“No! Especially not him. He thinks he has me all figured out,” I mutter.
“What do you mean?”
I shake my head. “No way, Ashton. You’ve already gotten enough out of me for one day.”
Strumming his fingertips against the steering wheel, he sighs. “Fine. How were the twins after I left?”
I smile. “They asked if you could come back,” I confirm with a chuckle.
A wide smile stretches across his face. “Yeah? They liked me that much?”
I roll my eyes. “I think they liked you more than they like me. Eric said that I must get really angry when I’m Irish if you don’t want to be my boyfriend.”
A deep, throaty laugh escapes Ashton’s lips and my body instantly warms. “What’d you say?”
“Oh, I assured him that I get plenty mad even when I’m not ‘Irish’ and you’re around.”
That earns another laugh. “I love it when you don’t censor yourself. When you just say what’s on your mind and don’t worry about it.”
“Then you and Stayner would get along well . . .” We pass campus signs, indicating we’re not far and my day with Ashton is almost over. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. The thought hurts.
“That’s right. You’re supposed to be spilling your guts to me, right?”
My head falls back against the headrest as I mutter, more to myself, “You first.”
I didn’t really mean anything by it. Ashton is riddled with secrets, but I know they’re not going to start trickling out of his mouth anytime soon. Still, I sense the temperature in the car plummet.
“What do you want to know?” His tone is low and quiet. Hesitant, even.
“I—” My voice falters. I start with what I think is an innocent question, my voice as casual as possible. “You told the boys that you want to be a pilot. Why?”
With an exhale, he mutters, “Because you told me not to lie to them.”
Okay. “What about being a lawyer?”
“I’ll be a lawyer until I can be a pilot.” His tone is so calm and quiet that it lulls me into a sense of comfort.
Switching gears, I ask, “What’s your favorite memory of your mother?”
There’s a slight pause. “I’ll pass on that one, Irish.” Still calm and quiet, but the cutting edge is there.
I watch him as he begins absently fingering the strap. “How old were you?”
“Eight.” The answer comes with a crack. I close my eyes and turn to watch the house lights pass by, hoping they’ll replace the vision of the scared little boy that’s blazing in my skull.
Ashton’s hand curls around mine. “He only lost control the once. The scars, I mean. He never left evidence the other times.” The other times. “The closet was usually his favorite. He’d put me in there for hours. Usually with duct tape, to keep me quiet.” I try to suppress the sob with my free hand but I can’t, and it comes out in a strange, guttural cry.
We’re silent for a moment, but I need to know more about Ashton. Everything. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask, “Why do you wear it?”
“Because I’m a fucking prisoner in my life, Irish!” As if that sudden outburst revealed more than he intended, his mouth clamps shut. He releases my hand.
I alternate between furtive glances at him and smoothing the pleats in my skirt, but I don’t say anything as he turns into the quiet parking lot. When he pulls into a corner spot, off to the end, I expect him to shut the ignition and jump out, anxious to be rid of me. But he doesn’t. He lets the car idle with the radio playing softly as his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose.
“You probably think I’m exaggerating, aren’t you.” His tone is tempered again. I sit still and listen. “I’m living it up, right? This school, the money, the girlfriend . . . this fucking car.” He slams his fist on the dashboard angrily. “Poor fucking me, right?” His hands fold at the back of his neck as he leans back to close his eyes. “He’s controlling me, Irish. My life. And everything in it. I’m trapped.” There’s no mistaking the pain in his voice now. It’s raw and agonizing, and it squeezes my chest.
I don’t have to ask whom he’s talking about. I’m sure it’s the same person who gave Ashton his scars. I so badly want to ask how he’s trapped and why, but I don’t want to push him too hard. He might shut down. So instead I whisper, “How can I help?”
“Make me forget.” He looks at me. The sadness that I saw in his eyes a week ago is revealing itself again.
