BUFF (9 page)

“Yes, any strange men calling here or following you at the store or when out running. Anything or anyone unusual?"

Colt... But how can he have something to do with this?

Her mind races to all possibilities. The shock of her father’s announcement clouds her thinking.

“Answer me, Rebecca!"

“No,” she murmurs, “no-one. I swear." It comes out before she can think clearly.

“If anyone does I want you to let me know immediately. You understand me?"

“Does it matter now if we're leaving? College is out the door, our whole lives have to change because of this… All our plans…” She rakes her hands through her loose curls, staring down at her bare feet. “I don't believe this."

“I am your father. I make the decisions and this is what is best for us. I don't need you to think about why or how, just do as I say." Her father's eyes close. He presses his fingers into his forehead.

Becky can’t look away from him, but her sympathy has run its course. She gets up in one swift angry blur. “I’ll never forgive you for this."

“Rebecca," her father calls out. She stops by the staircase refusing to speak. She’s feeling so many things at once. She’s afraid if she starts talking she will never stop until everything inside her is taken out. “Hate me as much as you want right now, but you have one week to pack.”

*     *     *

“FINE.”

“You sure?” Colt's voice punctures her black reverie. She’s been pacing the length of the attic since she woke up the next morning. She’s still in her nightie.

“I said I’m fine,” she mumbles, distracted. “I need to paint."

“So paint."

“I can’t,” she says, lowering herself in the middle of the floor. “You're here."

“So?"

“So… I can't paint with you here… looking at me... The whole point is to... well… you know what? Forget it. It just helps and I can't be who I want to be when you're here always watching me."

“I won’t." Her glare is weary, watery. “I mean, I'll try not to.” His eyes smile, but his lips remain set.

She covers her face with her hands, gripping the loose curls that fall around her. “I'm sure that won’t be hard," she mutters.

“What?"

“Nothing.”

“Something's wrong.” His eyes cut through hers. “What?"

“I want you to be honest with me."

Those words trigger something, reshaping his face into living stone again. His eyes swirl, speckled and hard like marbles. He stares out the window.

You’re hiding something.

She’s stomped on the last eggshell when it comes to their fragile relationship, but instead of being bothered by this, it just makes her all the more determined. His evasiveness always rises when questions are involved.

Yes, you’re definitely hiding something… I’m sick to death of being lied to.

“Why were you really here that night?"

Silence.

“Is there a reason you chose my house to hide in? What’s the name of this gang? Why did they shoot you?” More silence ensues. “Who shot you? Where? Why?”

She stands up and stalks over to him. The less he speaks the more her aggravation grows and burns her up. All her nerves are winding down, her body pleads from exhaustion to drop and her skin itches for sunlight. She can’t remember the last time she went out and experienced warmth on her. The air-conditioning stretches her skin, freezes it in place.

“Answer me. Now,” she whispers, fiercely. He doesn’t appear to have heard her. “I want you out of here unless you answer some of my questions."

He angles forward, holding his side, then stands, slowly at first. He’s in front of her, his full height dwarfing her and her rage. His jaw ticks under a thin control and she knows one word from her can split it into two like tissue paper.

“I'll leave.” His husky baritone shatters the quiet and his resolve kicks her off her rocker. He drags his body nearer to the door, his feet shuffling against the old wood. It’s an incredibly sick sound and it makes her stomach roll to picture him trying to make it two steps out the door.

How could he have anything to do with her father? Why would Mr. Kulich send a man to her attic, shot and bleeding? No… That’s ridiculous. He just can’t have anything to do with what’s happening with her family.

She’s taking her anger out on him, and that isn’t fair.

Her eyes cloud with tears. “Please, just…” She swallows her nerves. “…Just tell me the truth. I don't want you... hurt."

Colt stiffens. She listens to his heavy breaths as if he’s breathing right in her ear. He faces her, leaning to his side. Her head drops but the tears fall. One by one.

“I can’t."

She slouches forward, her hair covers her, protects her, but it’s clear as day, ringing in her ears, enveloping her senses, breaking through the atmosphere.

She is so unprepared for the things she feels when he’s around her.

“Why?” she asks, almost breathless.

“Don’t make me lie to you,” he whispers, as he edges closer. “Becky, whatever happens… know... just know I will never hurt you."

She doesn’t notice how close he gets until she wipes her cheeks and braves herself for his glacial expression only to find him towering over her, his eyes soft like blue raindrops.

