Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Eighteen Banks

Chapter Eighteen

Banks

With only two weeks until a much-needed spring break, I was balls-to-the-wall busy with midterm assignments. Including my capstones project that got one round of edits already from Professor Laramie and had a second one in the works thanks to a few structural integrities he questioned during the initial project proposal. I’d been dreading having the conversation with my father about it because he kept pressing me on the feedback I was given each time I saw him. I could only use so many excuses before I had to tell him that it’s still not approved.

The drive from my apartment to my childhood home should have been the first indication that tonight wasn’t going to go well. Because the projected sunshine on the forecast turned into a pitch-gray sky and showers that made visibility shit as I pulled my truck up to the curb.

“Paxton,” my father greets from where he’s sitting at the kitchen table with three empty beer bottles to his right and a fresh one in his hand.

It’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, but I guess it’s five o’clock somewhere. “Dad.”

“Glad you actually showed up this time,” he states, voice gruff with disapproval as he studies my rain-soaked clothes. “You should change. You’re getting water everywhere.”

The first time I ditched our lunch plans was when I found Sawyer wandering the neighborhood aimlessly. I could have left her alone. Hell, I probably should have. Because it led to a blowout fight on the phone with the man currently across from me about how I didn’t know how to be a “respectable man who honored plans.” It didn’t matter that I was making sure nothing happened to somebody who didn’t know their way around; I couldn’t get a word in edgewise to explain. He used some colorful choice language that people down the street could hear from my cell phone, while I sat in my apartment hoping that nobody was in the building to listen to me getting reamed out for being a decent human being.

I go to the fridge for a bottle of water and frown when I see how empty it is. “When was the last time you went grocery shopping?”

“I eat,” he grumbles, the glass bottle sliding from the table before he downs half of it.

I can see that based on the garbage full of take-out containers. Some of them have flies circling them, and there’s a horrible smell coming from the bin. When was the last time he took it out? Growing up, we used to eat a lot of home-cooked meals. It wasn’t only Mom who spent time in the kitchen—Dad was a good cook too. He had the best scallops and could make a mean steak, which he usually paired for a surf-and-turf night every Saturday.

I don’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal with this man. I’m not even sure he could tell me the last time we sat down and ate something that wasn’t delivered.

Going to the cupboard and grabbing a glass to fill with tap water, I take the seat across from him. The seconds go by, and nothing is said. He sips his beer; I trace the design on my cup.

I can hear the tick, tick, tick from the grandfather clock in the living room. He knows what he’s doing. I’ve always hated sitting in silence. When I was a kid, they did this to me as punishment until I broke.

Sighing, I take a sip of my water and set the glass down. “I told you I was sorry.”

“Which time?” he presses, an unimpressed look flattening his hard, wrinkled features. When did he start looking so…old? “The first time you bailed on me for something you thought was more important or the second time?”

Fuck. “Something came up,” I murmur, eyes staying solely on the glass my fingers are tightly wrapped around.

“I raised you not to mumble under your breath and to look me in the eye when I’m talking to you, boy.” Instantly, my gaze shifts to him. I know that tone. I’ve been afraid of it for half my life. Mom was too at one point, which is why she was smart enough to leave.

Why the hell did I choose to stay?

The answer is right in front of me.

The empty fridge.

All the scattered beer bottles.

The garbage full of takeout.

I’m using his last clean cup because all the others are piled in the sink.

Without me, this man wouldn’t have survived on his own.

I knew it at ten when the judge asked me who I wanted to stay with, and I know it at twenty-two.

Too bad the man finishing his beer doesn’t see it that way. “You want to explain to me why I had people on campus asking me what happened to my son? That you were showing up to classes looking like you’d gotten into a fight?”

I shouldn’t be surprised he found out. LSU isn’t that big, especially when your father is a professor there. “It wasn’t a fight.”

“You trying to tell me that it had nothing to do with why Dawson had his hand bandaged?” he doubts with raised brows. “I’m not stupid. I know boys fight, but you need to be smarter than that.”

“I never said you were stupid,” I grind out. At least Dawson is showing up to class again. I’ll take that as a win even if it means dealing with this conversation. “We had a miscommunication about…something. Things got out of hand. It’s over now.”

Dad leans back, his dark eyes so cold it sends shivers down my spine. “I have a reputation to protect at the school.”

That’s what this is about? I guess the day my father is worried about my well-being is the day hell freezes over. Screw the black eye or the possibility that something seriously bad happened. He couldn’t care less. “I’d hate for any of them to think you laid a hand on me,” I reply tartly, standing to leave. “Because you’d never do that. Right, Dad?”

