Stain (16 page)

“You should wear your hair down more often. I like it.”

Swallowing hard, I say, “I will, but only if you pose for me.”

His mouth twitches. “I’m a bad influence on you. But all right, I’ll pose for you.”

I can’t help it. I beam at him. “Really? You’ll do it?”

He lances me with silver eyes as a roguish grin draws both corners of his sensual mouth upward. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

Chapter 18

Aylee

He keeps his word. Monday after school he’s waiting for me. I revel at the sight of him casually leaning against the row of lockers talking to his brother. At my approach, our gazes meet and I’m sure I only imagine the slight glint of pleasure in his eyes at my arrival.

“Sup, Aylee?”

Though I acknowledge Noah with a quiet, “Hey,” I have eyes only for his tattooed brother, who doesn’t seem incline to stop looking at me either.

“Hi,” I greet with a shy smile and heated cheeks.

He grins. “I’m ready for my close-up.”

I hear Noah snort. “I’m still amazed you’ve convinced this idiot to pose for you. Do you have any idea how unreliable he is, Aylee?”

With a shrug, I reply, “I have faith in him.”

Maddox gives a deprecating smile. “I think you’re the only one.”

“That’s all it takes sometimes,” I murmur. Standing in between these two, I’m suddenly confronted with my height deficiency and it’s no more obvious than when I go up on my toes to reach the dial on my locker.

“What’s your combination?” he asks, with an arm up while standing directly behind me now.

“It’s 53-12-9.” I give out the numbers in a whisper but do so without hesitation. He dials it in, left first, and twice to the right, and back again on the last digit. He lifts the latch a second later and my locker door comes open.

“Thank you.”

I grab the necessary books for homework for tonight and leave behind what I don’t need. “I’m ready,” I say, when I’m done closing the door. “Are you coming with us, Noah?”

“No.” Maddox doesn’t give Noah the chance to reply. “He’s got things to do.”

Noah scowls but it quickly turns to a smile at the sight of the guy headed our way. “Actually, you’re right, Max, I do have something better to do,” he says, cheerfully, excitement at the other guy’s arrival written all over his beautiful face.

I know the guy instantly because he’s of the popular set, he plays on Brigham High’s football team and hangs around Mallory’s crowd. Riley Felton. He’s not entirely handsome in the conventional sense, with his aquiline nose, deep-set brown eyes, and wide mouth, but the way he carries himself is enough to make people notice. When he comes to a stop next to Noah, I immediately know that they’re together. They make a striking pair.

I watch Maddox’s expression as he looks between his brother and Riley who’s standing so close to him their arms and the backs of their hands touch. With furrowed brows, he doesn’t look away from Riley when he says, “Don’t you mean
someone
, little brother?” There’s no emotion in his voice.

A sad, reflective look passes over Noah’s pretty features before he sighs and takes Riley’s hand, interlocking their fingers. “You’re going to understand one day that everything isn’t just about sex, Max. It may have started that way, but we’re worth so much more than that.” His cryptic words immediately sets off a shift in Maddox. The invisible cowl of anger he seems to know so well drapes across his broad shoulders, weighing him down with heavy tension.

“Don’t.” Fists clenched, and with his jaw tight, his handsome face contorts in a mask cruel enough to commit murder. Maddox looks ready to kill his brother.

With another long and heavy sigh, Noah says, “Look at you, he’s been dead all these years and he’s still controlling you. You’re
letting
him control you, Maddox.”

“Shut up.”

“If you keep holding on to what happened…”

There’s an incredible roar. “Shut the fuck up!” And then Maddox hurls forward, smashing his fist into Noah’s face.

It happens too fast. But the end result is still devastating. With Noah splayed out on the ground with a bleeding nose and bruised jaw, Maddox hovers over him like an ominous force ready to pummel his brother into the overly-waxed floors.

Noah slowly wipes at his nose. “If even an ounce of you cares about her at all, you’re going to have to get rid of that anger. Because you’re only going to hurt her…just like he hurt Mom. Don’t turn into him.” That last words sound like the lowest blow, and sure enough, it has the desired effect.

