28. Chase
TWENTY-EIGHT
CHASE
Today, I woke up feeling hopeful. It’s not an emotion I’m used to having, but it’s there, so I’m holding on tight. If someone had told me a few months back I’d have Goldi in my life again, I would have laughed and tried to ignore the throb in my chest caused just by hearing her name.
But now I’m here, and so is she.
And while I don’t have any grandiose ideas about where our relationship can go, I can’t help but feel like maybe there’s a reason beyond Sam’s retirement that I’m back.
I’m a little surprised Sam hasn’t told me about Mr. Carson’s drinking. It makes me wonder if he knows, if anyone around here really knows, or if Goldi has been carrying the weight of her father’s problems all on her own.
It’s our first official day back on the Tiny Dancers project. Demo day. I love demo days, and I’m like a kid again knowing I’ll see Goldi. Life is brighter with her in it. Colors more vibrant, birds fucking sing and all that shit. I had forgotten what it was like to live a Technicolor life.
In fact, I’ve been in such a good mood that I stopped by the coffee shop and picked up some caffeine for the crew on my way in. Impulsively, I got some for Goldi, too. Maybe it’s a pipe dream thinking we can be civil, that maybe we can even be friends again, but if there’s even a slight possibility, I’m not going to squander the opportunity.
When I get to Tiny Dancers and make my way down the hallway to the offices, my stomach flutters with anticipation. The door is propped open, so I nudge it wider and peer inside. Goldi’s standing in the far corner, bent over what looks like a laptop bag, digging around for something in one of the pockets. My stare is greedy, taking in the flare of her hips and the curve of her ass in that spectacularly tight skirt she’s wearing. I know I should look away, but I don’t think I can. Heat flares in my abdomen and my cock twitches, longing mixing with the lust I always feel when I’m around her.
Goddamn.
I bite the inside of my cheek, my fingers tightening around the coffee cups to keep myself from doing something stupid like walking over to her, lying on my back between her legs and demanding she sit on my face. I shift on my feet, clearing my throat to get her attention.
She stiffens, her spine straightening as she looks over her shoulder.
“Oh! Chase, hi.” She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I heard a rumor you were up late last night. Thought you might need some coffee.” I wink, then mentally bitch-slap myself for doing it. A wink, you fucking douchebag?
She looks down for a second, running the palms of her hands over her outfit, straightening the wrinkles. It’s an innocent gesture but fuck if it doesn’t make me think of how I’d like to glide my hands all over her body. I wonder if she’d feel the same as she did back when we were younger. If I’d remember exactly where to touch her to make her moan, like a muscle memory that’s engrained forever.
“Oh…um, yeah. Thanks.” She walks over and takes the coffee.
Our fingertips brush.
The contact lasts for less than a second, but a jolt shoots through me, catapulting my heart into my throat.
She backs away quickly, rounding the desk and sitting. I lean against the opposite wall, crossing my legs at the ankle and taking sips from my cup as I watch her.
She’s nervous around me, and a small smile curves up my mouth as she stacks random piles of paper and moves around folders, her fingers fumbling.
Eventually, she realizes I’m still in the room, tracking her movements. Honestly, I could stay here all day and soak her in without complaint.
Her head tilts as she looks at me, and her voice comes across cold and cutting. “Do you need somethin’ else?”
My gut tenses with the shift in her demeanor. I take another sip from my coffee before saying, “Is this how it’s gonna be, Alina? Hot and cold all the time?”
She looks to the ceiling before heaving a sigh. “Listen. I don’t—I don’t know what you’re expectin’ from me. But I can’t do this.” She points back and forth between us.
My chest pinches, the lightness I felt this morning disappearing with the weight of her words. “What do you mean this ?”
“This! Us! You can’t just bring me coffee, and—and be all sweet and charmin’, and think I’m just gonna forget about the past. About who you really are.”
“People can change, Alina. Maybe you should get to know the new me.”
“I don’t wanna get to know you,” she bites out, her eyes narrowed. “Last night was a mistake. I should never have gone with you.”
That high I’ve been on all morning pops like a balloon pierced by a needle. My soul is raging against her words, beating against my insides and trying to tear out of my skin to get to her. To remind her. I grip my hair, the sting of the roots keeping me grounded, and I watch her for a few seconds before relenting. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
My hand drops to my side, and I swallow down my want—my fucking need —to beg for her forgiveness. To let me atone for my mistakes. “Okay. Yeah, I get it. I thought maybe we could move forward and be friends, fuck, you have no clue how badly I want us to get back to that. But if you need me to stay away, if I’ve been too much of a fuckup in your life to ever make up for it, then okay. But can you do me a favor?”
I walk over, ripping a corner off a piece of paper, and grab a pen from the cup holder, writing down my number and sliding it to her across the desk.
She glances at it. “What’s this?”
“That’s my number. Put it in your purse, or better yet, program it in your phone. Just… I want you to have it. Just in case you need it.”
Her chin juts out. “I won’t.”
“Okay.” My fingers press down on the paper and slide it farther. “Keep it anyway, and know that I’m here.”
A sharp laugh escapes her. “I’ve heard that before.”
