32. Shane
32
Shane
W e ride around town, the streets glimmering in the rain’s aftermath as Montana holds on to me for dear life. With how her body is suctioned to mine, it’s clear she’s never been on a bike before. Her fingernails claw into my sides, her arms wrapped so tightly around me I can hardly breathe.
She rests the helmet against my shoulder blades, her front sealed to my back. The wind rips away at our exposed skin, the chill working desperately to diminish the raging heat between us.
I know she’s enraged at the stunt I pulled at home. Her beloved cello is now a damp pile of ash in our backyard. But something in me needs to continuously cut into her, deeper than ever before, especially after seeing her move along to her next victim. I know that cello cost her her ass, literally, and my underlying hope is that she’ll be forced to rely on me and my help, which is all I ever wanted.
I’m sure she’s contemplating her next move while gripping onto me, planning my slow and torturous demise. That she’s focusing on me at all brings me unfortunate joy. I hate that I love her anger, that I need it to fuel me. But when it comes to her, I just need some form of emotion in whatever capacity I can get it to survive.
The part of myself I want to deny is the part that aches for her again. While slow and nearly unmoving, that steady heartbeat lies dormant in my chest, needing the opportunity to rage all its own. I continuously hate myself for loving any version of her I’ve been given.
Streetlights blur around us as we ride down the bare interstate. I twist the throttle as the roadway opens up, traveling at a deadly speed. The idea of dying together brings me some strange nostalgic lust.
Never in a world without you. Her endless lies.
I should do it. I should drive us off this bridge right now, our bodies falling helplessly to a demise so set in stone. I should end the turmoil. The need to continuously drag her down into the dirt alongside me. The inability to strip myself of this hatred I’ve harbored. I can’t ever seem to eradicate her from my bones. I can’t ever let her get too far from me again. The ability to control our destiny is within my grasp, and it’s giving me a sense of power I lost so many years ago.
Maybe we’ll find each other in another life. But maybe we won’t. That simple idea is the only thing keeping me from veering off this road into a tragically beautiful death. We’re so close. So close to getting it all right. I’m living a life of maybes. Holding out hope for the glimmer of a person I want—a person I need —to exist.
That sick hope has me pulling off at the next exit, slowing as we hit the city block again. There’s a sharp pinch in my chest as we finally pull up to the house. The moment she hops off my bike, I’ll feel that pull again. That tear that rips apart whatever heart I have left for her.
She offers me the helmet back, wordless, yet her expression holds so much I can’t see. I toss it on the workbench by the bike, then gaze down at her. Her arms are so pale, nearly blue, and her shoulders are bunched up, a shiver wracking through her bones. Taking in the beauty of her mess, my eyes find hers again.
Standing there in the dark garage, her lips remain parted, her hair matted down, looking like a far cry from the strong, empowered woman who slays hearts daily. It’s as if I’m finally staring at her , Montana in her truest form. She’s silent, studying me momentarily, her emotions never quite coming across in those whisky-colored eyes holding my gaze.
She acts like she desperately needs to say something, but her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth. The silence is too much for me to bear, and I worry she’s beginning to feel empathy for me. Empathy is not what I want after everything she’s put me through.
“Let’s go,” I say, nodding toward the house.
She doesn’t follow me, her body frozen in place.
I grab her cold hand in mine, pulling her toward me. She stumbles in step, following me toward the side door. The noise emitting from the house is loud. Music is blaring, and a collection of voices are talking and laughing from somewhere inside. It’s clear some of the party carried back indoors after the rain sent many running.
I push into the kitchen with a wet and half-naked Montana in tow. The first set of eyes I see are Lana’s. Sitting on the couch with Rocks, she smokes her cigarette, her glare hardening once she sees Montana behind me. Wheeter’s got his tongue down some girl's throat on the kitchen table, but he pulls away, turning to face us.
“You’re back,” he exclaims. “I got worried. You good?” He directs the question at Montana.
