Bone Deep (10 page)

“Nothing’s going on,” I add, watching as her gaze darkens. I start to count in my head the seconds un
til she’ll turn and stomp off.

One, two
, three.

A car turns right, the sound of the exhaust covering up the beat of my heart.

Four, five, six.

Pedestrians pass by. She’s still standing here, her hand warming a spot on my chest.

Seven, eight
—

“I don’t expect you to tell me your life’s story,” she finally says, her voice frail and disarming. Why am I so drawn to her? And why does the thought of her leaving and never speaking to me again hit me like a punch to the gut? Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she continues, “But I guess I kind of want to know why being in that studio does this to you.” Her hands slide to my forearms and squeeze, then drift to my wrists. Her fingers gently uncurl mine. “Or why every time that man spoke, it looked like you were being beaten from the inside out.” Her fingers slide between mine and words start to fall from my mouth.

“A few months ago, my dad…” I bite hard on my lip. Dammit, what am I doing? I take a breath. I have to say something about him.
Ob
viously not the truth. But something close. “He left while I was interning with Alessi and…I guess you could say it’s seriously a miracle all I did was burn myself.” I lift my hand to show her the smooth, pale-colored scar above the back of my thumb. “I quit the internship.”

She blinks slowly. “Being in there reminds you of him?”

I nod.

“And your mom? What does she think about it?” For so
me reason, I don’t think Cam truly cares about my mom. Losing her mom, though, she probably just wants to hear about
some
body’s mom. It’s odd, but I’ve done the same with Ditty before. Asked stupid, meaningless questions about his dad, like what he did in the evenings or if he knew how to barbeque, just to—for a split second—imagine my life was like his.

“I don’t have a mom.” The words come out flat. Detached. It’
s easy to talk about someone I can barely remember. “I mean I do, I’m sure, somewhere. But she abandoned ship when I was little. Never heard from her after that.”

“
Krister, I’m so sorry.” The honest-to-God concern she feels is over me. Something concrete in my chest bobbles, and it discharges a cautionary shock through my system. Whatever the hell is going on inside me has to stop.

She steps close, running her tiny hands up my arms. The knot of tension in my chest loosens with each stroke of her hand, and I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have those hands all over me. Slowly, she raises up on her tiptoes, crad
les my face in her hands and smashes her mouth to mine. The touch of her ignites a fire in my chest, and suddenly I don’t care if we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, surrounded by moms and dads and kids.

I want this girl, and I want her now.
She must have the same idea because as I turn our bodies with my arms around her back and guide/shuffle/walk us to an alcove between storefronts, she attacks—open mouthed and without hesitation. Out of view from the public, I press her back to the brick wall. Her tongue darts into my mouth and, hot damn, I don’t know what it is about this girl, but she’s managed to wipe away the pain clawing at my chest.

I nip at her bottom lip, and her breath escapes in a
whoosh
. My mouth trails the line of her jaw down to her neck, and I drop a row of kisses along her shoulder, my finger toying with the thin strap of her shimmery tank top. Her hands find mine and guide one to the swell of her breast. The other she moves to her cheek, pressing her face against it for a small, silent moment. Then she kisses the inside of my wrist; the gesture is insignificant, yet intimate, and gets my blood flowing south.

As close as I possibly can move to her, every inch of my front pressing to hers, I kiss her long and hard and deep until
we both pull away gasping for air.

“What was that for?” I say, smoothing her wild hair from her face.

She shrugs, an impish smile on her red, swollen lips. “If it were me, I would’ve wanted a distraction.”

Chapter Eleven

The latch of the door wakes me.

Not mine. Wrenn’s. Her feet pad down the hallway, and then the deadbolt on the front door releases with a
thunk
. I rub my face and sit up. What the hell is she doing? It’s three in the morning.

In the pitch black of my room, I find my jeans, throw them on,
then trace her steps to the front of the apartment. Out the window I see Wrenn standing amid a puddle of orange light under the decomposing parking structure, arms wrapped around herself, head tipped. A man stands with her, dressed in jeans and a button-up shirt, talking, and whatever he’s saying must be pretty intense because by the way Wrenn swipes her fingers under her eyes over and over it looks like she’s crying.

It takes a minute, but when the guy steps out of the shadow to wrap his arms around
Wrenn, wind his fingers into the flowery fabric of her dress, I see that it’s Jamon.

This can’t be good.

~*~

Jamon. Wrenn. Crying.

It was about Dad, obviously, but what? Dad’s
gonna lose the appeal? Ha, that’s not really breaking news—

“I’m not talking to you.”

I turn and face Jess. “Um…isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

“I mean it.”

“Okay… What if I apologize for running out on you Friday night?”

