Chapter Twenty-One Sawyer
Chapter Twenty-One
Sawyer
I wake up in a ball of sweat, groaning in confusion as I sit up on my elbows and let my eyes adjust to the pitch-dark room. Everything hurts—from the tightness in my neck down to the pinpricks of pain settled into my feet. Wiggling my toes, I rub the side of my neck and feel the inflammation nestled just below my jaw.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and swallow past the emotion trying to rise from my chest. On nights like this, when sleep evades me and I don’t feel well, I miss home. I miss my mother and my brother and my dad. I miss being around people who understand the reason I am the way I am.
Picking up my phone, I don’t think about the time before hitting a favorited number in my contacts.
Bentley picks up after two rings. “Are you okay?”
He sounds wide awake at… damn. Almost two in the morning. “Were you gaming?”
I can hear something in the background before he mutters a quiet, “Maybe.”
Smiling to myself, I curl into the blankets. “I know Mom isn’t going to be happy if you fight her when she tries getting you up for church tomorrow.”
“I’m about to go to bed.”
Somehow, I doubt that.
“Are you… How are you feeling?” he asks, worry in his tone. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to call him. I don’t want him to concern himself over me.
“I miss you,” I start, nuzzling my cheek into the warm pillow, choosing not to tell him about yesterday’s incident. If Mom finds out that we talked, she’ll berate him until he admits what I’ve said. It’s better they don’t know about the days I struggle. “But I’m okay. I got to see a Mardi Gras parade, and I didn’t even need to show anybody my boobs.”
My little brother gags, which is exactly the response I hoped I’d get. “I’m sure Dad will be happy to hear that.”
I giggle. “How’s skiing going? Mom hasn’t said anything about you wiping out yet.”
The thirteen-year-old groans. “I’m terrible. I don’t know why I signed up. I can’t even get off the bunny slope.”
It’s hard to refrain from laughing. Would I be any better? I’m not so sure. “Why did you join?”
For a long moment, he’s quiet. I hear rustling and then a door closing before he says, “I think Mom and Dad worry about me.”
The answer makes me frown. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I don’t have any friends,” he murmurs, causing my frown to deepen. “I don’t think they minded as much when you were around because we’d go out together. But since you left…”
Closing my eyes, I stifle a sigh. “I’m sure they’re not worried the way you think. They just want you to be happy. Why else would they have let me come all the way down here?”
Bentley doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, my stomach dips. “It’s not the same for us, and you know it. They feel bad because of what you went through. They know that you…” He doesn’t finish his train of thought, but I have a feeling I know where it’s going.
“For the record, I never wanted their sympathy.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want yours either,” I add. I’ve always preferred it when he gave me crap. It made me feel normal to banter with somebody who wasn’t afraid to dish it back.
Maybe that’s why I like Banks so much.
Bentley doesn’t say anything right away. “I guess that’s good because it’d probably kill me to be nice to you.”
My grin returns. “Try not to eat shit during your next ski trip. It’d suck if you fell and made yourself uglier.”
He snorts. “Then I’d look more like you.”
“Goodnight, dweeb.”
“Goodnight, loser.”
When we hang up, I feel lighter.
As I plug my phone back into the charger, I stare up at the ceiling. The last thing I remember is Banks driving us to the apartment building and walking all of us in. Dixie followed me to my apartment while the boys stayed downstairs and murmured in quiet conversation among themselves. I’d fallen asleep watching reality TV with Dixie only hours after getting back.
I don’t remember getting into bed.
A soft knock on the door has me sitting up in bed. Banks pokes his head in, stepping inside once he sees me awake. “I was hoping you’d still be sleeping, but I heard you talking.”
He pushes his glasses up and leans his shoulder against the doorjamb. At some point after he was done talking to Dawson, he must have changed and came to check on me while Dixie was still here because he’s in sweatpants that hug his lean legs and a T-shirt that showcases his broad shoulders instead of his usual jeans-and-flannel combo that hides his body.
When I realize I’m staring, I force my eyes away. “I was talking to my brother.” A pause. “Did you put me in bed?”
“You didn’t look comfortable on the couch,” he explains, pushing off the wall before walking in. He tips his chin toward my bed. “Do you mind?”
