in that mysterious way some girls seemed like grown women from conception, tiny child’s nose already lifted in disdain. Ten and accepting tokens and favors from her fawning friends; telling Sam she couldn’t go down the slide because she “hadn’t paid the toll,” and because her glasses were “fugly.” Eighteen and tailgating in her convertible. Twenty-one and sending back a martini because there was an onion instead of an olive, shaming the poor waiter until he nearly cried.

              Thirty-two, and wrapping those manicured hands around Aidan’s tattooed arms, leading him into her bedroom.

              Sam closed her eyes against the mental picture, hating Tonya, hating Aidan, hating herself. Hurt boiled up inside her, a hurt she had no right to feel, one that burned as it filled her.

              Before she could stop herself, she whirled to a halt, facing him, braid slapping against her back. “What is it, anyway?”

              He sat back, brows lifting. “What?”

              “What is it about girls like Tonya that gets you guys all riled up? Is it really just about looks? She’s beautiful, and that’s all that matters? Or does she do something fr-freaky in bed” – she felt color bloom in her cheeks, bright spots of heat under her skin – “that other girls won’t? Or is it for bragging rights? I mean…Jesus, every woman has a vagina. What makes hers so special? Why does someone like Tonya get everything she ever wanted, and every guy too?”

              The moment the tirade had left her, the anger was replaced with hot, acid shame, burning up her throat, choking her. She couldn’t believe her own outburst, couldn’t believe she’d said something so childish and petty.

              “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, putting her back to him, walking away. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, though he couldn’t have heard her. She had to get away from him; couldn’t stare him in the eye after she’d let her jealously come roaring out into the open like that.

              Breathing in big gulps of chilled air, squeezing her coffee cup so hard it cracked and leaked down her hand, she didn’t realize she was being followed until she caught her reflection in the plate glass of a window. Aidan walked several paces behind her, hands in his cut pockets, gaze fixed to her back. He wasn’t hurrying, but he wasn’t falling behind either. He was keeping up with her, tracking her. In the fast window glimpse, he looked like a predator on the hunt.

              She ducked her head and walked faster. Faster, cursing her heels and skirt, trying to…

              “Samantha.” He caught her suddenly, closing in as they reached the parking lot, his hand darting over her shoulder like a striking snake and taking hold of her wrist. The way he said her name, the streak of emotion in his voice, sent sparks shooting through her veins. He turned her so she faced him.

              His face was flushed from the cool air and the exertion, a blush painted along his high cheekbones. Such pretty eyes he had, dark as coffee, full of pain.

              “Sam, wait,” he pleaded, and she stood stock still, because suddenly, she felt the balance tipping between them, and she had no idea which way to lean.

              “I’m sorry I got emotional,” she said stiffly, the words clashing with the way she felt her insides slowly melting. “I didn’t mean to jump down your throat like that.”

              He didn’t seem to hear, staring at her. He dampened his lips – a fast flash of the pink tip of his tongue – and said, “You’re right. There’s not one thing special about Tonya.”

              She hadn’t expected him to say
that
, of all things.

              “I thought she was classy,” he continued, “and I thought she must be strong, the way she acted. I was looking for someone, someone special, really looking this time. But Tonya’s a bitch. And she was using me. She’s not anything like you, Sam,” he said fiercely. “She’s nothing like you.”

              Her pulse arrested a second, and then kicked into high gear, thrumming in her ears. Her voice came out a whisper. “Why are you telling me this?”

              He still had her wrist in an iron grip, and gave her a little shake. “Because I figured out what I really want. Finally. Jesus Christ –
finally
.”

              “What’s that?”

              “You.”

              She couldn’t have heard right. This couldn’t be happening.

              “No,” she said, going cold all over.

              “Yes.” He leaned in closer, grew still more earnest. “I’ve been so, so, so stupid. I’ve been a fucking idiot, chasing after everything I shouldn’t. And I know that now. And I know I want you.”

              She was…furious. Heartbroken.

              Sam twisted her hand but couldn’t break away from him, grimacing at the tightness of his fingers. “You don’t want me,” she said through her teeth. “You think you do, now, all of a sudden, because Tonya used you and made you feel like shit.” She knew it was true, as she said it, and she hated the tears that sprang up in her eyes. “I make you feel better, right? You said so. Because I’m this pathetic…
loser
…who has a crush on you, and looks at you adoringly, and makes you feel like a man. You don’t want
me
. You want the ego boost.”