22. Twenty-Two
Twenty-Two
Liam
Sitting on my bike for three hours and chewing on a sandwich helps.
After firing that moron and actually seeing Sara home from Artemis’s grandfather’s office, I feel somewhat more coherent.
I don't miss the novelty of feeling like a private eye and creeping on her home with the subtlety of a horny coyote.
Her front door creaks open, and I get a little excited at the idea of seeing her, even if it’s for her to unleash her wrath on me. Her anger is better than this silence between us.
My pulse quickens when Sara’s figure steps out in a Nirvana baggy T-shirt and denim shorts, her dark ponytail dancing and brushing her shoulders, and I imagine it wrapped around my wrist, fucking her from behind. She’s so fucking beautiful.
She slips past her gate, phone glued to her palm, fiddling with the mailbox’s latch. The urge to walk over to her is damn near impossible to resist.
I watch her rip open an envelope with her teeth, and my cock twitches at the inflicting imagination of her hot mouth on me.
My hand wipes my thoughts clean over my face, looking up just in time to catch the split-second glance she gives me, and our gazes lock.
Which feels almost like an invitation, and my feet step forward, but my hopes vanish as fast as a tornado when she flips me off, then smiles.
I can barely hold the side smirk on my face as my entire chest contracts, and I gesture my hand to my heart as to say she’s wounded me.
The fuck is she doing to me?
I watch her vanish back inside, and the lights on the second-floor pulse to life.
A moment later, the house’s front door opens again, but this time a woman emerges. Her gait is deliberate, heels crunching on the driveway gravel, scarf tied with French precision. Her jaw, high cheekbones… Sara's mother. I’ve met her like neighbors would, but never really spoken with her before.
She crosses the street without looking both ways. It’s either a sign of arrogance or complete trust in the universe, and I'm not sure which scares me more.
I gently wave at her, looking down like a child in trouble. Her pigmented honey-whiskey eyes scan me up and down, quietly and determined to profile me. Her auburn curly hair making her downright impressively intimidating.
“What kind of man stands guard outside a teenager’s house for days?” She asks with a hint of violence in her voice.
“The kind who’s seen what happens when no one stands guard and, with all due respect ma’am, she’s an adult.” I say immediately.
She squints, her expression caught between skepticism and amusement. “How’s your mom been?”
“She’s been good, ma’am. Still in Cannes.”
“You can call me Yoyo.” She holds out her hand as if we're at a job interview, as if we haven’t crossed paths a million times in this tiny village. I shake her hand more out of reflex than manners. Her grip is firmer than I expect, a hint of “you better not fuck around” in the hand squeeze.
“Yoyo?” I ask, perplexed.
“Yes, it’s a family nickname from when I was young, I kept it.” She lets out a breath, looking around. “I saw you sitting here.” Voice dropping. “For a long time.”
“I'm sorry. That’s —”
“Clearly, you have a reason.” She cuts me off. “Sara doesn't tell me much, but she did mention someone has been stalking her. I’m worried. You think they’ll come for her again?”
“That's the working theory,” I say a little too sternly, forgetting I’m talking to Sara’s mother, but the power exuding from this woman makes me guess she’d smell the truth a mile away, even if it were disguised.
She nods. “Don't you have somewhere to be?”
“The only place I need to be is between her and whoever's watching her,” I say with no hesitation.
She nods again, satisfied. “If you are so worried, why not come inside? It is safer than this.” She gestures vaguely at the street, as if Saint-Tropez is crawling with snipers, which makes me let out a chuckle.
“Your daughter hates me,” I say, which is probably the most honest sentence I've spoken all month.
“Yes, she does.” She agrees, smiling with a weird maternal pride.
“But this is a you problem, not mine. Now, please come in. It’s about time I get to know my neighbor’s son a little better, don’t you think?
” She winks and walks away expecting me to follow.
I hesitate for exactly two seconds until I jog after her.
The house smells like lemon and jasmine, like Sara.
It’s curated, elegant. The beige linen curtains could cleanse your soul just by looking at them.
Everything is slick and square, with the pretense that everything inside is peaceful, but Joe had told me Sara and her mom had their fair share of hurdles throughout the years.
She gestures toward the living room. “You should eat something. Heroes need sustenance too.”
“I’m not a hero, Yoyo. I'm just trying to balance the scale a bit,” I sigh, pleasantly surprised by her hospitality.
Footsteps resonate above us. Sara must be in her bedroom, and I can’t wait to see her face when she discovers her own mother has invited one of her lurking monsters into the house.
Yoyo hands me a plate of food that smells divine and a cup of water.
