Mended (Connections #3)

Mended (Connections #3) Page 14

“Watching a movie sounds great.”

“Terrific. There’s a new movie with that actress Jules Atwood on demand I’ve been dying to catch.”

“Jules Atwood?”

“Yes, she’s the actress cast in No Led Zeppelin.”

“Right,” I reply with a smirk. “My cousin’s movie.”

She nods. “Just give me a minute to change and I’ll meet you in the back lounge.”

I make a skeptical noise over her choice of movie and she flashes me a grin before leaving the room.

“Okay, Mr. Push-ups, let’s hear your story,” she mock demands as she enters the dimly lit lounge I’m already sitting in watching the all-time classic movie Stripes.

I swivel around in my chair and glance up. “Chicks dig me, because I rarely wear underwear and when I do it’s usually something unusual.” I grin, quoting John Winger’s most awesome line from the movie.

She giggles and flops into the chair next to mine. “God, I haven’t watched this movie in years.”

“Me either.” I almost say Not since the last time I watched it with you, but I don’t.

“Can we watch this instead?”

I give her a charming smile. “Sure, if you insist.” Like she has to ask me twice about skipping what I can only imagine to be a chick flick.

She has no makeup on, but she doesn’t need it. And when her face is a blank canvas, her eyes seem to always sparkle. Her hair is piled loosely on top of her head, and as she swivels to hoist her feet up on the table, the oversized neckline of her sweatshirt exposes a hint of lace. Fuck, we haven’t been alone like this until now, and I want nothing more than to pull her off that chair and onto my lap.

We sit next to each other for the rest of the movie and even talk over it at times. But the closest our bodies come to touching is when I kick my boots up on the coffee table next to her bare feet.

“Don’t put your shoes on the furniture,” she comments and taps her toes against my boots, shoving my feet down.

I make an amused face. “Yes, ma’am. We don’t want to mark up the fine furnishings.”

She giggles and I toe my boots off, then kick my sock-clad feet back up, where her toes remain very close to mine. Friends, I keep reminding myself. I can do this—establish what we had through friendship first. But no matter how many times I say it in my head, that doesn’t stop me from feeling the way I feel toward her.

The credits roll. Her feet graze mine for a few long moments—on purpose or by accident, I don’t know, but my body reacts instantly to her touch. She looks at me, biting her lip, and the sight sets me on fire. I rise from my chair, ready to pounce, but she stands at the same time and yawns. “It’s late. I’m going to call it a night. Thank you for watching that with me.”

“Good night, Ivy. I really enjoyed the movie and the company.”

She scurries out of the room without turning back, and for a minute I consider chasing after her, but I head to bed instead.

• • •

I awake from a deep sleep. Some nights I sleep like a baby, others I find myself tossing and turning most of the night. Tonight is one of those in-between nights. I open my eyes and find myself spinning the gun on his desk as someone taunts me: “Pull the trigger. I dare you. You’re such a sorry excuse of a son. Just do it.” The shadow hovers over me, a face I can’t make out. My heart is pounding and adrenaline pumps through my veins as he urges me to just do it.

“Xander, man, wake up,” Garrett says, touching my shoulders, shaking me.

I look up to see him, not my father, standing over me. Fuck, I haven’t had a dream like that in a long time.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Thanks. Sorry if I woke you. Just a bad dream.” He lets the curtain fall back and I shift restlessly for the next few hours.

After a breakdown on the road, we’re headed to Cleveland, and can finally get off this bus. I’ll be glad to stay in my own room and get some decent rest. I’m too tired to get any work done today. My head is drowning with the same regrets I always have after dreams of my father—mainly one regret—why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Of course, in my dreams it’s always my father tempting me with death in some way—but three therapists later, the dreams mean the same thing. I have to let my guilt go or the dreams will continue to haunt me. I have no f**king idea how to do that, and seeing a shrink was not my thing—talking about feelings and evaluating everything in my life since I was born is something I ultimately passed on.

Unable to sleep, I hop out of bed and check my e-mails, but find nothing of concern and no fires to put out, so I decide to go back to bed. Around noon I finally haul my sorry ass up. I skip any kind of workout today—I’m just too drained. The galley is quiet as I walk through it and into the small bathroom. Turning the hot water on in the shower as high as I can, I try to erase the nightmare from my mind and for once just let thoughts of Ivy consume me. The mirror starts to fog up and I think about last night. Shit, all I want to do is make her mine.

Stripping off my clothes, I’m already half hard just thinking about her, her perfect body, and how much I want to be with her again. I step into the pint-sized shower with my c**k in my hand. I want her hand to curl around me so she’ll feel how hard she makes me. I close my eyes and gently rub, first around my cock, then my balls. Fuck, that feels good. I picture her doing this—in the shower, with us exploring our bodies in any way we want. I want to feel her hands gripping me. I think of her, her face, her body . . . the ways I want to touch her, where I want to touch her. I imagine driving my c**k into her sweet pu**y, and it makes me want to come hard and fast.