Her sigh vibrates between them like a soft measure on a piano. He takes one sure step closer, the small distance between them evaporating from the thick space of his body.

His eyes dance between her eyes and her mouth. “I promise."

His thumb nudges her chin up, forcing her to take him in.

“You promise?” She is lost in him. Her nose scrunches and her swollen lips wobble. He inches the pad of his thumb higher, watching her.

“I won’t hurt you. Believe that,” he breathes out, against her forehead.

“I don't.” She gulps, her body swaying on its own accord toward his. “I don't believe anything anymore."

“Believe me."

The warm palm of his hand burns her neck as it wraps around her and takes hold. She blinks, her mind scrambling as a dizzy heat starts in her stomach and oozes through her. “I don't… I can’t."

His nose touches hers. At first she wonders if the touch is by accident, but a second time… she can’t deny the second time.

The sharp tip bumps her rounded one then grazes the side as his shadow eclipses half her face. “Everyone's got to believe in someone."

His words are like a whirlpool, carrying her down into the unpredictable, the unknown. Mesmerized she knows she is being sucked in. His eyes brighten, taking in her lips. Her cheeks burn, her pulse skitters.

“Why? she whispers. Her eyes close as a rush of his breath strokes her skin. She can’t breathe right.

“Why not?” he asks.

“Why do you want me to believe? Why do you care?"

His breaths comes out shorter, bursting against her lips, making her lick the flesh there. His mouth edges closer, a secret away from hers, an eyelash's length of an eternity. His brow crinkles as though he’s lost to the fight of control.

“I don't… I don't know,” he replies, “I just need you to."

“Believe in you?” she shakes out.

He bends his dark head to whisper against her temple, “Yes…” His voice tidal waves over hers, bathing her skin with heat. His nose embeds itself in her cheek and he inhales her, drinking her in.

She holds her breath until she feels like her lungs are going to burst. She stammers his name as he leans his top lip against hers, “C-Colt.” Their breaths mingle together, drown in confusion, surfacing in awareness, as their foreheads, along with other parts of them, touches, flesh to flesh.

Colt licks his lips, nipping her lower lip with his tongue along the way. His lips part as his eyes devour her face; she’s frightened by the amount of hunger she sees in his eyes. Her knees go soft when his upper lip skims over hers, her skin jolts—

“Rebecca?”

The knocking on the attic door makes her soul jump out from her body.

The doorknob jiggles.

"Rebecca. Are you in there?"

SHE HAS COME
so far without giving herself away.

Having a man, a flesh-and-blood fallen angel, almost kiss her, shouldn't wipe her senses from her brain. No matter how inescapably and dangerously beautiful he is. Unconsciously her fingers brush her lips and stay. The sound of their breathing mingles at a furious pace, pulsing between their faces.

The knock, at first, a distant hum—then it grows louder.

The fog slowly lifts and Colt is the first to react. His is still very much pressed into hers. His hands are all over her, his fingers wild and desperate as they cling at the edges of her jawline then sweep her hair away from her shoulders only to grip the sides of her face again. His eyes fight for something—Becky can’t decipher what—but it looks very much like... control.

He pulls back slowly, his mouth gradually breaking from hers. Her upper lip sticks to his for a second before letting go on its own.

Becky fights to say something, anything to explain herself as her cheeks swell with heat. “I… I didn’t mean…"

“Shssh.” The long lean side of his index finger presses into the center of her lips to silence her.

The door knocks again and Colt—his eyes never leaving her face—slides away from her. There is no mistaking the dark hint of an ache that shadows every feature he fixes on her.

Her mind is sluggish, feverish, and sputters off helplessly working at a snails pace. Her mind, her body, is otherwise entangled in Colt's presence and no matter of knocking, as weighty as it is, can jump-start her.

Thank God, Colt is quicker. His warmth, his building shadow, is one second looming over her, bearing all, permeating her senses, and the next, he is gone, hiding somewhere.

The fourth knock, heavy with impatience, catapults her body forward. Unfortunately her thoughts are not as quick to catch up.

The door opens.

NO!

Her father steps inside.

Oh God, no… he’s in the attic!

“What are you doing in here?” he asks.

Her whole body shakes, her heart is thumping so loud she almost can’t hear anything else. Her chest tightens like a corset is tied around her, strangling her ribs.

Her secret is just a step away from being unearthed.

“Rebecca? Are you all right?" She can feel all the color draining from her face like paint dripping from her canvas.

“Fine." She coughs while moving forward, ushering her father out of the attic. He turns giving her a confused look.