“Thank you. This is unnecessary, though I…”
She interrupts. “It’s not charity. It’s practical. You’re no good to anyone if you’re starved and sleep deprived.” She pauses. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you and your daughter deserve more than to live in fear.” I take a bite and my eyes widen at the flavors.
“Chicken tagine—don’t get used to it. Sara doesn’t know how to cook. I saw you got a dog. You’re better off feeding it whatever she makes.” She laughs, and I do too. I don’t miss the implication hanging between us, as if I’m planning some future with her daughter. This woman doesn’t miss a beat.
She sits across from me, pours herself coffee, and studies my face like I’m a dossier she’s reviewing. “You care for her.” It isn’t a question.
“More than I should,” I admit.
Her eyes soften just a touch, the corners folding into a private smile.
“I asked her not to see your brother again, or you, but she wouldn’t listen.”
I sit up straighter. “Would you like me to stop seeing your daughter, Yoyo? Because if you do, I—”
“She told me you are dangerous, and I told her all men are, but the difference is what you do with that danger.” She leans closer. “So, Liam, tell me: what are you going to do with that danger?”
“For starters, whoever’s after your daughter doesn’t care about rules, and neither do I,” I say confidently.
She smiles with her eyes—a haunting approval crossing her face. “You look like your brother. I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Liam.”
That hits like a sucker-punch. “Thank you,” I say roughly, “and I’m sorry for your son.”
Tears well up in her eyes, but as quickly as they appear, she pushes them down, and I understand a little better where Sara finds her strength.
Her gaze flicks to the window. “Sara is… adrift. She’s angry because anger is easier than hurting, and I’ve damaged her with my grief. But I’m doing better now.”
“What do you mean?” I ask genuinely.
“I’ve said and done things… she didn’t deserve.” She looks down at her silver rings on her fingers. “Grief is a beast, but losing a child is like absorbing pain you can’t escape.”
She looks back at me, silently judging if I understand the path she’s on. She stands and heads to the kitchen, as she settles back with a fresh pot of coffee.
“I understand—” Footsteps pad down the hall, and I feel Sara’s pulse in the room, her eyes narrowing on me like she’s spotted a three-headed monster at supper with her mom.
“Sara, honey, you have a guest,” Yoyo calls, and I hide my grin behind my hand.
“Mom, what is he doing here?” Sara hisses through clenched teeth as her mother casually pours me a cup of coffee. Sara lunges forward, closing the distance, and her presence presses down on me.
“Mom, that’s not coffee you should pour him,” she snaps, snatching the pot away. “It’s poison.”
“Oh, honey, don’t be dramatic—he was hungry,” Yoyo says, her eyes hiding a plea with a “look at that poor puppy dog” as she reclaims the pot and walks off toward the kitchen.
“So what? You let hungry wolves through the front door?” Sara demands, dumbfounded, following my gaze. A mixture of amusement and longing twists something hot in my chest.
“Sara, please,” Yoyo sighs, and Sara whirls on me.
“Of all the manipulative—” She stops, watching the deliberate way I set down my fork, in disbelief that I’m infiltrating her life a little more every day.
“Your mom is hard to say no to, Sara. I’m a polite man—”
“I’m a polite man,” Sara mocks, her face contorted.
“Both of you, be quiet. I have to go to dinner. Liam, you’re welcome to take the guest room. Sara, behave,” Yoyo says finally.
My face breaks into a triumphant grin as Sara’s jaw drops.
“Guest room?” Sara asks stupefied. “Did he mention he’s the reason I haven’t slept in weeks? What the fuck, Mom!”
She storms off to get her purse. “I’ll leave the two of you to talk.” The door clicks shut behind her.
“Haven’t slept for weeks, huh?” I can’t help needling her.
Sara spins back to me, surrendering to her mother’s ignorance.
“So, this is your new strategy?” Rage and something darker coils through her. Christ, the thought of bending her over this very table and shoving my cock deep inside of her sends heat through me—though that wouldn’t be polite and, as I mentioned,
I’m a polite man.
“You have some nerve showing up here,” she says.
My voice remains even. “Just making sure nobody’s watching you.”
“Other than you, you mean?” Sara’s lips curl. She stalks to the kitchen, pops the tab on a soda, carbonated fizz oozes over her thumb, and I feel an urge to lick it. She hesitates, breathing deeply.
“Why are you here, Liam?” Her voice trembles with torment as she sits back in the chair across from me.
“You know why,” I say, but she’s oblivious to the turmoil churning in me, the dread settling in my gut ever since she wormed under my skin.