“I . . .” I falter. What is he asking me to do? He uses sex to forget, he already suggested that. But I won’t . . . I can’t . . . Panic is bubbling inside and it must be clear on my face.
“Not that, Irish,” he whispers. “I don’t want that from you. I won’t ever ask for that.” He releases his seat belt and then reaches over to undo mine. Taking my hand, he pulls it toward his chest. With no hesitation and enormous relief, I shift in my seat until I can rest it over his heart. It responds immediately, starting to beat faster and harder as his hand presses tightly over mine, warming it.
“Your hand like this? I can’t even describe how incredible it feels,” he whispers with a wistful smile. I bite my lip as a thrill rushes through my insides, knowing that I’m making him feel this good, that I feel so connected to him.
Resting his head back on his seat and closing his eyes, he quietly asks, “Do you think about me, Irish?”
“Yes.” The answer comes out faster than I intended, and I feel the responding skip beneath my fingers.
“A lot?”
I hesitate on that one, trying to swallow my embarrassment.
Cracking one eye to look at me, he murmurs. “You’re supposed to just tell me.”
“Right.” I smile to myself. “Yes.” Another skip.
There’s a pause, and then he whispers, “I didn’t mean to make you cry over me, Irish. The bad stuff was a long time ago. He can’t hurt me like that anymore. He has other ways, but . . .”
With a ragged sigh, I offer him a smile. “I’m sorry. I cry a lot. My sister makes fun of me. And I think it was just an emotional day all round. Sometimes it’s hard to stop dwelling on the bad stuff.”
His lips part as if about to respond, but then he closes them. I wonder what he’s thinking but I don’t ask. I just watch a calm peace pass over his face while his heart still pounds. “Do you want me to help you forget for a while?”
“I . . .” My wide eyes flash to his mouth.
And suddenly he’s moving, twisting in his seat and pushing me back gently into mine, telling me to relax before I can even register that my entire body has tensed.
Ashton doesn’t hesitate, his mouth claiming mine, his tongue forcing its way in. My chest feels light yet at the same time heavy and my body feels like it’s on fire but icy cold. I quickly don’t care about anything or anyone else but myself and being with him.
I silently marvel at how his tongue is both delicate and forceful, skillfully sliding and curling around mine. His mouth is just as minty and heavenly and delicious as I remember it being. So delicious that I barely notice my chair reclining. He’s set it to a comfortable slant where I’m still sitting but am able to stretch out. Shifting his mouth to my ear to graze the lobe with his tongue, he says in a low, gravelly voice that vibrates through to my core, “I’m going to do something and you can tell me to stop.” I inhale sharply as a hand settles on my thigh and begins its ascent. “But I really hope you don’t.”
I think I know what he wants to do and I can’t believe this is happening. Am I going to let this happen? A natural instinct makes me squeeze my knees together for a moment, but then Ashton starts kissing me with a new level of intensity. My knees relax as my body craves his touch, welcoming his hand as it begins slowly rubbing back and forth over my nylons.
I can feel myself respond with each pass and I wonder if Ashton can tell. My
hand instinctively moves to the back of his neck, where his dark hair hangs in sexy wisps, to grasp a handful and tug slightly. His kiss deepens even more, his hand moves even faster, and when a tiny moan escapes me, it seems to push him over the edge.
Ashton shifts and reaches down with his other hand. Pinching the seam of my nylons between his fingers, he tugs, and a tearing sound fills the car. Maybe I would have been a little annoyed at that, but I don’t have a chance because his hand doesn’t waste any time, slipping under the edge of my panties.
I gasp and break free from his mouth to look into his eyes, my body tense and trembling. “I’ve never—” He stops my words with a kiss.
“I know, Irish. Remember? Jell-O shots are your kryptonite for secrets.”
I close my eyes as I groan and press my forehead against his, my cheeks flaming. “I actually told you that no one’s ever . . . ?” I can’t even bring myself to say the words.
