Chapter 14
Sorrow
He did not say what I think he just said. He’ll burn the world for me? Little, insignificant me? The villains in my romance books burn the world down for their women. Trace Saints will do that for me? Do I want him to?
I don’t. I don’t want Trace to be a villain. Neither do I need a hero. I’ll be the warrior who slays the dragon and beats the villain at their own game. I don’t need rescuing, though I know I’m damaged beyond repair.
Except I’m not. Having swam in the warm pool and laughing as I swam side by side with Trace, knowing that his competitive nature prevented him from losing to me on purpose, I didn’t think about my past and how messed up my parents were, like I usually do.
Instead, I thought about the present with Trace and about my future. It is starting to look less bleak.
Knowing that his gaze is on me, I swim to the nearest ladder rather than to the opposite end of the pool, where it’s shallow.
Grabbing on to the ladder, I pull myself up, giving him a side view of my long hair that falls to my mid-back, a sliver of my small breast peeking from the side of my tiny bikini top, my creamy thigh, and my long legs.
My proportions are off. I have a shorter torso and longer legs than most girls my height.
At first, I hated how my body looked. Then, I changed my mind after trying on an outfit Leigh picked out for me.
Trace’s eyes widened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed before he looked away, his cheeks flushing, when I stepped out of my bedroom to grab fruit and something to drink from the fridge.
It was a royal-blue sweater paired with a black miniskirt and knee-high platform boots.
Leigh said the skirt and boots would draw any hot-blooded male’s attention to my long, slender legs.
Mortified by the thought of unwanted attention, I changed and stuffed the clothes and the boots in the back of the closet.
The next day, after watching Trace salivating over the girls in their skimpy outfits, I put on the clothes.
His anger was like a thick, palpable tension that filled his truck and followed me to class.
That day, I found out there was more than one predator in our high school. Afterward, I covered up in loose-fitting bland clothes that didn’t make me stand out. I only want to blend in, like a chameleon.
At this moment, though, with the hottest guy in our school watching me with his long legs straddling the lawn chair with his elbows on his knees and his hands tented in front of his mouth, I want to stand out.
I walk to Trace with my hands clasped behind my back. My hips sway. The tips of my hair cling to my wet skin. I stick out my chest.
The closer I get, the more intense his gaze becomes.
He takes me all in, his gaze sweeping me from my head to my bare feet and back to my face again.
The darkness that lives in him seems to exude from his body, surrounding him like a black cloud. I swallow down my nervousness. He crooks two fingers and pats the spot between his legs. My steps falter.
Jesus, will he use his fingers on me? Do I want him to? My body heats from the inside out. I fan my hot face. Trace smirks. I nearly melt in a pool of need at his feet. I really like Trace’s smirks.
Embarrassed that I’ve taken the strut your stuff too far, I cross my arms over my small breasts and walk-run to him.
Grabbing the towel, I hurriedly dry myself off and wrap it around my body before sitting in the chair next to his.
Trace surprises me when he gets up, puts his muscular arm under my knees, and sits us on his chair with me sideways on his lap.
Not knowing what to do with my arms, I circle them around his neck. He rewards me with a grunt full of satisfaction before he tells me to spill the details from my time with the Grays.
“You should already know about them.”
I don’t want to talk about another boy and his family. I want to know more about Trace and his parents. They’re always gone. Does he miss them? Or does he like it when they’re gone? It isn’t easy to tell. He’s either brooding or has on his mask of nonchalance when we’re home alone.
“Rush said he’s known you your whole life.”
“That’s a bunch of BS. Just ’cause we live in the middle of fucking nowhere within miles of one another doesn’t mean we’re close.”
I suck in a quiet breath. “You don’t like him.”
I stare at his side profile. Why does a boy I’m interested in have to be so handsome? Why can’t he be ugly? Then the girls wouldn’t trip over themselves getting to him, and I’d have him all to myself.
“We football guys don’t get along with the rugby dudes.”
My dad watched football all the time. I could hear him yelling at the upstairs television while I was reading or painting in the basement.
“Why’s that?”
“They hate on us for needing to wear our protective gear when they go without it in a very similar sport, while we football guys hate them for not trying out for the team. They’re all brute force and strength and can help us win games.”
I nod, agreeing with him. “Rush does look strong with his height and muscles. I can see why you would want him on your team.”