She glares at me, her blue eyes glinting in the sun like ice crystals. I used to lose myself in those eyes. But now, they just feel cold and far away. “Is that your apology,
Krister?” she snaps, moving a step away from me. “Do you seriously think you can flash your ridiculously charming smile and everything will be fine?”

I smile charmingly. “Yes?”

“God!” She huffs. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of being jerked around. Tired of trying to get things back the way they used to be.” She drops the handle of her backpack and throws her hands onto her hips. “Clearly, we’re never going to be what we were. Not until you let go of what your father did and forgive him.”

Her words hit a nerve, and a fire explodes in my chest. Forgive him? She can’t be serious. I lean close to her head, gritting my teeth against the words, but I
can’t hold them back for long.

“
Clearly
, you have no idea what it’s like to have someone you thought you loved take everything away from you.”

She glares harder, red flooding into her cheeks. “Clearly…I do.”

~*~

The newspaper hits my desk with a slap.

“Not sure I should be contributing to the chaos, but your deficiency in following the news could bite you in the ass if I don’t. And I’ve been your friend fo
r too long to let that happen.”

I look over at Ditty, who plops into the chair
beside me with raised eyebrows. He points at my face.

“You have no ide
a what I’m talking about, huh.”

I shake my head
and lower my gaze to the paper.

“Article. Bottom left corner.” His voice is tight, like he knows newspapers, to me, only mean one thing—something to do with my father’s trial, but like he said it’s
his responsibility to show me.

State Acts to Handle Inmate Influx

The Supreme Court upheld an injunction to release 46,000 California inmates, more than 25 percent of the state's prison population, over the next 24 months to reduce overcrowding. The court ruled inmates in the state's more than 30 prisons are being denied basic medical care as required by the constitution. The result has been "short of minimum constitutional requirements" and has resulted in "needless suffering and death."

The state prisoner population is currently around 137 percent above capacity.

The article goes on, stating how low-risk, nonviolent offenders will be released in the coming months and, beneath, there’s a list of names and the dates in which they will be freed. I scan for my father’s name, knowing with a burning in my gut that it’s there and that’s why Ditty’s showing me this article. My breath catches when I spot it.

Mr.
Agudelo clears his throat to start class, and at the same time a string of words fumbles off my lips.

“In two weeks?”

Chapter Twelve

Two weeks.

My hand grips the grimy, porcelain sink. Fire consumes my chest. My lungs. My breath. A wheezing sound escapes my lips. Fuck. This always happens right before I throw up.

~*~

A ten minute drive from CCC, University of Chanton sits pushed up to the base of foothills like a stack of Legos hard-pressed into the dirt. Tall trees, sturdy against the breeze, surround the stone-faced school, dropping claw-shaped shadows on its surface. I park Wrenn’s car adjacent to the bike racks and cross the parking lot in the direction of what looks like the food court.

Cracks in the sidewalk and distant voices of students eating lunch don’t do much to distract me fro
m the article. My father’s name, and the mere fact I’ll be staring at him face-to-face in two short weeks. I pound my fist on my chest, willing my breath to come easier. Deeper.

A few minutes perusing the U of C campus, combing the c
rowded outdoor-eating area, and I finally spot her. Propped on a cement bench with a baggie of orange slices in her grip, legs folded, and facing a guy with hair a recognizable shade of orange.

Seth gestures w
ildly with his arms, and Cam laughs, the sound echoing over the grass. The two of them are alone, a fact I am all too aware of. I continue forward, stomping around a circle of prattling girls then past a rusted, metal statue, and as I close in Cam’s gaze sweeps over me. Locks with mine.

“
Krister!” She jumps off the bench and throws her arms around my neck. A cloud of sweetness engulfs me, and I wrap my arms around her, burying my face into her neck as the boiling inside me fizzes away. “What are you doing here?” she asks, her head tipped and lips pursed with a tiny smile.

“
I was having a shitty day,” I tell her, letting honesty overtake my mouth for a minute. “And I just wanted to see you because seeing you somehow makes things less shitty…”

She nods and rocks onto her toes, tipping her chin up toward mine. The gesture is too hard to resist. I take her face in my hands
and kiss her.

Forget the article. Forget
the news about my dad. Forget everything but her hands slowly wrapping around my waist. She tastes like oranges and, suddenly, oranges are my favorite fruit. My fingers trail her neck down to her bare shoulder and, with a giggle, she shrinks away. God help me if I ever had her in my bedroom; I don’t think I’d be strong enough to stop myself.

Across the campus, bodies start to shuffle and disperse; preparation for th
e next block of classes. Cam glances at her watch then lets out a breath. “Leave it to my Econ class to ruin everything,” she says against my mouth.