She opens her mouth to talk when I answer for her. “She’s fine.”
Pulling her along, I drag her down the hallway toward our rooms, pulling her into the bathroom with me. I hear Lana huff in frustration as I lock the door behind us.
“Take your clothes off,” I say, bending into the shower to turn the water on.
She doesn’t move; she just stands there with her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders shuddering violently. It’s so unlike her not to snap back with some witty remark—words that cut through people the way they so effortlessly do.
She must be in some sort of shock.
The bathroom begins to steam up, the hot water ready for her, but she still doesn’t move.
Softly and slowly, I grab her forearm, pulling her arms apart. It’s like peeling her skin off, the way the material of her shirt and bra have practically embedded into her freezing flesh. I assist her in removing her clothing until she’s standing bare before me. My eyes selfishly skirt all over her, loving the way her toned thighs seal together, admiring the sweet curvature where her waist dips in, obsessing over the raspberry shade of her taut nipples. She's always been the woman of my dreams. The vision before me I could never quite grasp.
Handing her a fresh towel from the cabinet, I turn to leave the bathroom, but a hand catches my wrist.
I peer down at her bony little fingers gripping onto my arm. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and needy, filled with a combination of sorrow and want.
I don’t want to appease her. Whatever guilt is resurfacing is hers to bear.
I turn to leave again when she tightens her grip. The grip on me that never leaves. Like roots that grow deeper with time, she digs her claws further into my bones.
Walking backward toward the shower, she pulls me along with one hand. The addict in me has me succumbing to reckless want, and I grip the back of my tank, pulling it over my head before removing the rest of my clothing. Beneath the water, my control breaks entirely. She reaches up, grabbing the side of my neck, and I quickly pull her mouth to mine.
Our kiss is unexpected, rendering me entirely useless and at her mercy. Her taste fucking with my head.
My tongue traces her wet lips, lapping up the droplets of water clinging to her. Her tongue slides along my mouth, finding mine, and my body ignites. Fire and ice clash together, and it’s the euphoric nightmare I’ve been running from since she left me.
It’s as if she needed this kiss to make sense of life again, needed it to remember who she is. As if the torment of me fucking her ruthlessly with no remorse has made her crave something deeper, something real between us that once existed so beautifully.
The kiss becomes heated, hands trailing bodies, her back slamming against the wall, the water fueling our desires. My palms mold to her breasts, squeezing her warming flesh as our tongues lash against each other’s.
Someone knocks on the door.
“Shane,” she whispers against my lips between kisses. “The people here…”
“Fuck ‘em,” I mutter, capturing her lips again, finding myself needing this too. “Fuck them all.”
My cock hangs heavy near my thigh, the urge to find my way back inside her again overwhelming me as our tongues erotically stroke each other’s. But the war within me rages endlessly, so entirely torn by this minx before me, and I pull back from her intoxicating tongue. Her eyes are still closed, lost in the haze. They flutter open to find me studying her.
I want to trust her. I want to believe that she’s still in there. But I don’t know the lies that are ruling me anymore. Do I even want her to want me again? What about the anger, the pain that’s still there? The resentment. It won’t just disappear. It’s got me in a vice grip, and losing that means losing control of the man I’ve become. The man I’ve built from scratch. Where do I go from here? What happens if I let go, giving her the capability of ending me all over again?
All logic goes up in smoke when she rests her head in the crook of my neck; her naked body flush against mine beneath the stream of water. She curls her arms into me, seeking protection, showing her weakness. It’s the only thing I can grab on to, so I do.
The knocking on the door continues, only louder this time.
“Fuck off!” I yell at the noise before turning and gently angling Montana’s jaw to slide my tongue into her mouth again.
She meets my kiss, her hands gripping my necklace again, this time over my chest.
“I know you’re both in there, Croix!” Lana’s whiny voice penetrates my skull.
