Chapter 7 #2
She turned to walk away.
I grabbed the bolt. It was heavy.
"We're getting it," I said.
"Greg, no. It's three hundred dollars."
"I don't care." I hoisted it onto my shoulder. "Consider it a tutoring fee. Or an investment. When you're famous, you can make me a suit."
"A suit made of blue silk?" She laughed. "You'd look like a pimp."
"I'd look magnificent," I corrected. "Come on."
We went to the counter. The woman working there—a sour-faced lady with glasses on a chain—looked at Michelle's expensive coat, then at me, then back at Michelle.
"We don't do returns on cut fabric," the woman snapped at Michelle. "So make sure you actually want it, honey. It's not a toy."
I saw Michelle flinch. The armor came up instantly. Her chin lifted.
"I know," Michelle said coldly. "I'm a designer."
"Student, probably," the woman muttered, unrolling the bolt aggressively. "Daddy's credit card?"
Michelle opened her mouth to retort, but I stepped in. I placed my hands flat on the counter. The sound echoed.
The woman looked up, startled.
"She's not just a student," I said, my voice low, dropping into the Gavel register.
"She's the best designer you're going to see in this decade.
And she's paying with my card. So unless you want to measure that fabric with a little more respect, we're going to take our business to the place down the street. "
The woman paled. "I... I didn't mean..."
"Three yards," I commanded. "Cut it straight."
Michelle stared at me. Her mouth was slightly open.
I winked at her.
She bit her lip, suppressing a smile that could have lit up the entire warehouse.
When we walked out, me carrying the heavy bag of silk, she bumped her shoulder against mine.
"My hero," she teased. "Threatening old ladies in fabric stores. So tough."
"She was rude," I shrugged. "Nobody talks to my... roommate like that."
"Your roommate," she repeated, testing the word. It felt insufficient. It felt like a lie.
"Hungry?" I asked, changing the subject.
"Starving."
We ended up at a dive bar near the waterfront. Sticky floors, neon signs, and the smell of fried fish.
We sat in a booth in the back. We ordered lobster rolls and a basket of fries the size of a hubcar.
We ate like we hadn't seen food in a week.
"Okay," Michelle said, wiping mayonnaise off her lip with a napkin. "Truth time. What is the tattoo? The band on your arm."
I paused, a fry halfway to my mouth. I usually didn't talk about it.
"It's a reminder," I said.
"Of what?"
I looked at her. She was genuinely curious. No judgment.
"My brother," I said. "He died when I was twelve. Car accident."
Michelle's face fell. "Greg... I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"We were close," I said, staring at the table. "He was the wild one. The forward. I was the careful one. I was supposed to be watching him. That night... I wasn't watching."
"You were twelve," she said fiercely. "You can't blame yourself for that."
"I don't blame myself anymore," I said. "But the tattoo... it's a black armband. Like they wear in mourning. But it's permanent. It reminds me that life is fragile. That chaos is always waiting. That's why I need order. That's why I play defense. Because if I control the game, nobody gets hurt."
Michelle reached across the table. She placed her hand over the tattoo on my bicep, squeezing gently through the fabric of my sweater.
"You can't control everything, Greg," she whispered. "Sometimes the ice cracks."
"I know." I covered her hand with mine. "But I have to try."
"You're a good man, Greg Sterling," she said. Her eyes were shining. "A rigid, bossy, terrifying man. But a good one."
"And you," I said, "are a chaotic, messy, brilliant pain in my ass."
She laughed. "I try."
An older couple was walking past our booth. The woman stopped, smiling down at us.
"Oh, look at you two," she cooed. "Young love. Harold, remember when we used to look at each other like that?"
Harold grunted. "I was never that big, Martha."
"You two are adorable," the woman said to us. "How long have you been together?"
I froze.
Michelle froze.
"We're not..." I started.
"Six months," Michelle blurted out at the same time.
We looked at each other.
"It feels like longer," I improvised, squeezing her hand. "She's a handful."
"He's obsessed with me," Michelle added, beaming at the woman. "It's embarrassing, really."
The woman laughed, patted Harold on the arm, and walked away.
As soon as they were gone, we dropped hands like they were on fire.