He shrugs like he doesn’t give a care, but his tone is terse. “Height and muscles can be misleading.”
Is he implying that Rush would mislead me? Feeling braver than I’ve ever felt, I ask Trace. “Since you’re teaching me the hard lessons of life, are you saying I should stay away from muscular guys because they’re”—I let go of his neck and wave—“because they could hurt or mislead me?”
“Or you can stay away from guys in general,” he grumbles.
I don’t know whether to smile or swat his shoulder for his comment. I do something I know he likes. I toy with the dark, silky strands at his nape. “You know I can’t do that, unless I join a convent.”
He opens his mouth. I beat him to whatever he was going to say.
“Which I’m not planning on doing.” Smiling, I playfully tug on his hair.
He tightens his hold on my mid-section and squeezes my hip.
“I plan on falling in love and kissing and making love to the man of my dreams. We’ll never tire of one another or think about being with other people because we’ll be so head over heels for one another. Being in a convent won’t give me that.”
“What you’re talking about is a bunch of baloney sauce.”
I laugh. “You’re funny.” I press my face into his hair and move my head from side to side. The strands are inky when wet, the shade almost the same as mine. “Baloney sauce. Who says that but you? I really like it, Trace. Thank you for making me laugh.”
He grunts. I laugh. He kneads my hip with his thick fingers. I bite down on the groan that’s ready to slip from my mouth.
Trace says he doesn’t care how I talk.
He hasn’t been mean to me. Only protective. Trace said he would burn the world for me. I’ll risk being vulnerable with him. If he does hurt me, it’ll be my fault and not his. Being vulnerable is risky. I never dropped my guard with my father.
Deep down, I knew he would always use words to hurt me, and letting down my guard would have been like leaving the door open for the big, mean monster to walk in and lash at me with words that slice through me like a newly sharpened knife.
“Dinner was nice.” He’s gone silent.
Waiting for him to say something, anything, I check my body for signs of the fight-or-flight response. I don’t have the urge to hop off his lap or demand he not touch me when his arm slides across my mid-section and his fingers fan over my hip.
His palm is big. Flesh on flesh. He has callouses. Roughened skin on smooth flesh. The warmth from his palm seeps into my skin. My senses heighten, and I become hyperaware of every caress from his fingers on my sensitive skin, every rough patch on his palm. Then he palms my ass cheek.
I tremble with need, and the ache between my legs starts anew.
My fingers flit to my neck. A comfortable silence lingers in the air.
Tamping down how hot and bothered I am with the gentle caresses from his fingers and how he palms each ass cheek like he owns them, I clear my throat and return to telling him about the dinner.
“Mrs. Gray didn’t know my food preferences, so she gave me the option of a vegetarian dish. It was roasted mushrooms and eggplant with white sauce. It tasted so good I went for seconds.”
“That’s nice, Sorrow.” His voice is devoid of emotion, but I can tell he’s unhappy with my happiness—he’s removed his arm from my mid-section and has his hand balled against his side.
Needing him to see my face for this part, my body trembling with need and something else—anger, perhaps, or concern, I’m not sure—I clasp his head in my palms and turn him to me until we’re eye-to-eye.
Trace’s bluish-green eyes reel me in with how gorgeous they are. I’ll never tire of looking at them.
Beneath the moonlight and the lights from the heat lamps around us, I search his face. Emotionless. I tsk. This boy is good at hiding his feelings beneath his nonchalant stare.
“Instead of being butthurt that I had a nice time with the Grays, can you be happy for me? I was really uncomfortable at first and didn’t want to go.
I don’t know these people, and out of the blue, their son asks me over for dinner.
There was no being friends first or even a slow introduction.
It was dinner, and I was having a conversation with strangers.
Rush doesn’t even go to our school.” I bunch my hands in his chest hair and tug the strands.
“Tell me I’m brave, Trace. Tell me how proud you are that I didn’t keel over from how out of control my heartbeats were and how all the blood left my brain when I entered a stranger’s house. ”
He doesn’t speak a lick to me. Trace doesn’t even blink.
“Trace.” I search his face again. “Say something.”
“Did you feel that way when my parents took you in? When you moved in? Were you anxious and scared?”
He’s angry, but not at me. He’s furious with himself. He regrets treating me like shit.