As if in answer, Ashton slides one finger in slowly. “No one’s ever what, Irish?” he whispers playfully as another finger slides in. My answering moan has his mouth closing over mine again.
In the back of my mind, I’m aware that I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car in a parking lot. I should be horrified. But I quickly rationalize that the windows are black and no one is around. Soon, with the way Ashton deftly moves his hand, knowing exactly the right speed and pressure to make my body relax and my thighs fall apart, I realize that the car could be circled by zombies and I wouldn’t care.
He doesn’t complain at all when I tug at his hair or accidently bite his lip. By the way his breathing speeds up and his mouth turns more aggressive, I know he’s enjoying this. And when I feel the sensation build in my lower belly, Ashton’s hand somehow knows to move faster, making me squirm and writhe and rock against it.
“Let me hear it, Irish,” he says in a strained whisper, just as my body starts to shudder against his hand. With his mouth pressed against my throat, I cry out in response, my fingernails digging into his bicep as the waves hit me.
“That was fucking hot, Irish,” he murmurs into my ear, his forehead pressed against my headrest. I blush as I pull my thighs back together. But he doesn’t move his hand away yet and I don’t push it away. “Did it help you forget?”
My nervous giggle is the only answer I can give him. Forget? My brain went blank. I forgot about my problems, his problems, and the potential zombie apocalypse. If that’s what orgasms do, then I can’t believe people ever leave their houses. Or cars.
“I guess that’s another first for you involving me,” he murmurs. One that I will never forget.
With one light kiss on my nose, he finally moves his hand to smooth my skirt down to a respectable level. Glancing down pointedly at himself, I hear him say with amusement in his tone, “And for me, too.” When he catches my confused expression, he starts chuckling softly. “That’s never happened.”
My eye widen in shock as I drop my gaze to his lap. That only makes the chuckling turn into full-blown laughter.
It takes exactly three hours.
Three hours—lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my books sitting closed beside me—for the orgasmic wave to pass and for the nausea to set in as I realize what I just allowed to happen. What I wanted to happen. What I don’t regret happening.
And when I answer Connor’s call and he apologizes profusely for not taking me to New York, and promises that he’ll make it up to me, I just smile into the phone and tell him that it’s okay. I wish him good luck with his paper. I think about what a sweet, good guy he is and how much my parents would love him. I think about how I should end things with him, given what I’ve done.
I hang up the phone.
And I cry.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thoroughbreds
“What were you thinking?”
“Not much, clearly.”
I hear the exasperation in Kacey’s voice. “I don’t know about you, Livie . . . Sometimes you’re as graceful as a one-legged flamingo in a pit of quicksand.”
I roll my eyes. Some of the stuff my sister comes up with . . . “It’s a mild sprain. It’s almost better. I don’t even need crutches anymore.”
“When did it happen?”
“Three weeks ago now, I think? Maybe four. I’m not sure.” Time seems to both drag and fly by lately. All I’m sure of is that I haven’t seen Ashton in two weeks, since he walked me to my dorm that night, kissed my cheek good night, and turned away. And I haven’t heard from him since I got a text the following morning with the words:
One-time thing. Doesn’t change anything. Stay with Connor.
“Three or four weeks and you’re only telling me now?” Kacey’s tone is a mixture of annoyance and hurt, making a bubble of guilt swell in my throat. She’s right. I can’t believe I haven’t talked to her live in almost a month. I haven’t told her about the sprain. I haven’t told her about Connor. I certainly haven’t told her about Ashton.
“I’m sorry. I got caught up with midterms and stuff.”
“How’d they go?”
“Okay, I guess.” I’ve never struggled through exams, or walked into them feeling unprepared. But I left every single one of mine last week with a queasy stomach. I don’t know if it’s just the jitters from the added pressure. I do know that I spent entirely too much time dwelling on non-school things like what my feelings are for Ashton and what Connor would do if he knew what happened. Would he dump me? Probably. I consider telling him so that he will, because I’m too weak to end it with him. But that could cause problems between Connor and Ashton, and I don’t want to do that. They’re living together, after all, and I’m the girl in the middle.
