Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
J USTIN
I open my eyes to an empty bed and the smell of bacon and coffee.
It’s bright beyond the windows, and when we went to bed, it was dark. I feel good—refreshed. A good roll in the hay can do that.
I give my body a good long stretch and look around.
Yesterday, I was too preoccupied, but today, I can check everything out.
The way she lives. I like it. I’ve been talking shit about her trailer, but it’s super nice.
Fifty times better than my apartment. She made it a home.
Her bedroom is small, but very her. The furniture is clearly worn, and all the pieces are from different sets, but they all coordinate nicely.
My stomach growls, and I finally get out of bed, stretching one more time.
I find my pants halfway to the kitchen on the chair.
Kayla’s flipping pancakes at a two-burner stove.
She’s wearing tiny white shorts, showing off her amazing legs, and a loose black shirt with more holes than material.
There’s a colorful lion on her right thigh, and her hair is piled up on top of her head in a super messy bun that she didn’t spend any time perfecting.
She is barefoot, with one foot tapping to the song she’s listening to in her headphones.
I step closer and admire the view. From here, I notice a few light bruises on her thighs, clearly from my hands. I should feel bad, but I don’t. I like my mark on her.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Mark on a woman? Who am I?
She notices me and takes her headphones out. “Morning.”
“Morning.” My voice is raspy, as if I spent the whole night singing at a rock concert.
“Sleep well?” she asks, licking batter from her finger.
“I don’t sleep,” I announce stubbornly.
“Well, you did. All night.” She points the spatula she’s holding at the bed.
“Right.” I yawn. “I just closed my eyes for a second to chill.”
“Yeah, you did, and opened them many hours later.” She points at the clock on the wall.
“Ten thirty?” I yelp. “How?—”
She shrugs as if it’s not a huge deal and keeps fixing breakfast.
Like it’s not a big deal that I haven’t slept like a normal human being in six and a half years. Since the night my sister was assaulted, eaten by guilt every single night. And today, I did.
Did yesterday’s extracurricular activities exhaust me so much that I just crashed?
But it’s not like I haven’t had wild sex before, the kind that exhausts your bones and liquefies your limbs.
I have, and yet I didn’t sleep then. To be fair, sex yesterday wasn’t just wild.
It was good, and it was different. I usually end up leaving someone’s place or making sure the woman leaves my place after we’re done.
I’m very clear about that from the beginning.
I don’t need people running around, talking about my problems.
“Did I really sleep?” I scratch the back of my head, looking around, lost, like a puppy. Why did such a simple thing like that throw me off balance?
“Yeah,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. “I woke up at eight, and you were still out.”
“Okay.” Is all I say. That’s all I can say, so I go to her and grab the mug from her hands.
“Hey!” She wants to pull the cup back, but I take a hefty sip from it and wince.
“That shit has so much sugar in it; I think I got a cavity from just a sip.”
“Good. Then you can give it back.” She takes the mug back and points at the coffee maker. “Get yourself your black coffee; it’ll match your soul.”
“Actually, I like a vanilla latte with one spoon of brown sugar.”
She chokes on her coffee and spits it out. She’s trying to laugh, but the cough prevents it. I helpfully pat her on the back, and she laughs harder.
“A vanilla latte?”
“Yes,” I shrug, “I’m man enough to admit it.”
“Good for you.” She smirks into her cup, finally done with this nonsense. “But kind of bad for you because I don’t have an espresso machine. Only drip coffee.”
“That’s fine. Where can I get a cup? ”
She points at the cabinet, and I walk to it. Inside are a few mismatched cups of different sizes, shapes, and colors. Odd, but somehow, they all… match. I take the largest mug and pour myself a coffee, filling it almost all the way to the brim.
“Got any cream?”
“In the fridge,” she answers, piling the last pancakes on the plate and turning off the stove.
Her fridge is clean and almost empty. It has milk, cream, eggs, something in jars, and that’s about it. I take the cream out, pour a hefty amount into the cup, and take a sip. No sugar coma for me.
She fixes two plates and sets them on the part of the counter that she uses as her table, takes her cup, and takes a seat on one side. I sit on the other.
Blueberry pancakes with chocolate chips. From scratch. No fucking way. I grab one with my hand and instantly get burned. The fucker is hot! It doesn’t stop me, though, and I take a huge bite, devouring half of it in one go.
“This is so good,” I say through my chewing and notice her looking at me with wide eyes. Her fork is frozen halfway to her open mouth.
“It’s just pancakes.”
“Do you think I get to eat homemade pancakes every day?” Her mouth is still open, I probably look like an animal, but I love food.
So much. And I can’t cook anything that’s not microwavable.