“Sit. Down,” he growls.

I don’t.

No matter how much that voice scares me.

Tossing my arms out, I ask, “What are you going to do? Hit me?”

His nostrils flare, and his hand tightens so tightly around his beer bottle that I think it might break.

I get the hell out of there before he can do anything, slamming the front door behind me and walking right back into the downpour.

* * *

I’m not sure why I’m knocking on the door across the hall, but it’s the first place I go after leaving my father’s house. Not to the gardens. Not to Dawson’s downstairs. Here.

When the door opens, my eyes instantly take in the long hair flowing down Sawyer’s shoulders that hides her perky chest in the tight tee she’s wearing. My eyes drop to the shorts she’s in, internally groaning at her exposed legs. They’re the same pair she was wearing the first night I saw her, and “cute” doesn’t quite describe the way I feel about those stupid cartoon birds plastered across the fabric.

“Birdie,” I greet, forcing my gaze back to her face to see her cheeks stained pink. “Bad time?”

Sawyer shifts, one of her bare feet covering the other as she tugs on the hem of her shorts. “I was doing the assignment for Grey’s class.”

Her toes are painted pink, almost the same shade as her face when I called her that nickname. I like it. Never really liked nail polish before, but on her it’s different.

“Have you started it?” she asks.

My eyes are still on her nails. “What?”

Her feet move again. “The assignment.”

I finally look at her, unashamed to be caught staring. “No.”

“It’s due in three days,” she says dubiously.

I grin. “Good. Then I have three days to do it. Can I come in?”

Her eyes go behind her, nibbling her lip. “It’s a little messy.”

What part of my life isn’t? “I’m okay with messy.”

It takes her a few moments before she steps aside and lets me in. I take note of the way she plays with her hair, which she’s done before when she was nervous. She walks into the back bedroom and comes out a few seconds later, putting a sweatshirt on.

I point toward the take-out containers littering her kitchen counters. Lips twitching, I pick one of them up and examine the rice inside. “There’s enough food here to feed an army.”

Setting down one container and picking up another, I sniff whatever sweet-and-sour mixture is inside. Chicken, maybe?

“More like the Navy,” she corrects, resting her hip against the counter.

“Your father was here?”

She nods, coming over and starting to get rid of some of the boxes. “He wanted to check in on me since I haven’t been keeping up with my mom’s calls lately. I’m trying to convince my mom to spend my spring break here—that way, the family can be together again—but she’s not sure because our spring break doesn’t match the week that Bentley’s is.”

I notice how empty her fridge is when she opens it to put the leftovers away. It reminds me too much of the house I just left. “You don’t cook, do you?”

Sawyer pauses, her top two teeth digging into her bottom lip when she looks over her shoulder at me. “Not really. We’re college kids. Isn’t that normal? I doubt you cook every meal from scratch.”

On the contrary. “I’m a good cook.”

She closes the refrigerator with an eyebrow up. “You don’t get any delivery?” The doubt in her voice is understandable.

I’ve eaten my fair share of takeout, and I bring her beignets and coffee once a week on my way back from the Botanic Gardens where I work on my sketches for school. I don’t have to, but I like the look on her face when she opens the door and sees the weekly deliveries waiting for her. It’s almost as rewarding as when I put a Pop-Tart on her desk every Wednesday before class starts.

She tries sharing it with me, but I never accept. Instead, I doodle in my notebook while she watches me and eats the snack.

I do a quick scan inside her kitchen cabinets and fridge to see what I’m working with before closing everything. “I’ll be back in five,” I call out, walking to the door.

“Where are you—”

“Trust me, Birdie. You’ll like this.”

Eight minutes later, I’m standing in the kitchen with a cast-iron skillet, store-made pizza dough, sauce, and various toppings.

Sawyer stares at me while I get comfortable in her kitchen. “Are you making pizza?”

Smirking as I butter the bottom of the pan before putting the dough in, I point toward the onion. “Want to chop that for me?”

Her eyes widen. “With, like, a knife?”

I snort. “I doubt a spoon will do it.”

She looks comically worried. Has she never helped her parents in the kitchen before? I gave my mom a hand until the day she packed her bags.

Walking over to the onion, she stares at it before asking, “Why are you here, Banks?”

After I’m done pressing the dough into the pan, I grab the sauce. “I don’t have anywhere else I’d rather be.”

The admission has her staring at the profile of my face. From the corner of my eye, I see her rubbing her lips together as she studies me carefully. “I’m not sure if that’s sad or flattering.”