Dad, please—why now, of all times, to decide to investigate the junk in the attic…?

He angles his head to the right as if he hears something.

“Dad, let’s talk out here. Please.” Just before her life is drained from her he finally follows and she immediately goes behind him to close the attic door. “What is it?”

“Emmett Irving’s on the phone.” He hands her the portable. “He says it’s urgent.”

Becky gulps some air, the constriction in her throat lessening as her father goes back downstairs.

She waits for her heart to jump back inside her body before bringing up the phone to her ear.

“Emmett," she mutters.

“Petal,” he purrs.

“What. Is. It?"

“Remember that favor I did for you not too long ago?"

Becky’s back stiffens. “What about it?”

“Pay up."

“Excuse me?” She doesn’t like where this is going. She doesn’t like it one bit.

“I helped you out. You owe me."

“What do you want?" she hisses.

“You know what I want. What you gave me years ago, Petal,” he sniggers.

Becky's eyes prickle, her hands ball into fists at her sides. “God’s sakes—I don't have time for this," she says through gritted teeth.

“Okay fine. I guess you won't mind me telling dear old Daddy you’ve been a naughty little girl—again. Asking for medicine you didn’t even have prescriptions for—"

“Emmett.” Her nostrils pinch together, a flare of nervous heat scrapes across her skin.

“What? If there's nothing to hide..."

“Enough with the games. What’d you want?” she spits out.

“Do you still have that white dress?”

“Why?” She can feel acid rise up and down in her throat. She is caught and her prey has its mouth wide open.

“Tonight. You and me. On a date."

*     *     *

HER NAME IS
Rebecca Appleton.

The little bit…

He doesn’t know how to handle the
little bit
in his life that’s come crashing into him from all sides.

His eyes close without thinking.

Handle Becky…

Just her name knocks every sense inside him on its back. It isn’t her staggering natural beauty that has him in knots. Neither is it her enchanting emerald eyes, her vanilla skin, her sweet scent or those perfectly pink lips. That’d be too easy.

No. She’s gotten inside him somehow. Filled the
little bit
inside him that he didn't know had been empty.

Until now.

Another day has rolled on by, night taking over again. She’s been attending to his needs all day. She’d even gone all out and bought him a clean white shirt since none of her father’s shirts fitted him. She’s been doing nothing but helping him. Saved his goddamn life, for fucks sakes! And she’s doing it all for nothing in return.

People don’t lend a hand unless they want something in return. And Becky has smashed his beliefs—his world—into millions of pieces.

Jesus Christ, I need to get the fuck outta here before I go all kinds of crazy.

He is so tangled up inside he’s beginning not to trust his own instincts. How can he let this mere wisp of a woman—girl—distract him from his mission? He’s weak. And if he’s weak it’s because he’s wounded and nothing more.

The door creaks and shuts on a small
thud
…

His body, which is leaning heavily on support of the center beam, straightens. A fuzzy sensation heightens his senses blurring all sounds and objects around him. It’s a funny feeling that feathers across and over his skin like silken leaves are brushing over him.

She is there alone… in the attic… with him.

He turns, finding her in the shadows of the evening light. Nothing could have prepared him for this moment…

His eyes widen at the sight that beholds him. His heart beats like a drum. The white dress gliding toward him glows in the moonlight. It takes his breath away.

An angel.

Her face, her eyes, fixes on the window as she places a plate of food near his futon. Despair is present in her blank eyes, filmed over, not taking much in.

And it bothers him.

Something pulls him toward her. She doesn’t even seem to realize he’s come to stand next to her by the window, although he makes sure to stay a good foot away.

“I love the night time, don't you?" she murmurs.

She’s been crying. He can tell easily by the tears that haven’t been wiped away on her soft cheeks. Her voice also has an aching hoarseness to it. He doesn’t answer.

“I usually come up here at night.” She moves closer to the window. Closer to him. Her dress blends into the glow of the Moon and something sparkles near the base of her neck. He’s mesmerized, can’t pull his gaze away. He watches her, his lips tugging at the corners as he drinks in the sway of her hips, the tilt of her head, the fluid movement of her body and the beautiful way her dress clings to each curve—

“It's so much more peaceful and the Sky…” she breathes out, “the Sky looks like a painting come to life, it's so overwhelming… You think your problems are so huge, no-one can understand and then you come up here and look out the window and it all just seems so… irrelevant."

She hangs her head for a second and Colt fights the urge to move closer.