"Obsessed with you?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Six months?" she countered. "You think we'd last six months without killing each other?"
"We'd probably last six years," I muttered, picking up my beer.
"What?"
"Nothing. Eat your fries."
But the air around us had changed. The label—Young Love—hung there. It didn't feel wrong. It felt terrifyingly, inevitably right.
The sun had set by the time we got back in the truck. The temperature had plummeted. Snow was falling in thick, heavy flakes, turning the world into a blur of white.
The drive home was quiet. But it was a heavy silence. The kind that feels like a held breath.
The heater hummed. The windshield wipers swished rhythmically.
Michelle had her feet on the dash again. I put my hand on her ankle. Just resting there. Claiming her.
She shifted, turning in her seat to look at me. In the dashboard lights, her eyes were dark pools.
"Greg?"
"Yeah?"
"Today was... really good."
"It was just errands."
"It wasn't just errands," she whispered. "It was... us."
Us.
I pulled the truck over.
We were on a bluff overlooking the bay, about five miles from campus. It was pitch black outside, save for the swirling snow in the headlights.
I put the truck in park and killed the engine. The silence rushed in.
"Why are we stopping?" she asked, her voice breathless.
"Because," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. "I can't drive when you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to park this truck and wreck you."
She swallowed audibly. "Maybe I do."
I turned in my seat, reaching for her. She met me halfway.
She scrambled over the center console, ignoring the gear shift digging into her hip. I pulled her into my lap. The steering wheel was in the way, the cab was cramped, but I didn't care.
She straddled me, her legs going on either side of my hips. Her face was inches from mine.
"Hi," she breathed.
"Hi."
I kissed her.
It wasn't like the bathroom kiss. That had been about power and release.
This was about need.
I kissed her slowly, tasting the lobster and the salt and the sweetness of her. My hands roamed over her back, tangling in her hair. She sighed into my mouth, her body melting against mine.
"Greg," she moaned. "We're in a truck."
"I know."
"Anyone could drive by."
"Let them."
I moved my hands to her waist, under the shearling coat, under the sweater. Skin on skin. She was so warm.
She ground down on my lap. I groaned, a low, animal sound tearing from my throat. I was hard, painfully so, straining against my jeans.
"I want you," she whispered against my neck. "I want you so bad it hurts."
"I know, baby. I know."
I wanted to take her. right here. Recline the seat, rip her leggings open, and bury myself in her until the windows fogged over and the world disappeared.
But I couldn't.
Not here. Not like this.
And not with the shadow of her father and my contract hanging over us.
If I slept with her—really slept with her—I would be crossing a line I couldn't uncross. I would be risking her future. If Vane found out, he'd pull her from school. He'd destroy the one thing she was building for herself.
I was supposed to be her shield, not the weapon that took her down.
I pulled back, breathing hard. My forehead rested against hers.
"We have to stop," I rasped.
"Why?" She sounded wrecked. Her lips were swollen. Her eyes were heavy-lidded.
"Because," I said, stroking her cheek with my thumb. "If we do this... if we actually do this... I need you to be free first."
"Free?"
"Free of him. Free of the fear." I kissed her nose. "I won't be another secret you have to keep, Michelle. I won't be another mistake you have to hide from your father."
She stared at me, her chest heaving.
"You're not a mistake," she whispered.
"I will be if he finds out. He'll take you away."
She shuddered. She knew I was right.
"So we just... wait?" she asked.
"We wait," I said. "Until you graduate. Until the contract is done."
"That's four months, Greg."
"I can wait," I lied. Every cell in my body was screaming no. "I'm a defenseman. I'm good at waiting for the right shot."
She laughed, a wet, shaky sound. She wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder.
"You're amazing," she mumbled. "And I hate you."
"I know."
I held her there for a long time, watching the snow pile up on the windshield.
We were in a bubble. It was warm. It was safe.
But outside, the storm was getting worse. And I knew, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that the bubble couldn't last forever.
Eventually, the ice always cracks.
"Let's go home," I said softly.
"Home," she repeated.
And for the first time, she meant the house with the peeling paint and the grumpy Captain.
I put the truck in gear.
We drove back to reality, holding hands the whole way.