Fire sparks in my veins, frustration grinding my teeth together. The need for her to see me for who I am now rages like a hurricane, but I push it down as far as it will go, trying to keep my temper in check.
I lean forward, my knuckles pressing down on the desk, my voice low and sharp. “You heard that from a dumbass kid who took everything that mattered for granted. A kid who didn’t know how to hold on to the best fucking thing in his life. Believe me when I tell you, that kid is gone.”
She sucks in a breath, her baby-blue gaze searching.
I point to the piece of paper. “Keep it. Just in case.”
My heart’s beating so fast I can hear it pumping in my ears, and I spin, walking out the door.
It’s not until the end of the day that I feel her eyes on me again.
I’m a sweaty mess. All the other guys have left, but I stuck around, taking my frustration from our earlier conversation out on the walls.
Who needs Doc when you’ve got a sledgehammer?
I drop the hammer to the ground, my torso twisting as I look at her.
She’s in the middle of the room, gawking at the destruction.
I smile at her. “Not what you expected?”
“No. Not really. It’s a mess in here.” She narrows her eyes and takes a step closer. “This is what we’re payin’ y’all to do?”
Chuckling, I take off my eyewear, setting it on my head, and lift my shirt to wipe the sweat from my brow. Her eyes sear into me, mouth parting as she gazes at my stomach, watching as the fabric falls back down. “Do you wanna try?” I ask.
Her mouth snaps shut, her eyes widening as they flick up to mine. “What? No, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve never even held one of those things before. Daddy never let me near ’em when I was a kid.” She points to the sledgehammer on the ground. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Not much to it.” I shrug. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
She backs up. “I’m really okay.”
“It will make you feel better.”
Her hands go to her hips. “Who says I don’t feel good?”
I smirk at her, waiting.
“Ugh, fine. Just hand me the stupid thing.” She marches past me to pick it up, and I grab her around the waist without thinking.
Electricity sparks, a thousand fireworks detonating where we touch, and we both freeze. Her breathing is heavy, chest rising and falling, and I’m straight-up holding mine, afraid if I move even an inch, she’ll force me to let her go.
She feels so good in my arms.
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear, my stomach flipping like I’m on a roller coaster. “Not so fast.”
My fingers dig in tighter, and she doesn’t resist when I spin her around until she’s facing me. Our energy weaves together, buzzing between us, attracting like magnets. I try to ignore the way my heart thumps in my chest as I take the eyewear from my head and gingerly slip it over her face.
My hands slide along the curve of her ear and down until they rest on her neck, and I feel her pulse beneath my thumb.
Her lips part, that perfect, pink tongue peeking out to swipe along the bottom, and it would be so easy to lean in and taste her. I can feel how much she wants me to.
But I know she’d regret it after and push me away. So even though it’s the last thing I want, I drop my hands and step back.
“Go ahead, pick it up.” I gesture toward the sledgehammer.
She’s still standing there, chest heaving as she blinks at me a few times and then snaps herself out of the daze by shaking her head. Brushing by me, she picks it up and then looks at me from over her shoulder.
“What do I do?”
I stick my hands in my pockets, trying to calm my racing heart. Trying to keep myself from grabbing her back into my arms. “Think of whatever’s pissing you off and swing.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She turns toward the wall, raises the hammer above her head, and brings it down. Not technically the proper way to do it, but she’ll be all right.
By the third attempt, she’s got it down.
I can tell the moment she really lets go, her anger breaking free with every swing. She’s a goddess in her turmoil.
My heart fucking beats for her.
I was foolish to think it had ever stopped.
Journal Entry #320
I was in second grade the first time a teacher noticed something wasn’t right at home. Mrs. Grady was her name. She’d always pull me aside and ask me questions about my life. I was so starved for attention, I ate it up like candy, thinking she just liked me enough to want to know.
The day CPS knocked on our door also happened to be the day I brought home my first official “report card.” All A’s. Mrs. Grady told me how proud she was and I thought surely if she was proud, how could mom not be? I raced off the bus, excited to show her, but when I walked into the house there were strange people there. Mom had a big smile plastered on her face and she ushered me in, hands on my shoulders as she introduced me to them. I don’t remember their names, only their eyes as they cataloged me from my worn shoes all the way up to the buzzed hair on my head. They made me uncomfortable and I leaned into my mom for support. She squeezed my shoulders, the grip bruising.
Once they left, the smile dropped and her eyes lost all their warmth. Told me how embarrassed I made her. That it was my fault she was like this in the first place. How if I wasn’t around, she wouldn’t need to medicate so much, and how dare I try to paint her as the problem. That maybe if I was a better son, I’d work a little harder at lightening her load.
For a fucking seven-year-old, that shit hits you deep. Forms scars you carry with you for the rest of your life. I cried in my room that night, lying in bed with my report card on my pillow catching my tears.
It took…a long fucking time to realize the way she was wasn’t my fault. So many relationships ruined and so much time lost from believing her lies. From carrying responsibility that was never meant to be mine.
Parents’ words become their children’s inner voice.
It’s a hell of a thing, learning to ignore it.