The only way I can eat good food is when I go to my parents’ house, and I don’t do that very often, especially in the last couple of weeks.
Seeing that my mood has improved, I might visit them this week.
Besides that, everyone knows the best pancakes in town are at Marina’s diner, but I can’t exactly go there, so right now, I’m in heaven .
“You don’t?” she finally asks.
“I don’t.”
With that, she moves the plate of pancakes toward me, and with a sheepish smile, I pile them up on my own plate. Kayla’s slowly chewing her food as she watches me devouring everything.
“Is it always like that?” she asks.
“What’s like that?” I ask with a full mouth.
“One-night stands.” With that, I choke on my food and begin coughing. She’s waiting patiently for me to respond.
“That’s what you think it was?” I put my fork down.
“What else do you think it can be?” she asks as she mindlessly plays with her food.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had this.”
“A one-night stand?” Her brows shoot up.
“No, breakfast in the morning.” My eyes shamefully dart around the room.
“What?” She puts her fork down.
“I just never did.” I shrug. “When I’m done, I go home.”
“Why? Isn’t it sad?” Her forehead wrinkles in question.
“I dunno.” I shrug. “I was young, and I had this pact with Alex to not get involved in anything serious. Then I got thrown in jail, and then I just didn’t want anyone to know about my sleeping problem.”
“You didn’t have this problem before?” She caught the main thing I didn’t want her to notice.
I feel my face harden—the question bringing too many bad memories. “No,” I answer, voice stern.
“I’m sorry to ask.” Her face is full of regret.
I disregard her words because there is nothing I can say. Instead, I again ask the question that’s been bothering me hella more than it should be. “Why would you think this is a one-nighter? ”
“What else can it be?” She stares at me with wide eyes.
“I don’t know. Maybe something.” I honestly don’t know, but to my utter surprise, I’m not opposed to the idea.
I don’t have a clue what’s happening with me and why I’m having breakfast and a normal conversation with a woman I just slept with.
Slept! Fucking slept after the most mind-blowing sex I’ve ever had.
“No, one-night stand. That was it,” she says firmly, finishing her coffee and standing up with a half-eaten plate.
“Why?” Her words sound so final that I stop eating.
She smacks the table with her palm. “I can’t believe you even need to ask. Do you really think I can just erase all those years of bullying from my memory?”
I feel a knot tightening in my stomach, a completely foreign feeling I don’t like. “We are so good together. Why not?”
Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say because she turns around, fury shooting from her eyes.
“Just because we fucked doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.
And by the way, you haven’t even apologized.
And a few weeks ago, you told me you still hate me.
Forgot about that one? So no, Justin, forget this ever happened.
” She rushes to the sink and begins furiously washing dishes.
I stand up and go toward her. Plastering my front to her back, I plant my hands on either side of her, caging her in.
I hear a loud intake of air and her hands hesitate before they stop moving.
I bury my nose in her hair and breathe her in.
The smell of strawberries, so familiar now, tickles my senses.
I press my chest into her back and feel her push back.
Just a little, barely noticeable, but she did.
So I take it as a yes and snake my arms around her waist, pressing my mouth to her ear.
“I am sorry, Kayla,” I stress, attempting to convey the full weight into my words, hoping she will understand.
That she will know how incredibly sorry I am. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Her next breath shudders. “Why are you here, Justin?”
I don’t give her an answer because I don’t have one.
“Why were you here yesterday? Why were you waiting for me?” She sounds desperate like she needs to hear what I have to say, so I decide to go with the truth. At least for one of her questions.
“Because I didn’t want you to go with him.”
“Why, Justin? Is this some sort of a game where you can’t let another guy have a chick you haven’t fucked yet? Is that it?” she presses.
“No.”
“Then what is it?” Her voice rises, and she drops the cup into the sink, shattering it. “Tell me why!” she yells, and I pull her closer to me.
“Because you are mine!” My voice matches hers. “Mine,” I say quieter as I let go of her. I look for my discarded shirt on the floor, but it’s neatly folded on the couch. “Do you need to go somewhere today?”
“What?” She’s clearly confused by my switching subjects so fast.
“Do you need your car today or not?” I rephrase the question.
“I-I—” she stutters. “I have to run a few errands today.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up later, text me the time.
Where are your keys?” She silently points at the hook by the door.
I grab the keychain, take off the car key, and put the rest back.
All the while, she doesn’t utter a word.
Then I walk to her, grab her head in my hands and plant an open-mouthed kiss on her lips.
She gasps, and I dive in, tasting sweet coffee, blueberries, and her.
She doesn’t respond, but I didn’t expect her to.
I think I just managed to mute Kayla Adams.
Pulling away from the kiss, I plant one last kiss on her lips before I turn on my heel and walk out the door of her inviting home.