My fist pumps at a quicker pace and I lick the water from my lips. The pressure wells deep and a tingling radiates from my cock. As my orgasm starts to build, so do the contractions—it feels like electricity is shooting through me. My dick twitches and I can’t hold on any longer. As I start to come, practically spasming, the incredible feeling builds and I finally let myself go, crossing that threshold over and over until I’m spent. My chest rises and falls and I slouch back against the shower wall.

Once my breathing returns to normal, I lather up with soap, rinse it off, and get out of the shower. I don’t bother to shave. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I wipe the steam from the mirror. The ink on my side was always the hope for my future, but I f**ked it up because I never went after it. Hazel eyes and brown hair reflect back and I try to see my life differently from what it really is—I’m thirty f**king years old and I have nothing—nothing that matters, anyway.

Throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, I attempt to shake off the morning. I print out the daily schedule and post it, then head over to get a cup of coffee. Nix and Garrett sit in comfortable silence in the lounge. Nix is reading the paper and Garrett is eating something that resembles nachos.

“Want some? There’s plenty,” Garrett says, crunching a chip.

“No, thanks. That looks disgusting. What is it?”

“It’s classic is what it is—a can of chili con carne, a jar of nacho sauce, and a bag of chips.”

I pour a cup of the coffee that looks like sludge. “Flynn, your eating habits need some serious help.”

“Hey, watch out—the next time you’re craving my pizza, I might just tell you to make it yourself.”

I shake my head and laugh. “Remind me again when I ever asked you to take a stale-looking hunk of bread and slap a jar of sauce on it?”

He just grins at me and crunches another chip. I take my coffee and stumble blurry-eyed into the back lounge to catch ESPN. Leif’s in there, and he looks me over.

“Rough night?” he asks.

I rub my hand over my stubble. “Just ready to get off this bus.”

He’s in the club chair, twirling while watching TV. “I know the feeling. Want to play some ball?”

Since my mind is shot and I can’t do any work right now . . . “Why not?”

An hour later, I’m killing him. I’ve always been a competitive guy. I don’t f**k around . . . video game or real game, it’s all the same. When my team is beating his, 95 to 72, I yell, “Yeah!” and pump my fist in the air.

He sets the controller down. “Bastard! I’m done.”

“Yes, you are—you sad son of a bitch. You lost! Rematch?”

Shaking his hand, he says, “No f**king way. Are we almost there?”

I glance at my watch and see it’s a little before three. “John said we’d be there before five. What’s your rush?”

“Just wish there were chicks on this bus so I could get a handy while we wait.”

Unable to believe his candor, I have to laugh. “What about that girl of yours you’re always talking on the phone with?”

“She dumped my ass.”

“That’s why you’ve been so punchy. Makes sense now.”

“Yeah, but tonight I’m not only getting stone drunk, you can bet I’ll be taking as many BJs as are offered my way.”

“Why did she break it off?”

“My girl?”

I grin at him. “I’m not talking about your dick.”

“Fuck you,” he says.

Leif and I have really hit it off and I enjoy having him around.

“No, really, what happened?” I ask.

“She’s pissed that I’m on the same bus as Ivy.”

This piques my interest. “Why? Do the two of you have something going on?”

“Fuck, no. She’s like my sister.”

“Did you explain that to your girl?”

“Man, I’ve talked about it so much that last night after another fight, I was over it and just said fine, believe what you want. You want to believe I’d cheat, believe it.”

“No, he’s definitely not the cheater,” Ivy chimes in. She’s standing behind my chair and I whirl around. Her words assault me and her eyes flash to me in an accusatory manner, but the moment passes quickly. She moves next to Leif and picks up his controller, then adds, “Just give her some time and then call her back—she knows you’re not the kind of guy who’d cheat.” She tips her head to the side and Leif moves out of the chair. She flops down in it and when she does her knee grazes mine, and every muscle in my body clenches. I want that two seconds of contact to happen over and over. She looks at me. “Go for the championship?”

I quickly focus my eyes on the TV. “Bring it, baby.” The word baby slips out. Ivy remains still for a moment, but Leif doesn’t seem to notice.

With the Lakers just catching their stride, Garrett, in all his annoyance, stands in front of me. “Hey, why don’t you make like Michael Jackson and beat it? My turn.”

“Beat it yourself, asswipe. We’re not in elementary school.”

“Right! So take your loss like a man and move on out so a real player can beat a chick,” he says, snatching the remote from me.

I stand up. “This ought to be good. You haven’t beaten me in anything since . . . oh yeah, never. Unless you cheat, that is.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he says and starts to play.

I lean against the window to watch. But under her breath I hear Ivy mutter, “That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

I’ve had just about enough of leaving the past in the past. It’s time to have that conversation I’ve been holding back on. So when Nix walks in the room, I ask him, “Nix, why don’t you take over for Ivy? I need to talk to her about something.”

She glares at me with a fierceness in her eyes I’m not used to seeing, but I’m ready—it’s time to come clean. I nod toward her bedroom and she stands with a huff, throwing the controller down. “Xander, I told you let’s leave the past in the past,” she tells me in a whisper.