I shake my head, pulling my knees up to my chest and hugging them. Banks sits down on the edge of the mattress, making sure he gives me space.
“I hope you don’t mind that I came in,” he says. “Dixie was leaving since you fell asleep, and I figured I’d hang out to make sure you were okay.”
“It’s fine. Did you talk to Dawson?” I ask.
Banks leans his elbows on his knees, rolling his neck. “Tried to. He wasn’t very receptive. I let him take Dixie home because he seemed okay enough and I think she wanted to talk to him.”
Nibbling my lip, I make a mental note to check on her in the morning since we didn’t talk much when I invited her in. She said she needed to use the bathroom before she went back to the dorms, and by the time she came out, I’d already fallen asleep on the couch from the fatigue that took over from the day. I appreciated her help today, even though I can sense things are still a little tense between us.
“That backpack had something bad in it, didn’t it?” I guess. My memories were a little fuzzy after waking up in Banks’s lap. One second I was fine, and the next, everything around me was spinning. My ears were ringing, my body overheating as I reached out to Dixie and started going down.
Not one of my finer moments.
I remember the tension on the ride back though. You could have cut it with a knife. Dixie tried to relieve it with friendly conversation, but it didn’t seem to last long.
“Yes,” he admits, scratching the column of his neck. “And if it really was stolen, then Dawson is in some serious shit.”
That doesn’t sound good at all. “Should we do something?”
“I’ve tried helping him. He doesn’t want it.”
We’re quiet for a tense second or two. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “For earlier.”
His brows pinch. “You don’t have to apologize. Or be embarrassed, for that matter. A lot of people are afraid of hospitals.”
My lips part to respond, but I find myself stopping. It’s kind of funny because I should be terrified of them. But oddly enough, so many good memories happened in them. The nurses in the oncology unit do everything in their power to make patients comfortable. On my seventeenth birthday, they threw me a little party. On my eighteenth, they collected money to give me as a present because I talked about getting my license and buying my own car, which inevitably never happened. I was in remission on my nineteenth birthday. Out of remission by my twentieth. And during the battle, I built a lot of beautiful friendships and lost some of those same friends to ugly, ugly illness.
“It’s not like that,” I say quietly, squeezing my arms around my bent knees. The motion hurts my biceps, which ache from a soreness that I know won’t be going away anytime soon. “There are a lot of things to be afraid of in life. Hospitals are full of the type of people who help take away that fear.”
I can feel Banks’s eyes on me, but I won’t meet them. “You said you’ve been around a lot of sick people. Is there someone in your family who was ill?”
Tell him, my conscience pushes.
Do it.
The words are right there on the tip of my tongue, but I find myself swallowing them. Despite the pain, I squeeze my arms tighter around myself. It grounds me. Reminds me how far I’ve come despite the odds.
“I know a few people who have struggled with a lot in their lives, and their strength is admirable to me.” Wetting my dry lips, I finally meet his eyes. “I really hope Dawson gets better. Life is too short to be battling with yourself when you should be living.”
Banks doesn’t call me out for switching the conversation back to his friend. “Well said, Birdie.”
Flattening out my legs, I readjust the blanket on my lap and glance at the time again. “It’s late. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I feel bad that you stuck around this long.”
He shakes his head, his hand going to my shin and squeezing it once. “I didn’t mind. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I stare at his hand, watching his thumb lazily rub the inside of my calf. Does he know he’s doing that? “You…” I pause, biting the inside of my cheek. “You can stay if you want. Like you said, the couch isn’t very comfortable, but…”
His brows rise. “Are you asking me to spend the night?”
Is he really going to make me say it? “Only if you want. There’s plenty of room in the bed.” To prove my point, I scooch over and pat the empty spot next to me.
I’m not sure if he’ll do it or if I’m crossing some sort of line. Just when I think he’s interested, he pulls back. I have a feeling the reason is a six-foot-six boy who he’s worried about, and I can respect that, even if I’m a little disappointed.
It feels like forever before he finally moves, standing and kicking off his shoes before reaching for his shirt. “I can’t sleep with this on,” he warns, pulling the hem up just enough for me to see a sliver of muscled skin beneath.
