40. Shane
40
Shane
I stare at her across from me, feeling so conflicted. My mother drags the conversation, bouncing from one thing to the next as her famous pot roast sits untouched on my full plate.
But I can’t take my eyes off Montana and her disheveled look. It’s odd to find a home in someone you barely know. I did it once as a seventeen-year-old when she was only fifteen, new to love and an obsessive interest. Venom was my life then. She ruled my thoughts, owned my mind, and completely stole my ever-beating heart for the year and a half we were connected. And now, as a twenty-one-year-old man, here I sit across from her, staring into the eyes of someone I don’t know at all.
I thought I had it all figured out. I swore I knew who she was, and how to break her, but Montana Rowe surprises me every day. She knew I needed her today and was there for me like she always had been, but now, set in reality, everything feels different. Deeper. Deadly terrifying.
I’m still very much in love with the woman I’m meant to hate, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself for falling.
My mother mumbles on about the use of mustard in her ingredients list, which really brings out the tangy flavor in her meat, while Montana twirls her spoon on the tablecloth with her fingers, staring right back at me.
“Phil tells me you have your first performance with the Montgomery Fine Orchestra this weekend. Is that right, Montana?”
Montana refuses to look at her.
“Yes,” she responds.
“Well, that’s wonderful. I’m happy to hear you’re sticking with this passion. It can be difficult to maintain focus and truly aspire to achieve goals when you’ve come from such low beginnings.”
I see Montana’s eyebrow twitch. She goes to open her mouth, but I intercept.
“Montana is one of the best cellists in the state, if not the country. She’s just not as well known yet, but give it time. She’s one of the greats.” I retort to my mother’s bullshit.
Montana’s expression softens as she gazes at me, gratitude sparkling in her gorgeous eyes.
“In fact, I think we should all attend her performance as a supportive family,” I continue, peering at my mom and Phil.
“Oh, Shane, that’s a wonderful idea, son,” Phil agrees, setting his knife and fork down.
My face shrivels in disgust at the sentiment.
“We can make it a family affair!” My mother practically shrieks. “I have the perfect gown I’ve been wanting to wear. Just never had the opportunity to pull it out.”
“The gold one, darling?” Phil asks.
“Yes!”
Montana rolls her eyes as my mother makes yet another event about her.
“I’m excited to see you work your magic again,” I whisper to her as our parents converse on their own.
“Oh, you’ve seen her play?” Phil asks, startling me.
Montana’s cheeks turn a shade of cherry.
“I’ve been fortunate enough to have my own private viewing.” I smirk, tipping my head to my shoulder as I remember fondly. “Transformative, innovative, and insanely alluring…she sure knows how to handle an instrument.”
She clears her throat, her long, thick lashes fluttering the way they do when she’s nervous, clearly feeling the discomfort of this conversation. I imagine that way she sat, spread on that dildo, playing her little fucking heart out for me. Fuck, she had me in such a trance.
“Monty, is that so? You played for him?” Phil asks, looking between us. “I’ve yet to hear you play. A bit of stage fright, this one.”
Stage fright, my ass. Phil, the negligent father, didn't deserve to witness her passions. I didn’t either, truthfully, but I took it anyway.
“You’re the most talented artist I’ve ever encountered,” I say directly to her, each word holding its true meaning. “I mean seriously, who learns cello in less than two years and works their way to pushing out elite and established, lifelong members of an orchestra? A fucking thug, that’s who.”
“Language!” my mother scolds.
As soon as I say the words, I realize what I’ve done. My stomach plummets, and Montana’s eyes squint in the corners as she drifts her gaze behind me and then back, her mind working. Nervously, I clear my throat, but Phil saves the day by shifting the conversation to a story of some musical event he attended at the library.
Blood coats the white linen surrounding the fine china of my plate as my bloody fists lie vacant, almost needing to hold myself up after saying too much. Crimson red also lines the face of the beauty in front of me as she absorbs the weight of my words. Marked and mine, she peers down at her food, and then back at me. A smear of lipstick sits beneath her bottom lip, and her hair is still a tad out of place from my erratic hands and our little moment in the spare room.
I think about being inside her. Her slick, wet warmth holding its death grip on my cock, shaky breaths leaving her throat. The little sounds she makes when she doesn’t realize she’s making them. The way her eyes gloss over with that look of overwhelming lust and pleasure. Just the way her eyes focus on me. Only me. My numbed body awakens as my heart feels that familiar grip. And just like that, she’s got me again.
I grit my back teeth, warding off my erection, trying not to focus on my emotions as I reluctantly peer over at Phil. The man is now glaring at me, then back at his daughter, assessing her face before landing on me again, assessing my hands.
Worry doesn’t catch me, though. I turn my body toward him in my chair, glaring back at him for a full three seconds before he clears his throat and looks away. Phil doesn’t have the balls to address me, or anyone in this room, for that matter. Whatever he was thinking or assuming is as good as dead within that weak-minded head of his.
Yeah, I’m fucking your daughter. Say something about it.
Turning my gaze back on my girl, I see she’s looking at her lap beneath the table. The cords of her arm move, and it’s obvious she’s toying with her phone. But who could she be texting? Better not be her punk-ass boyfriend whose garage fire may still be sizzling out, and it sure as fuck better not be that Rico Suave wannabe from the orchestra who keeps loitering around our property, leaving a lingering scent of spoiled citrus with whatever strange cologne he wears.
I fight the urge to flip the table, sending this pot roast to the ceiling before storming her and wrapping my palm tightly around her pretty little neck, ensuring there’s no one else but me in her life. I just hope for whoever she’s texting’s sake, she remembers she’s mine. But my phone pings in my back pocket, where I forgot I still had it.
Pulling it out, I open the message beneath the table. My eyes find hers again to see she’s already looking at me.
Gutter Rat: You owe me a nut
A smile cracks across my face, and my heart does this weird jittery thing.
Seconds later, another text message appears.
Gutter Rat: And thank you. For all you said.
Looking back up at her, I tighten my jaw. A look of love and admiration finds me, and I’m not prepared for the weight of what it does to me.
I type a message back to her.
Shane: Meant it with every chipped remnant of the heart you owned.