Chapter 14 #2
I fan the crinkled pages. “I continued making notes over the years. Recipes, lists, questions I wanted answers to.”
This journal kind of grew with me.
He grabs for it. “Can I see?”
I throw my arms over it. “No.”
He grins and déjà vu hits, the teasing feeling like the old us.
The rumble of engines fills the air, horns honk, and the thunder of feet hit the bleachers.
“Everyone’s leaving,” he tells me. “Can I take you home?”
Something swims in my stomach, the idea of being alone with him tonight enticing. We have a pool, couches, showers… So many beds.
And then what? I would fantasize and wait, and as usual, it never happens?
Or worse, it would happen, and he’d just push me away later when whatever he was so scared of grabbed him by the throat again.
I’ve been right where he could find me for years.
“I’m…not going home,” I say quietly.
I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. Even if nothing happened, I could have him to myself just this one night, but I’m not taking my shot. Why the fuck now?
But then he surprises me by saying, “I can take you to your new home. In Weston.”
I shoot my head up. How did—
And then I realize. Farrow. He’s the only one who knows so far. Why did he tell him?
“I won’t say anything,” Lucas assures me.
Why? Is he trying to be my friend again?
There was a time when I trusted Lucas wholeheartedly, but since he’s been home, his motives have been hard to gauge.
Finally, I nod. If he tattles, I’ll deal with it. I’ll have no choice. It would be nice to have a few days to get settled before the storm hits, but it’s not like my brothers—or my parents—can stop me.
They will try, though.
Thunder cracks overhead, and we both rise as the traffic picks up. People run to their cars, headlights beaming as the crowd trails out of the stands.
Carrying my notebook, I pick up the compass and slip it into my pocket.
When I look up, Lucas is watching me put it away.
He slides his hands into his pockets, and for some reason, it feels like I’m taking something that belongs to him.
He had it for years, and he didn’t seem to want to give it back. He lied about leaving it in Dubai. Why?
I stare at the balled fist in his pocket. Did he carry it often?
No. It’s possible it never even went to Dubai. Maybe he found it in his bedroom closet before he put the house up for sale.
I follow him to his car, but he doesn’t go left, to the parking lots. Instead, he moves toward the track and pulls open the door of a ’67 Camaro convertible. I climb in and put my seatbelt on as he slides in the driver’s side.
Wind whips through my hair, lightning flashing across the sky.
“This is one of Jax’s cars,” I point out.
I thought he was driving Jared’s old Boss.
Reaching over, he unsnaps my seatbelt and takes it off me just before starting the engine.
I slip my arm out of the belt. “What are you doing?”
“Swing your legs up to my lap and lie back, flat on your seat.”
With the top of my head touching my door? It’s a bench seat, so there’s no console to get in the way.
“It’s okay.” He breaks into a smile. “Trust me.”
I’m not putting my legs on him. I didn’t shave today. Or yesterday.
I heave a sigh, dropping my head into his lap, instead, and setting my ankles on the door. My shoes hang out of the car.
His brow arches, and I do a shitty job of holding back my smile. “Trust me,” I say.
The sky opens up over his head, clouds covering the stars, and I feel a couple of sprinkles of rain. But when I look up, all I see is him as the warmth of his body cradles my neck.
“Now, close your eyes.” He swallows. “And keep them closed.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Fine. Closing my eyes, I feel the world tilt a little, and I don’t know if it’s the cool air or the engine rumbling underneath me.
Or being this close to him. All I know is he better get the top up before Jax has a fit over rain getting on his black leather seats.
My brother is probably still in the tower, watching as cars exit the track.
Lucas shifts, the muscles in his leg flexing underneath me as he hits the gas. The car vaults, and my heart leaps into my throat. I gasp.
He races, kicking it up a gear, then another, and I grip the seats at my sides, a drop of rain hitting me.
Barreling around the first corner, he makes the tires skid, and I press one foot into the door to keep myself stable.
My hair flies across my face, my stomach swims, and I breathe hard as the wind gets faster and faster when he speeds up.
My chest rises and falls, water touching my lips, and I don’t open my eyes, but I feel his watching me.
His leg muscles pump again, hitting the gas, then flex once more, slowing just slightly for a turn. Speeding up again, it’s like I’m floating, and I smile just as he wraps an arm over my stomach to hold me as he rounds another fast turn.
Oh, God.
I want to turn my face into his stomach, curl up into him, and feel his arm get tighter.
