Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1) (10 page)

The Sweet Pea part kills me. No matter how old I got I was his sweet pea. His only daughter. His princess.

Suddenly the bed is a trap. I know if I stay in it Dylan won’t be the only fallen solider I envision, so I dart out of bed.

When I step into the living room Bach envelops me. It’s been a couple days since he was here and my living room’s still a mess. I sigh and start cleaning it up. I can’t believe we finished that entire bottle. I’m in a giving mood. We both know he finished it. I wonder what he’s doing as I shower. It’s a horrible place to do it but I can’t help it. He’s probably mounting someone. Drooling, licking, and kicking her. As I shave my legs I try for one second to picture Dylan as Bach. Horny, aggressive, and shaking when no one looks. I don’t like it. I don’t like picturing Dylan that way after meeting a different one.

What I do find interesting is that I don’t mind picturing Bach doing those things.

Bach doesn’t pretend to be anyone other than who he is. Girls can fool themselves and lie into thinking they’re going to get a different Bach, but really they’re the ones who are going to be disappointed.

Dylan pretended. I’m disappointed.

I take my towel with me to the living room. As I’m drying my hair I spot something poking out from under the couch. It’s Bach’s money. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket when he slept. If I had his number I’d call him to come get it. If he had mine he probably would’ve already asked for it. He didn’t stop by my place so he probably doesn’t need it that bad. Still, I decide to bring to him. What else is there to do? I have a feeling if I stay in my apartment I’ll start talking to myself. Or worse, I’ll start talking back.

On the drive to Bach’s place I’m more observant than the last time. There are a cluster of beach houses a stone’s throw away from Crystal Beach. They’re high above the ground, their bodies propped up on stilts. Crystal Gulf is a college town. There’s no getting around it. I’ve seen the other side of the city, the one closer to Galveston, when I had to go pick up Dylan once. It’s like an entirely different world. The roads are made of dirt and the kids play in the street. Near the gulf, it’s full of college kids and loud music. The house next door is perfectly utilizing their recently acquired academic abilities by diving shirtless into an ice-bucket of beer.

I park next to Bach’s silver Corvette. Taking the stairs, I ignore the hoots and hollers from down below and take a deep breath before knocking. It’s a useless breath. After two more knocks, he doesn’t answer. I try the handle, surprised when it gives away.

I enter Bach’s place like I would a lion’s cage, making as little noise as possible, breathing only when my lungs need it, and keeping my eyes peeled for his sharp teeth.

“Bach?” The whir from the fridge growls to life as I go down the hall toward his bedroom. Thankfully Dylan’s door is closed. I don’t want to see inside. “Bach?”

I push his door open. He’s sleeping. Well, he’s asleep. I’m not sure I’d call what he’s doing sleeping. He’s only wearing a pair of tight briefs. His blankets are on the floor. Sweat saturates his skin. I can see it clinging to his chest and sliding over his abs. His fists grip the sheets and his head tosses to the left and the right. His legs contort around one another, almost like he’s running from something. I’m startled by how young he appears. When he’s awake his eyes exude this dark sexiness only a man can possess and use the way he uses it. Asleep, Bach’s much less intimidating.

I sit on the edge of his bed and reach for his face. Slowly, I run my hand over his sweaty hair, moving it aside. “Bach? Wake up, honey. You’re dreaming.” I pat his chest.

“Mmm,” he groans. “I didn’t mean to do it. Don’t,” he begs. “
Please
.”

Hearing his voice sound so childish and vulnerable makes me look away. This is not the same man who strode into my living room the other night, sexy and confident. I know he wouldn’t want me to see him like this but if I don’t wake him up he’ll keep burning. He might also say who he’s running from. I’m not going to pry open his memories and peer inside when he can’t give me permission.

When I touch his face again it’s as if I punched him. He flinches away from me almost clear out of bed. Right before he falls over his hand shoots out and catches himself. “Please,” he begs, blocking his face with his other arm. “Not again.”

“It’s me. Harley,” I quickly tell him.

The second I say my name he lowers his arm and narrows his eyes at me, trying to see me better. “Harley?” His voice still sounds childish and afraid. It’s thick with something that makes my chest hurt. “Shit.” He sinks back down into bed, fingers trembling when he rubs his hand down his face. “Fuck.”

I sit awkwardly on the end of his bed as he attempts to calm himself. I don’t think he’s succeeding, that’s only what I’m pretending he’s doing. I don’t like the way he’s breathing. Too hard and too fast with something blocking his throat. I examine his room as I wait instead of looking at him. There’s a heavy silver curtain over his window, the only light coming from the small cracks the sun peeks through, and his closet is open. He has more clothes than me. Jeans on top of jeans spill out of their slots. Button up shirts rest on hangers, waiting to be worn the way Bach wears them. Boots and sneakers line the floor. Next to his brown high tops is a pair of pink thong panties.