I pull my lips away from Montana’s, one hand holding the back of her head, supporting her, while the other remains wrapped around her backside, grazing her perfectly sculpted ass.
The pounding continues before I hear the murmurs of another voice talking. Lana argues with the person before yelling, “She’s fucking crazy! Crazy, Croix! You’re both sick as fuck! Practically related and locked into the bathroom together? That's fucking disgusting!”
With a frustrated groan, I turn off the water, reaching to grab Montana a towel. I wrap it around her shoulders, which have stopped shaking, before quickly tossing one around my waist. Opening the door, I’m met with Lana’s hard glare. I grab her bony arm, dragging her down the hall to my bedroom, allowing Montana space to get to her room without hassle. I toss Lana in, shutting the door behind us.
Most everyone knows Lana is as crazy as they come, but I don’t need her spouting off shit and drawing more attention to what’s going on between Montana and me.
“What is it, Lana?” I ask calmly, stalking toward her. “Huh? What is it you need? No luck fucking Rocks tonight?”
“There’s something going on between you two,” she states, her eyes raking my half-naked body.
“Is there?” I mock, grabbing a pair of gym shorts to slip on.
“Why were you in the bathroom with her?” she pesters, unable to read the room.
“Why are you in my house?” I retort.
“It’s not your house,” she counters.
I sigh. She’s as bad as they come. “You’ve got to be kidding me right now.”
“I’m just saying.” She shrugs. “You’re lucky Wheeter pities you.”
Before I can properly insult her, my phone vibrates on my desk. Her head perks up, and she turns to grab it. She reaches it before me, swiping to open the new message. Reaching over her head, I snatch the phone and push her aside. She stumbles against the bed, tossing her hair over her face.
“Croix! Did she just text you?”
I’m about to lose it. Her jealous bullshit and this need to insert herself into my life have me bound to break.
“Lana, fuck off already! Literally no one wants you here.”
She crosses her arms over her chest as I look at the message, smiling to myself at what I see, which only angers her further.
“You know she tried to cut me, right?”
I can’t contain the laugh that escapes me. “Cut you?” I'm not even granting her the courtesy of my gaze as I begin typing back.
“When I stayed over the other night, after the bar, she held a pizza cutter to my clit in the kitchen, threatening to cut me if your cum was in me. She’s insane.”
The statement has her finally gaining my attention. I hate that Wheeter’s kindness even allowed Lana to crash here after a night out, making it seem like we’d been together. I’d hang myself from the ceiling fan before allowing her in my bed again. But a pizza cutter to the clit for my cum? Fuck, that's sexy as hell.
“Lana, get over yourself.” I grab my towel, drying off the back of my head and neck as she steps toward me.
“I know you’ve been through some shit, Croix, I do,” she says, softening her tone. She reaches up and touches the side of my neck, angling my chin to face her. Her eyes are sympathetic as she continues, “Your reasons for everything, the drugs, the self-destruction, have always remained unknown to me, but I’ve always been here, regardless. I don't want you falling again. I’ve seen you at the bottom, and it’s not pretty.”
God, these people and their pity.
“No one asked you to be here.” I attempt to turn away, but she pulls my chin back.
“Listen to me when I say it’s not about me right now. There’s something wrong here. I get a weird feeling about her and the way she acts around you. It’s dark. Her motives are tainted. I don’t trust that bitch.”
My eyes narrow, and my lips roll together.
“Those feelings?” I take a step toward her, and she backs away. “Those tickling sensations you’re receiving? It’s probably your period, Lana. You’re hormonal and in need of attention. Now get the fuck out of my room.”
“Croix—”
“The door,” I comment, sitting back on my bed.
With a frustrated huff, she turns to leave, slamming the door when she does.
I’m not surprised she gets a weird feeling about Montana. The history tied between us is something no one else knows. But Josiah and Lana seem to feel compelled to step in and save me. It’s asinine. Outrageous, really.
I’ve already survived the worst of Montana.
But the question remains; can she survive the worst of me?