Maddox reels like he’s been struck, his expression going from complete desolation to utter horror before reining it all in. The only indication of how badly he’s affected by his brother’s words is him nearly stumbling twice as he takes steps back.

“Fuck you, Noah.” He turns and walks away, and I don’t waver for a second in taking off after him.

It’s only Noah’s call that stops me mid-run, “He’s…he’s got a lot of broken pieces, Aylee. Maybe too many to put back together. Just be careful. He might cut.”

Without much thought, I answer back, “I hope he does.” And I hope it’s deep enough to scar. I want him so deep mending the wound will be impossible. He’ll bring the shards and I’ll provide the flesh, and we’ll bleed the stains slicking our souls.

***

I find him raging in the stairwell between the first and second floor. He’s striking the gray brick concrete wall with everything he has. There’s a wet, cracking noise that sounds awful to the ears. He doesn’t seem to care as he throws his entire body behind every bare-knuckle punch, stripping flesh and smearing blood all over the wall in front of him. His punches are brutal and relentless. Mindlessly he keeps at it, falling further into the trance of self-mutilation, grappling with demons that blind him to everything but how good it feels to hurt himself. I don’t know his turmoil, but I understand his agony.

I’m aware of the risk I take. Of the danger I put myself in when I edge toward him. I shouldn’t be putting myself in the way like this, but the thought of doing nothing, the idea of watching him hurt so much is so unbearable it’s like a vise tightening around my chest. My airway momentarily constricts, clogging my throat, my pulse galloping at warp speed beneath my skin but all there is for me is Maddox. I take a deep breath and wait to find the precise moment before wrapping my arms around his middle and setting the side of my face against his rigid back. He doesn’t let me hold him for long. He doesn’t take any comfort from me. He stiffens. And then he reacts. He grabs my forearm, drags me around his body, and slams me up against the blood-smeared wall. It all seems like one move, done so swiftly that I barely have time to gasp. He shoves his knee between my legs, pushes it so far up I’m forced to straddle his muscular thigh.

I’m afraid to look at him, but he takes what little choice I have away when he sweeps a hand behind the curtain of my hair and his fingers curl at the nape of my neck. The slightest bit of pressure from those fingers has me instantly meeting his rapier gaze. He looks rabid. So menacing that a rightful dose of fear plunges down my spine.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

That savage growl is all the warning he gives me before he lowers his head to kiss my mouth. But it’s so much more than just a kiss. It’s punishing and rough and urgent and imbued with blazing fury. He grabs my face, desperately holds my head with grip-like fingers, and spills every last bit of his rampant emotions into me. I taste how raw he’s feeling in that instant. I taste Maddox, dark, hungry, and primal. It’s a flavor potent enough to start an addiction.

I revel.

I float.

I breathe as he breathes.

He’s the wind and I’m the tree, bending and swaying to his all-encompassing force.

Lightheaded and overcome with need, I can only mewl and whimper at the hot and slick carnality of his kiss.

“I knew it,” he pants harshly against my wet, swollen mouth, his voice raspy yet strong, his thumb playing at the corner of my lips. Slowly sliding it back and forth across my bottom lip. “Fuck. I fucking knew if I ever kissed you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.” He grasps my jaw, digs his fingers in my skin so my mouth forms an O. “I can’t fucking stop kissing you.” He takes possession of my mouth again, and it’s wet bliss. His firm but supple tongue tangles in hot, languid strokes against mine, his teeth nipping at my lower lip before he dips back inside my mouth to take his fill.

I know I’m no good at it, because Maddox Moore is my first real kiss. But I follow his lead, tentatively touching my tongue to his, doing what feels right. What feels good. When I make to wrap my arms around his neck, he jumps away from me like I’ve torched him. He stands at a short distance with flaring nostrils and a heaving chest. He looks like he just ran a marathon, and the way he’s standing now seems like he’s ready to go again.

We stand for a long time like this. Just staring at each other, our labored breaths echoing in the stairwell.