“I think you’ve got that mixed up.” I draw back an inch and trace my thumb under her lips, watching as they part in reaction. It’s a vicious pleasure the sight surges through me. “When your Econ class ruins everything,” I continue, “you
leave
. Has no one ever taught you that?”

She frowns. “I can’t just leave.”

“You have any tests?”

“No, but—”

“Important projects due?” She shakes her head, glancing to the parking lot. I smile. “I don’t see a reason you can’t. Ever been to King’s Hill?”

All around students make their way to classes
. Cam shakes her head and takes my hand. I savor the feel of her smooth skin. “My brother’s going to kill me if he finds out.” I put my arm around her shoulder and lead her toward the parking lot.

“You want me to come over and explain?”

“That what?” She squints up at me. “There’s this boy, with these eyes, and he’s impossible to say no to?”

That being with her makes me forget. Her adorable smile
kinda-sorta takes me to another place. I’ve, once or twice, thought about what it’d be like to take her out on a real date. Instead, to deflect from that last thought, I say, “That his eighteen-year-old sister wanted a day off and most instructors allow one or two absences anyway.”

~*~

I need to sto
p. I need to stop. Ineedtostop…

Cam
climbs over the gear shift and sits on my lap, long hair falling wildly into her face, the view of the bottomless canyon—billowy grass swaying with the breeze—behind her. I finger the edge of her shirt, accidentally on purpose brushing the back of my hand against her stomach. Dammit, I can’t stop.

I pull her face to mine, trying my damnedest to not crush her tiny body, but she feels so good.
So warm and soft, and it’s a blessing she’s not wearing a skirt right now because at the rate I’m going I would no doubt get myself into serious trouble with this girl.

Brown eyes sear into mine. Our breath mingles and c
lings to the windows of the car. This kiss could go two ways—lead to something excitingly more or wind down into something calm. I gently bite her lip, waiting for her to realize there’s a decision to be made.

And I’m too weak to make it.

“Sometimes,” she says, slowly sweeping her tongue along my upper lip, “when I’m having a shitty day…” Another kiss. Her fingers trace a line from my temples to my jaw.

Something more. Something more. Something more.

“…I imagine I’m someone else.”

My hands settle on her th
ighs, thumbs dipping a little farther toward the center seam of her jeans. The movement stiffens her back just slightly, as if a wire attached to her spine is tugged. At the same time the wind picks up, jerking the tall canyon grass violently. Grains of dirt and sand tick against the side of the car.

“Like you did with me.” I mean for it to come out harsher than it does, but with her fingers slowly
slipping under my shirt, nails grazing my skin, the words are more of a whisper.

“Maybe,” she says, her cheeks not flushing pink like I expect but her lips curling into a grin instead. “But it worked.”

For a moment, I hold still and let her touch me, staring into her eyes. Her fingertips trace a path up my chest then down my sides sending tingles clear up to my ears. I swallow, resisting the animalistic urge to grab the woman by the waist and grind my hips into her, and say, “And who are you right now? In this very moment?”

For a fraction of a second I wonder if I really care about her answer. Would it matter if she was still using me as a distraction? Isn’t that what I’m doing with her?

Or is this…more?

She’s someone I’m not supposed to be with. Or even
want
to be with. Yet I do.

Her legs on either side of me
shift, moving closer, squeezing tighter. “Right now…” She leans in, grazing my ear with her teeth. Hot breath skates down my neck. “…I’m Cambria Lockwood. The girl who really,
really
wants you to lose your shirt.”

Well, there goes stopping.

My hands drift up her sides, knuckles sweeping the sides of her breasts. The touch sends a zing of something through me, something I haven’t felt in what seems like forever, something like craving. She must feel it, too, because right at that moment she arches into me, delving her tongue deeper and deeper into my mouth.

“Cambria?” I say against her lips.

“Mm-hmm. What’d you think Cam stood for? Camille?” She scrunches her nose, and I laugh.

Cambria. For some reason that fits her more than Cam. I study her face, trying not to notice how the ends of
her hair brush along the sides of her breasts. “Cambria’s a cool name. Why Cam?”

Slowly she shrugs. “It’s what my brother called me when I was younger. Guess it stuck.” I can’t help but notice the w
ay her voice cracks on “brother.” Her hips dredge into mine—a move that reminds me of Jess, which then reminds me that I’m an asshole, and I don’t get close to people anymore, and that I, by default of my last name, will likely put this girl into tears.

It takes every cell in my body to stop and pull away, but I do, and then she sighs.

“You keep stopping,” she says, breathless. Her hand settles on my chest, right above my heart where no doubt she can feel how worked up she’s gotten me by its quick beat.