“O-Okay.”
My nervous stutter has a small grin curling his lips as he peels his shirt off in one fluid movement and drops it somewhere on the floor. I watch as he moves the comforter back before crawling into bed beside me.
I’m not sure what he’ll say or do, but nerves bubble in the pit of my stomach from how close we are. As he settles in, he extends his arm out and coaxes me to lie down. I only hesitate for a moment before lying on my side and curling into him, using his chest as a pillow. I shiver when he hooks his arm around me, hugging me into him and releasing a content sigh.
Goose bumps pebble my arms as I feel his fingers brush through my hair, and all I can do is pray that the wig stays in place. Too tired to worry about it and too comfortable to move, I let myself relax into his hold.
And for a moment, I think…this is it.
Happiness.
I remember what my mom told me once—that one day I’d find somebody who would make life worth living.
I just hope that I don’t hurt him pretending like that’s possible.
* * *
I wake up with one leg draped over a warm, hard body and the other outstretched along the mattress, a new kind of ache coiled tight in the pit of my stomach. When I start coming to, I realize the reason is Banks’s leg nestled between my thighs and pressing against the warmest part of me.
I don’t mean to move, but the unintentional fidgeting only deepens the desire spreading through my body as I press myself harder against him and get the kind of friction that ignites prickles of heat up my spine.
Glancing up at the boy I’m practically lying on, I see that he’s still sleeping soundly. One of my arms is somehow trapped underneath him so I’m unable to move away, and every time I try to, it only makes the ache between my legs that much more intense.
And then it happens.
After another failed attempt to get away, a low moan escapes my lips when his leg presses against me and puts pressure on the nerves that jump-start my heart.
Suddenly, two muddy-brown eyes are looking down at me.
“That’s a dangerous sound,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and something else. Using my free hand, I try pushing myself up, only to accidentally graze my palm along his tented sweatpants, quickly realizing that he’s feeling the same exact way I am.
Except his groan is pained.
And the sound sparks something inside me that leaves my hand lingering, brushing the length of him and feeling him twitch.
He makes another noise, this one low in his chest—not quite a growl but close.
“Sawyer,” he warns, eyes clouded.
Experimentally, I move my hips along his thigh to create friction that releases some of the tension coiling tight in my stomach.
One of Banks’s hands moves up my back, linking with the ends of my hair and tightening around the strands as I grind against him again, moving my palm over the bulge in his pants. His jaw tightens, head rolling back on the pillow until I see the tendons in his neck.
Seeing his reaction to me makes me feel victorious, but it also makes me feel a lot more than that. And the need coursing through my body is hard to ignore the longer I move my hips against him.
“You asked me what was on my list,” I whisper, lust encasing us. When his knee moves, I gasp out, “This. This is part of it.”
“This?” he repeats, dipping down until his nose tickles my jaw. “What exactly do you want me to help you cross off, Birdie? I may need details so we can do it right.”
Oh God. My body is on fire right now, nipples pebbling from his teasing words. “I want…”
His lips press against my neck. “What do you want?”
Breath shuddering, I swallow hard. “To feel good. I want to feel good. To have fun.”
You, I don’t say. I want you.
But I don’t say that because I don’t want to scare him the way I’m scaring myself for how much I actually like him.
So I say one word. “Please?”
I don’t even know what I’m begging for.
Relief, mostly.
But Banks doesn’t need me to clarify.
Somehow, he moves me up his body so he can get a better grip on my butt, getting a handful and helping me use him to get off. I can feel it, the tingling sensation at the bottom of my spine. It’s so close yet so far away.
I chase the feeling until Banks moves so quickly that it steals my breath. Then I’m on my back with him hovering over me, using one arm to prop himself up while the other slowly trails down the side of my body, getting closer and closer to the place I want him most.
I’m incapable of putting together a coherent sentence, but I’d like to think my eyes say plenty. His hand stops at the waistband of the leggings I changed into yesterday, the knuckle of his index finger running back and forth in such a featherlight touch that it drives me insane.
“Please,” I whisper again, hoping that’ll be all he needs to make the next move.