I pause in spreading the sauce. “Why would that be sad?”

She shrugs. “Because you should have plenty of places to go.”

Half my lips curl up. “I said I’d rather be here because I want to be. Not because I have no other choice. There’s a difference.”

Sawyer starts playing with her hair again. “Why do I feel like you’re hiding something?”

Maybe I’m not as great at masking my feelings as I thought I was. My mood suffers after leaving my dad’s, and it never just goes away, as much as I wish it did. “Don’t we all have secrets we like keeping under lock and key?” I tip my chin toward her bedroom. “I’m sure even you’ve got a few skeletons in your closet, Birdie.”

Her eyes go to the back room before returning to the onion to evade the conversation. “So how do you want me to cut this?”

The way she drops it so easily makes me wonder how many secrets she’s keeping, especially when I see the telltale sign of color creeping into her face.

What are you hiding, Birdie?

“Here,” I offer when I see her holding the knife in a dangerous way. “I’ve watched enough Food Network to know that won’t end well.”

She doesn’t object when I step behind her and position her hands exactly where they need to be so they’re away from the blade. I help her chop the way I’ve seen it done before, taking my time.

I could let go. Let her do it herself.

But I don’t.

I hear her shudder a breath.

My lips graze her ear. “You okay?”

A shiver racks down her spine, moving her against my front and waking up a very specific part of me. She freezes, and I wonder if she can feel it. And just when I’m about to move back and apologize, she uses her ass to put more pressure on the hardening length growing.

Groaning, I murmur a pained “Sawyer…”

I realize I’m white-knuckling her hand as we hold onto the knife handle, so I let go and take a deep breath to try calming the roaring fire building under my skin.

It hasn’t been that long since I’ve sunk between a pretty pair of thighs, but my dick is acting like it’s been years.

Slowly, Sawyer manages to turn in my arms until the bulge trapped behind thick denim is pressed against her front.

“Why do you prefer casual hookups?” she asks, her hands moving to my face and tracing the bruise that’s slowly fading on my cheek.

I hate that her touch makes goose bumps rise on my arms, but it does. “It’s easier,” I answer, staring down at her. We have an entire apartment, but the space between us makes it feel like the walls are closing us in.

Her warm breath caresses my chin as she releases it, her fingertips dancing along my cheek and then down to my jawline. “Easier to handle or easier to end it?”

I swallow at the question. “Both.”

For a moment, she only watches me. There’s something in her eyes that clouds them, and I wonder if I should have lied. But it’s better to be honest. I haven’t had a serious relationship in…ever, really. Not unless you count high school. And how serious can teenage relationships be when you don’t know shit about life or love?

The last thing I expect her to whisper is “Good” before lifting to close the distance between us and pressing her lips against mine.

They’re firm and sure and confident, taking me by surprise. I pull back only a fraction, breaking the kiss to look at her. “What are you doing, Birdie?”

She only hesitates a moment, her skin feeling welcoming and warm when I put my hand on the small of her waist. “I think casual would be…good.”

Fuck me. I can’t be hearing this right. “You don’t mean that.”

She frowns. “Why not?”

“Because you deserve…” I shake my head, trying to explain this the best way I can, combing my fingers through some of her loose hair and moving it out of her face. “You deserve the kind of guy who’s going to give you the world. A future.”

Sawyer looks down, her hands trailing over my front before her fingers curl into the cotton of my shirt. “Not everybody wants that kind of future. Maybe I want…”

I wait for her to finish. “What?”

She lets out a sober breath. “Easy.”

Closing my eyes, I soak that in.

Sawyer wants casual.

With me.

“What are you doing to me?” I all but groan. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about this sort of thing. If an attractive girl wants to have sex, I’m almost always down. But this isn’t some random chick I met at a party or at the store.

It’s Sawyer.

My neighbor.

My classmate.

“I told Dawson that it wasn’t going to work,” she says.

“You what?”

“I didn’t want to lead him on,” she explains, lashes fluttering. “It wasn’t fair to him.”

She turned him down.

For me.

My dick is still painfully hard from the simplest of touches, telling me not to shut this down. It’s not the only organ that’s begging me to go through with this either, which makes it a hell of a lot more dangerous.

Hesitantly, she puts her hands on my chest, her thumbs rubbing the skin above my pecs rhythmically.

The movements stop. “If you’re not interested—”

I cut her off before she can say something stupid. “Trust me. I’m interested.” I’m half tempted to press her body against me again so she can feel the truth behind the statement. “That’s not why I’m hesitating.”

“Then why?”