I lean back in
the seat, my face trying to figure out what expression to take on; my lips twitch with a smile at the worry playing on her face—she wants me to want her, too, which makes me feel like a kid at Disneyland—and then there’s something else…the ungodly itch to bite my tongue off. Because I’m not good for her, and she should know it.

She stares at me, tracing her finger over my
face, my eyebrows, the two-day-old stubble on my jaw. I catch her hand and kiss her knuckles, then wrist. “It’s just…”
Jesus, how do I say this?
“My life’s a little complicated right now, and I’m trying not to drag you into the middle of it.” The look she gives me is one I’m starting to recognize. The one that makes it seem like she understands there’s something more I want to tell her, but can’t. Or don’t know how. “On top of that…I’m a dickhead. And being with me will ultimately result in me hurting you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Actually…” She
lowers my palm to her thigh, narrowing her gaze onto mine. “…you being concerned about
hurting
me is very non-dickhead-ish of you.” Little by little, she slides my hand up her leg and around her ass. “Besides, what if I want to be in the middle of it?”

I slam my
eyes shut, my fingers burning at the touch of her. She doesn’t know what she’s asking for. Being with me—being constantly reminded of her dead mother—will slowly but surely kill her inside. And I’m not a murderer like my father.

Just as my hands find the strength to lift her off me and the words “We need to head back to town” form in my brain, her breath inches up my neck and onto my cheek. Her lips replace the warm air, trailing up to my
ear.

“Your shirt,
Krister…” Tits press into my chest, and my hands tighten around her. She rolls her hips over the boner straining against my jeans and adds in a whisper, “Take it off.” The seat groans as she moves closer, sucks my earlobe into her mouth, and growls out the word, “Please…”

Ah, fuck…my will. Was that my
will shattering to the floor?

Apparently, since my arms lift without my brain telling them to do so, and she scrapes the material over my head. Before the shirt even hits the floor, her hands are palming me—stomach, chest, arms.

In a movement so fast, I hold her face tight so she can’t pull away and kiss her. Hard. And then her hands are all over me and mine on her, skimming the hem of her shirt. Through the thin material, my fingers find the dip of her bellybutton, the round underside of her tits.
More. I need more.
I slip my hands beneath her shirt and press my palms flat along her smooth skin. On top of me she squirms, letting out a low whimper. The sound is like a drug, and I run my fingertips around her waist and up her back to the clasp of her bra. It pops open easily, and I take her tits in my hands. Christ, I want this girl. I want to taste every inch of her. With that thought, I lift the edge of her shirt and suck her nipple into my mouth. I flick my tongue over the hard nub as she rocks against me, pushing, pushing, like she’s in need of even the slightest relief.

The words “Oh my God” trickle off her lips followed by a breathy sigh.
“It’s been so long since I’ve felt this.”

“Felt what?” I open my eyes and choke out. My question triggers a mischievous grin to crawl across her face. Fingers wrapped around my wrist, she guides my hand between her legs—over her jeans, but shit I can feel the heat.

“I feel like I’m going to explode if you don’t touch me.”

My
arms stiffen at her last two words. Touch her? Goddamn, I’d give anything to feel how wet she is for me down there. But touching can’t happen, because once I had her naked I would never be able to stop. And I refuse to sleep with the girl who will surely abhor me once she discovers who I am.

Her eyes find mine
, glazed and with a look of hunger. Forget what’ll happen next; my mind is stuck on the words
touch me
and won’t move forward—won’t form a coherent explanation of why I can’t.

So I do.

Between one blink and the next, I bury my face into her neck, demonstrating the variety of ways to
touch
her there—kissing, nipping, sucking—and by the way gasps slip out of her mouth, stealing another fraction of her insanity. My mouth explores the delicate line of her jaw as my hands work to rid her of her shirt.

The bra follows, and once she is bared in front of me, I grip her wrists and pin her hands to the roof of the car. Rock-hard nipples stare at me for about half a second before I devour them with my mouth. One at a time. Slow and excruciatingly deliberate.

“Krister…,” she moans.

Breathless I pull away, looking deep into her
eyes. Maybe Cam’s onto something…becoming someone else for a while. Pretending, even just for a short time, that life doesn’t suck balls on the other side of these steamed-up windows.

I yank the lever to my left and the seat reclines back with a jerk. She squeals, and I tug her gently to my chest—
her now stretched out on top of me—and say with growing confidence, “Crawl over me and sit in the seat behind us.” She nods with a bright smile and starts to wiggle her body up mine, but I hook my fingers in the waistband of her jeans, holding her in place. “Oh, and leave your pants here.”