He leans down, his lips barely grazing mine before his fingers move inside the elastic of my pants. My hips arch when I feel him graze me, his breath heavy on my lips when he realizes I’m not wearing any panties.
His teeth nip my bottom lip, tugging the same moment his knuckles press against my clit. It invokes a sound that I’ve never heard myself make before, and I feel him grow in his pants as he moves against me.
Deep down, maybe for the first time ever, I feel sexy. Desired. Confident. Because I made him feel that way.
He releases my lip, his mouth moving along my jawline before dipping into the crevice of my neck. “You don’t have to beg,” he says against me, peppering kisses along the column of my throat. “You never have to beg.”
Then I feel him gently coaxing me into opening my legs further as he teases me in all the right places. The next moment, I feel one of his fingers sliding inside me.
I let out a shaky breath, my thighs falling open as he works me with skilled hands. Not knowing what to do with my own, I grip his shoulders and soak up the sensations he’s pulling from me.
“I can tell how good this feels for you,” he says against me, his teeth nipping the sensitive spot of skin above my pulse. “How badly you wanted this. Were you thinking about this since the night we kissed?”
Oh God. If he expects an answer, he’s not going to get one. Not a coherent one anyway.
“That’s it,” he praises when he feels me clench around him. “Let go. I’ve got you, Birdie.”
I’ve got you.
Those three words do something to me that they’ve never done before, and paired with his dirty talk and the way he uses his fingers, I can’t help but give in when his knuckles rub against the bundle of nerves that creates chaos throughout my body.
Suddenly, my hips arch off the bed, his fingers going deeper as the pad of his thumb works me until I’m spasming around him.
Part of me wants to be embarrassed, but I can’t find the shame when the blissful, sated feeling eases my legs down until I’m lying against the bed again.
When reality creeps back in, I find myself meeting his eyes shyly. “Let me touch you,” I say, one of the hands that vice-gripped his shoulder moving down his chest.
But he stops me as I reach his belly button, his hand wrapping around my wrist. “As much as I want that, not today. This was about you.”
I blink, confusion curling my lips downward.
He releases my wrist and brings my hand up to his mouth to kiss the center of my palm. The kiss is so gentle, yet I feel it in my chest.
“There are some things I have to figure out,” he tells me, sitting up.
It’s hard to find my voice after what just occurred. “Like what?”
I see him subtly trying to readjust himself in his sweatpants, making me blush and look away.
“Don’t worry about it. Just…” When his eyes study my face, they take their time looking at every single feature. My mouth. My nose. One eye, then the other. “I’ll bring dinner over later tonight. Okay?”
It’s Sunday, and I’m grateful he’s still willing to cook for me after what happened. “We’re still friends, right?”
The silence I’m greeted with makes me regret asking.
Then he says, “No.”
Heart tightening in my chest before dropping to my stomach, I whisper, “Oh.”
I guess that makes sense. We crossed a line that most friends wouldn’t if it was that simple between them.
Just as I’m about to make some sort of excuse, maybe apologize for asking him to do that, he says, “I’d say we’re a hell of a lot more now that I’ve been inside you, Sawyer.”
Sawyer. Hearing him say my name in such a low tone does something funny to my heart.
“Oh,” I repeat, this time a little quieter than before as I soak that in.
Banks’s eyes go down to my lips, staring for a moment before he sighs and gets out of bed. Collecting his shirt from the floor, he puts it on swiftly and then sits on the edge of the mattress as he slides his shoes on.
When he stands, he turns to me and lets his eyes wander down my body, which is still draped in the bedding.
His throat bobs before he forces himself to look away. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says, walking to the door.
I listen to him make his exit, only releasing my breath when I hear the front door close behind him.
Then I think about what just happened.
And I realize I’m screwed.
Because I don’t deserve Banks and he doesn’t deserve the inevitable goodbye that comes with having me in his life.
Hours later, after a day of keeping to myself and reliving the moments of this morning in bed, I realize I have a choice to make.
Banks isn’t the only one who has to figure things out, but when he knocks at dinnertime with an armful of ingredients, I don’t hesitate to let him in.
Maybe that’s fate’s way of deciding for me.