“Look…”

“We should fix your hands,” I interrupt. I’m almost too sure of what he’s going to say. I can read it across the features he’s trying to get under control. He wants to push me away. Sever this thin thread of a connection we’ve made. He wants to retreat because I’m seeing him at a weak point. I’m seeing him vulnerable and I can safely assume that vulnerability for Maddox Moore is simply out of the question. Making yourself vulnerable to someone is like giving them the weapon, and showing them exactly where and how they can hurt you. But hurting Maddox is the last thing I’d ever want to do. And even then, even if it came down to causing him pain, I’d hurt myself infinite times before I ever hurt him.

“Aylee…”

Ignoring him, I head downstairs. “Mr. Kauffman keeps a first aid kit in the pottery area in the back of the art room.”

I have déjà vu when I look up at him from the bottom of the staircase. We’ve done this scene before. Only he was the caretaker. The night after Tim hit me. Maddox had followed and cornered me in a stairwell just on the opposite side of school. He was there for me. Getting so angry on my behalf and yet somehow understanding that I needed his comfort more than anything else. Now the roles are reverse and I have the chance to comfort him.

“I can’t do this with you.” All he wants to do is run.

Heading back upstairs, I stand on the first step just in front of him. “All I want from you right now is just to paint you. You told me you’d help me, and I want you to keep your word.” I need more time.

He glowers and I can see how badly he wants to say his two favorite words. “You’re not allowed to tell me to fuck off,” I say, quietly, further inciting his annoyance. He pins me with narrowed eyes for a long time. And I actually feel the prickly tingle of nervousness across my skin.

“You’re a goddamn brat,” he grouses before moving past me and trudges down the stairs. I follow behind him at a more sedate pace, and the widening smile on my face is something I can’t help.

***

In the art room a little while later, he sits on the dais in the middle of the room, which is where Mr. Kauffman typically puts the subject matter of that particular class. I’m on my knees between his parted legs wrapping the white gauze around his scraped, raw knuckles. So far he hasn’t protested much to me doing this. Letting me lead him to the sink and remaining relatively quiet while I washed the blood from his hands. Then I’d fetched the first aid kit Mr. Kauffman kept in the pottery area and returned with the necessary supplies. Hissing and flinching only the slightest bit when I cleaned his wounds with rubbing alcohol, he allowed me to rub some ointment on each hand before wrapping them up in gauze.

I finish wrapping the last knuckle. “You shouldn’t be doing this.” That’s the first thing he’s said to me since the stairwell. His voice sounds hoarse, gruff like he’s been screaming.

I lick my lips and shrug one shoulder. I can still feel his lips on mine. “It’s not a big deal,” I reply, putting the supplies away before coming to my feet. “If you give me a minute, I’ll set up and we can get started.”

Moving around with intent, I unfold my tripod, prepare a canvas, and set it up on the easel. Going in and out of my designated cubby to gather my brushes, I head over to the communal island countertop where all the paints are kept. I grab what I need, mostly the acrylic paints, and return to my canvas. He has his phone in front of him, the overgrown fringe of his dark hair falling sexily across his vision. I want to go over there and brush it back. But I don’t. I do nothing except take a seat on the stool behind me while I silently watch him text. Is it a girl? Or is it work? Those two questions go round and round in my head like a carousel in an abandoned theme park. I can feel myself begin to obsess so I’m grateful when a spark of inspiration blazes through me compelling me to outline, to sketch, to do what comes too naturally to me.

He gets up a little bit later and swaggers my way, and I have to blink a few times to snap myself out of my spell of inspiration.

“I gotta go.” When he’s close enough, he reaches out to grab a lock of my hair. Like before, he plays with it like it’s something intriguing enough to keep his attention. “I should go,” he says, a little more firmly, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince him or me. Looking up, I find startlingly-clear and emotional eyes stare right through me. And then he lowers his head down, his hand now cradling the curve of my cheek. “Tell me to go.” There’s a strain in his voice now; choked desperation. “Damn it, Aylee, tell me to leave you alone.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “But I don’t want you to leave me alone.”

Like the weight of his emotions is too much, he rests his forehead against mine and closes his eyes. “I’m no damn good for you,” he murmurs, and sighs deeply. “There’s nothing here for you but pain. You get close to me and I’m going to end up hurting you.”