And then I’d focus on my irritation with Ashton for ever laying one of his masterfully skilled hands on me. I’d let that irritation fester into full-on anger. Then the leather belt, the scars, the tattoos, and whatever else he’s hiding would all culminate into a mess of worry inside my head and heart, dousing my anger, leaving me hurting for him. Desperate to see him again.
And then I’d get angry with myself for wanting to see him, for letting him do what he did, for being too selfish and afraid to end things with Connor. For getting lost in shades of right and wrong instead of sticking to the black and white that I can make sense of.
There’s a long pause, and then Kacey asks, “You guess?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. You’ve just never . . . guessed before.” Another long pause. “What’s going on, Livie?”
“Nothing. I’m tired. I haven’t slept a lot lately.” It’s when I’m lying in bed that I seem to think about Ashton the most. Worry about him. Crave him. I’ve been lying in bed a lot.
“Have you talked to Dr. Stayner recently?”
With a heavy sigh, I admit, “No.” Because I’ll have to lie to him and I don’t want to do that, either. Avoidance is key. Reagan is onto something. Checking the clock, I mutter, “I have class in twenty.” My English lit class. I don’t feel like going. I’ve only done a quarter of the reading, so I’ll be lost anyway. I look at my bed. A nap would feel amazing right now . . .
“Well . . . we miss you, Livie.”
I smile sadly, thinking about Storm’s growing belly and Mia’s science experiments, and nights with my sister on the back deck, overlooking the ocean, and a hollow ache fills my chest. As pretty as the Princeton campus is, it just doesn’t compare. “I miss you too.”
“Love you, sis.”
I’m crawling into my top bunk for that nap when my phone chirps with a text:
Are you in your room? It’s Ash.
A thrill rushes through me as I type:
Yes.
The response comes immediately:
I’ll walk you to class. See you in a few . . .
What? He’s coming here? Now? My wide eyes dart around our room,
at Reagan’s pile of dirty clothes, at my sweats, at my pale complexion and the rat’s nest of black hair reflecting back at me in the mirror. Scrambling, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt that Storm bought me but I’ve never worn. It’s light blue to match my eyes, fitted, and cut in a low V-neck. Because suddenly, I feel the need to tempt Ashton. Then I set to work on my hair, struggling to pull a brush through it. Seriously, I think rats have actually nested in it.
A loud knock on my door makes my heart leap. Peeking at my reflection in the mirror one last time, I quickly smooth on Reagan’s sheer lip gloss to add some color to my face. Then, with a deep breath, I walk over to unlock and open the door.
Ashton is standing with his back to me as he scans the hall. When he turns to face me, my stomach flips the way it did the first time I saw those intoxicating dark features. Only the feeling is so much more intense now, because it’s coupled with a magnetic pull wrenching at both my body and my heart.
“I thought I’d walk you to class on account of that lame foot,” he murmurs with a wry grin, his gaze drifting down and up my frame, unashamed.
“Thanks,” I murmur with a shy smile, turning to grab my books and coat from my desk. Truth be told, my foot is almost perfect. But I’m willing to not tell the truth if it means a ten-minute walk with Ashton.
Our conversation is normal, safe. He asks me a few questions about my exams; he answers a few about his. He asks me about the twins. When I see the door to the lecture hall up ahead, my heart sinks. I don’t want ten minutes with Ashton. I want ten hours. Ten days. Longer.
But Ashton doesn’t leave. He follows me into the lecture hall, down the stairs, straight to the front row, and sits down beside me. I don’t question him. I don’t say a word. I just watch as he stretches those long legs out, once again encroaching on my space. My body turns toward him this time, welcoming him. Wanting him.
“So how are those redeeming qualities of mine coming along?” he murmurs as the prof walks to the podium with his notes.
I think of the answer I want to give. I finally say, “I’ll let you know when I find one.”