I continue. “Well, the biggest reason is the person who did this to me.” I point at my face, watching her eyes drift back to the gnarly bruise. “He’s my friend.”

“I’m not interested in Dawson.”

That doesn’t change the fact he’s called me out for going after the same girls as him in the past. Even if Sawyer told him to move on, that doesn’t mean he will. He’ll retaliate. Use this as an excuse to dive deeper into the hole that he’s gotten himself into. “I’ve hurt him once before.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. Then, “What was her name?”

I don’t bother asking how she knows it’s a she we’re talking about. “Desiree. It was a mistake I regret to this day. But we were younger and dumber. I didn’t love her.”

She doesn’t comment.

“After last time,” I conclude, “this would seem like I’m doing it on purpose. The guy has his issues. I don’t want to contribute to them.”

I think she’ll understand, maybe back off, make it so I don’t have to choose, when she does the opposite. She makes it harder. Both the temptation and other things. “Casual doesn’t have to mean anything. We can still be friends. Neighbors. Peers. We don’t have to tell anybody.”

She wants whatever this is to be a secret. I think she’s underestimating how well people catch on to things.

“Why do you want this, Birdie?” I finally ask, not understanding. “Why not more?”

More than me.

More than something disposable.

I’m not a bad guy, but my track record with women is pathetic. I’ll be the first to admit it. My daddy issues are the biggest reason why. The closer people get, the closer they are to seeing a part of my life that I barely let myself accept. I don’t want them to get to know me—know the truth. It’s my problem to bear, not theirs.

“Not everybody believes in happily ever after, Banks” is her quiet, thoughtful response. “Some people are realists.”

All I can do is stare. I know my reasons for not wanting to get too close, but what are hers?

As if she can sense my curiosity, she subtly shakes her head. It’s only fair that I keep out of her business the way she isn’t pushing into mine. No matter how badly I want to.

“So?” she says instead, her hands moving down, down, down and stopping at the waistband of my pants. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

My mind tells me again to turn her down.

For Dawson.

For her.

But that’s not what I say.

In fact, I don’t say anything. Not right away.

I pick her up and set her on the edge of the counter, careful not to hit the abandoned cutting board full of onions. Pushing them back, I step between her legs and curl my fingers around the nape of her neck.

Hovering my lips over hers, I let them barely graze as I murmur, “Are you sure you want this?”

Her hands find my sides, her fingertips burrowing into my skin just above the elastic of my jeans. She doesn’t say anything, only nods.

That’s when I get my first real taste of her.

I don’t count the last kiss. Or the one in the truck. I never had the opportunity to really savor those moments because I forced myself to back off—to hold back.

Not this time.

This time, she’s asking for it.

And I’m not about to say no.

This kiss is hardly friendly, and maybe later I’ll worry that I was too rough, but it’s exactly what I need after this shitty day. Soon, her mouth is helping me release all the pent-up frustration that tensed my shoulders, and the little drowned-out moans that I swallow are the beginning of my undoing.

As much as I want to take this further—and damn, do I want to get her out of these shorts—I know now isn’t the time.

I don’t know how long we kiss for before I break it, grinning at how swollen her lips are from all the nipping, biting, and sucking that I just did to them. Satisfaction soaks into me, mixed with a small amount of disappointment when I mentally will my boner to go down.

“We should stop,” I tell her, squeezing her hips and staring down at all the creamy skin exposed to me.

She lets out a shaky breath, touching her lips. She’s flushed, her eyes glazed with lust like I imagine mine are too. “We don’t have to.”

I chuckle, taking a step back to put distance between us when her hands wander. “I want to do this,” I tell her. “But not today. Not like this. I’m… It’s been a long day.”

She frowns, concern quickly washing away the sated expression that was there. “I’m sorry if I—”

“No. Don’t. Believe me when I say I’m not sorry at all. In fact, I know exactly what I want to do to you when I’m in a better headspace. That’s just not today.”

Sawyer gapes at me, and I’m a little disappointed she isn’t asking for details. Because I’d happily tell her about what other parts of her I’d like to taste, if only once.

I stroll toward her and press a single kiss against the underside of her jaw. In a teasing tone, I say, “Try not to fall in love with me along the way, Birdie. I’d hate to break your heart.”

Her body locks up for a brief second before she uses her hands trapped between us to grip the front of my shirt. “Funny. I was going to say the same to you.”

I stare at her when I hear how off her tone is, noticing the fresh glaze in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

She pushes me away just far enough to slide off the counter, turning to give me her back as she swipes at her eyes. Then I hear, “I’m fine.” Her voice breaks as she grabs the knife. “It’s the onions.”