The car slows, and I wait for him to finally stop before I open my eyes.
He stares down at me, so much satisfaction written across his face. “You like going fast.”
Rain falls harder now, and I blink up at him, feeling his hand still gripping my waist. “I like you going fast.”
Maybe I like speed. I don’t know.
I like roller coasters and roller skates. I like pedaling fast and cruising down a hill on my bike.
And I like his driving. Madoc taught him just as well as he taught his sons.
“It’s settled then,” he says. “I’ll just have to drive your lazy butt around all summer.”
I laugh, beaming up at him. His eyes drop to my mouth again, and for a second—maybe less—I swear they drop farther before he quickly looks away and takes his hand off of me.
My blood runs hot. Look at me again.
But his phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket, answering it.
I can hear my brother’s growl in Lucas’s ear. “Why the fuck doesn’t she have a seatbelt on?”
Lucas hangs up, wincing at Jax’s scolding. Jax is usually the calm one.
But I was right. He’s in the watchtower, keeping an eye on me.
“Well…” I clear my throat. “At the very least, they won’t put up a fuss if you’re giving me rides. They’re not threatened by you.”
Neither am I. Unfortunately.
If I weren’t Quinn, he would’ve held me tighter.
He props his elbow up on his door, leaning his head on his hand and making no move to raise the top. “Did you ever have a relationship they ruined?” he asks me.
I stay in his lap. “No. No one I was very interested in anyway.”
“Any long-term relationships?”
It feels weird he’s asking me these things. They’re not the kind of conversations we had when I was thirteen.
“I went out a bit,” I tell him. “Just didn’t feel like I thought it would feel.”
“What?”
“Kissing.”
He doesn’t move, and I don’t stop.
“Or their hands,” I add. “I’d be cold, or it felt foreign, or like I was bored or something. I didn’t really understand foreplay.”
I stare at nothing off to the side, remembering Notre Dame.
I went to parties with roommates my first year, and I met guys in class and various social clubs, but I knew pretty early on that there was no point in wasting time being that uncomfortable to make a relationship happen that, if successful, would take me away from Shelburne Falls.
I was coming home after I graduated. No exceptions.
“Now that I’m home,” I announce, “maybe I can get to know someone to where it feels close and warm and exciting.”
But he tells me, “I think that comes when you really know someone and know that what you’re about to feel is an escape.”
My pulse thrums in my neck as he gazes down at me.
“Their scent,” he goes on, “their skin, the feel of their mouth on your stomach. It happens in the middle of the night when she rolls into your arms, and it becomes like food, Quinn. Like shelter.”
“Did you ever feel like that?” I inquire, but it comes out as a whisper as I hold my breath.
“No.”
Then how does he know that’s what it’s like?
I lie there, resisting the urge to rub the place over my heart where it hurts. But I never want to leave, no matter how much it rains.
“Why aren’t you married?” I ask him. “And don’t say it’s because you haven’t found the right person.”
He stares off, trying to find the words. He’s probably had several relationships. He’s successful, handsome, and probably financially well off—building skyscrapers in one of the wealthiest cities in the world with no family to support.
“I like to be left alone,” he whispers.
I narrow my eyes. The words are harsh, but his tone was an apology.
“Why did you stay?” I ask next.
He frowns a little. “I don’t know.”
Another apology.
“That’s good to hear,” I tell him.
I like it when the people older than me, who care about me, don’t pretend they have all the answers. It rarely happens.
The rain feels fresh on my skin, and I don’t want to get out of it yet. “I’m going to ride my bike home.”
Sitting up, I get out of the car, and turn around, seeing concern on his face.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
Yes, it’s unsafe, and I’ll get drenched, but having a mind of my own feels too good, I guess.
Plus, he doesn’t know where my new home is exactly yet, and I like to be left alone sometimes too. Especially when I know what I still want from him, and don’t trust him enough to let myself have it.
I set off to grab my bike.
Rain spills down my arms, plastering the thin, plaid shirt to my arms. My legs shine in the moonlight as I pedal, my tiny purse hanging over my body with my phone safely tucked inside.
I dig into the coin pocket and pull out some denomination that might be a nickel and fling it over the side of the bridge.
There might be a car down there, but I’ll either be leaving too early and coming home too late to see anything in the dark.
If I do get the chance, though, I’ll have to stop and look.
The river isn’t that deep in most areas, and Farrow says it’s visible on a calm day.