“If I could I would leave and never come back. If I had one wish…” she trails off.

“Where would you go?” he hears himself say, stepping nearer, giving in to his urges.

“Nowhere. Everywhere. You know I've never been outside of Wentworth Creek except when I was young... Just when I thought my life was going to start moving... God, I feel like I’m going nowhere.” She turns toward him, searching him, waiting for him to give her all the answers.

Her fingers accidently brush against his and something drags him under. He doesn’t know if it’s her eyes or the way her mouth trembles each time his skin passes over hers, but he doesn’t like it. He can’t stop it either.

“You’re dress... You must be going somewhere now?”

He feels her body tense. “I, uh… I... have a date…” His whole demeanor drops then as if someone has told him he’s going to die. And she notices. “Well, not a
date
date—it’s not a date, Colt, I mean, it’s hard to explain—”

“The fuck I care if you go on a date?” He crosses his arms like he’s trying hard to protect himself from something. His jaw stiffens and he takes a step back needing more air.

The sigh of frustration she breathes out slices him like a paper-cut. “Oh... forget it.” Her voice is dry, angry. “Well, maybe I won’t be home tonight then.” She stomps toward the attic door and the room feels colder all of a sudden.

“Becky,” he calls out. He wants to unfurl the tension that seems to enter and conquer them without warning, and the urge to tell her to stay controls every fiber of his being. But he hears himself say, “Nothing,” as though he is watching the scene from above, his soul no longer vacant in his body.

He wants to rid himself of her; of the
little bit
of unpredictability she brings to him. It brings out the very worst of him without his knowledge or strength to stop it.

She closes the door, her stark pale hand his last reminder of her when he finds his voice, “Stay...”

Moments later he watches her leave the house from the window. And all he can do is recall her name and how it fits her so beautifully.

Becky…

Two days. He has to leave in two days.

Even if it kills him.

*     *     *

“YOU’RE ABOUT AS FUN AS A ROOT CANAL
.”

Seated opposite him Becky slumps forward pressing her weight into her elbows as they lean heavily on the small rounded table.

She’s doing her best not to look at her surroundings. She should have known he’d arrange their
‘date’
at a strip club. Does he think girls degrading themselves for money will turn her on?

Becky eyes trail the red wine seeping from his lips as he gulps his fifth drink of the night, not counting the ones he’s probably had before she turned up. “Maybe I'm not inspired by my present company."

“Not what you used to say.” He sucks some wine that leaks onto his finger, his sleazy eyes never leaving hers. "There was a time when I gave you more pleasure than you could of ever imagined."

Rage sets itself inside her like a simmering pot of hot water; the fire hot underneath.

“Emmett. Have I told you how sick I am of your games? You think because I let you get to me one time it means something?” she scoffs. “It doesn't. We're not together. We never were and we never will be. I was young—too young to know any better and you took advantage of that! I regret it more than anything. Makes me sick to my stomach I ever let you—"

“I was your friend.” He leans forward whispering to her as if he means to expel the grandest secret of all time. “I still want to be. I helped you that night. We helped each other—"

“Stop!” Her nostrils flare, repulsion biting into every nerve-ending in her body. “Stop making what happened between us sound like we had some monumental connection. You’re a sick bastard to do what you did to me, Emmett, for God’s sakes—I was thirteen!”

“You ungrateful bitch,” he hisses, slamming his glass down on the table. “You were upset remember? You had a huge fight with your mom and I found you in the park crying. Me and my friends were drinking and when I offered you some, I was surprised when you actually took it."

She can’t hear this. That night was the biggest mistake of her life. It’s her constant reminder of why she is the way she is. Why she can’t make friends. Why she spends most of her days and nights locked up in the attic.

The reason why she had gotten into that man’s truck...

Her head turns away, her stomach sick with memory. “I don't need you to recall what happened. I have nightmares to remind me."

Emmett’s lips tighten as he spits, “Just because you regretted it doesn't mean it's my fault. You wanted it just as much—”

The chair scrapes and stops his speech. She turns to grab her purse. When she braves herself to face him she is pale; her eyes dark and clouded with unwelcoming images of a night she wishes she can erase.

“It's over. The past is the past. You want to look back and believe that we had something together—you go ahead you perverted bastard! I can’t—”

“You teased me.” He stands over her, and a group of drunken men sat at a booth next to them look over and laugh. “All those years I pursued you after you fucked me—you never gave me the time of day! You thought you were some great untouchable beauty—”