I eye them interestingly. Did Pink Heels wear them? Did he bring her back here and rip them off in a fit of passion, forgetting about them as soon as he took them off? Dylan never ripped my panties off. He took them off slowly as he made me watch, which I will admit drove me crazy. He has a thing for eye contact. When he disappeared between my legs, he liked to know I was watching every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers.

“They’re just panties, Harley.”

I look at Bach who’s sitting upright in bed watching me. His cheeks are flushed and his hands keep bunching the sheets. His dark brown hair looks almost black right now, twisted all over his head. I won’t admit it kind of makes him look adorable, because Bach is not adorable. Adorable men don’t have strange girl’s panties on their bedroom floor.

“Whose panties are those?”

He shrugs, still childish. Why isn’t he hiding? Why isn’t he glaring, smirking, saying something that will make me uncomfortable?

“You’re so beautiful, Harley.”

Did he just say … ? “What?”

“You heard me. You’re beautiful. Come here. I need some of your good.” He sinks down into bed. When his hand reaches for me, his fingers tremble. “Please?” he whispers. “Just for a little while. I’ll barely touch you. Barely,” he promises.

He wants me to lay with him? Girls don’t lay with Bach. But this isn’t a normal situation for him. I’m sure he isn’t shaking, covered in sweat, with fear in his eyes when other girls lay with him.

I can’t stand to see him begging. Bach doesn’t beg. I hesitantly put my hand in his and he gently pulls me until I’m lying against his side. I don’t know where to put my head. It’s either on his arm or his chest, and since his arm just went around my back I don’t have a choice. I lay it on his chest, listening to his heartbeat pounding. His sweat dampens my cheek. I can feel it soaking into my shirt. Where his legs touch mine they are slick.

“Here,” he says quietly. Reaching down with his hand, he slides it down my thigh and then grabs the back of my knee in his strong grip. He slowly brings my leg over so it drapes across his waist. “That’s better.”

While I panic and struggle to breathe, Bach falls back to sleep. I don’t understand how I ended up in his bed. I came here to bring him his money. Not hold him during a nightmare. Although I can’t leave now. Not with that soft, breakable look in his pale green eyes. People hard like Bach shouldn’t have to beg. They break things. Not ask their pieces to be held.

Eventually his heartbeat slows. Mine does not. I trace the shape of his pecs, back and forth for something to do. I curl around his nipple, making sure not to touch it. If I touch it I have to start over. I start over a lot. I trace down his stomach, going over every hard bump in his six-pack until I can remember which parts of his abs feel like rocks and which parts feel like silk. I didn’t know abs could be silky and still hard as diamonds. When I get to the V’s cut into his abs, probably with a chiseling knife I’m sure, I want to keep going. It’s out of sheer curiosity. That’s all. I try to imagine what the rest of him looks like. Feels like …

“You done?” his deep voice wonders.

I peek up at him, hiding the heat in my cheeks with his chest. “Sorry, I was bored.” I take my hand from his body and tuck it between us.

He stares at me for a long time. I stare at him too. His eyes won’t let mine go. “What are you doing here?”

“You left your pizza money at my house.”

He raises one eyebrow. “You came all the way over here for a hundred and fifty dollars?”

I shrug against him. Not a good idea. He’s so hard and solid, but his skin is so soft and smooth. “Why else would I come?”

He gives me the same look he gave me in my bedroom when he woke me up to tell me he was leaving. I felt like I did something wrong then, but I hadn’t paid much attention to it. Now without physically letting me go he lets me go, looking at the ceiling, his arm around me still as stone. This time I know I did something wrong. His heartbeat races again and his body is tense. His breaths feel like they’re strangled.

When I lift off his body he lets me. My purse is on the floor where I dropped it. I reach in and dig out the baggie of money. “Here.”
Asshole
, I want to add, looking into his eyes so he knows I want to say it. I want to scream it. I just don’t know why.

He swats it off his chest angrily. “Keep it.”

“I don’t want it.”

He grabs the wad, bunches it up, and throws it in the wastebasket near his bed. “There. You came over here for nothing. Don’t you feel like a moron now?”

I came over here for nothing, or I didn’t come over here for him? Why would I come over here just to see him? As he glares at the ceiling he’s much more himself now. I almost wish the childish Bach would come back. The one that says please and looks at me like I have every right in the world to say no to him.

“I do,” I admit, standing with my purse. “For one second I thought there was more to you. But there isn’t. You’re still an asshole.”

“Get out of here, Harley. Go volunteer or something. Save a puppy. Hump a virgin. You’re so damn self-righteous it’s repulsive. No wonder Dylan’s cheating on you.”

I pause halfway out of his room. Everything in me freezes. Cracks. Breaks. Stabs me. “What did you say?” He’s lying. Bach is lying.

“Dylan is cheating on you! Did you understand me that time? I’m the disgusting one though, right? The one you curl your lip up at?”

“You’re lying.”

He laughs derisively. “Get out. Now. Or I’ll make you.”

Anger I’ve never felt before rushes through me. I want to hurt Bach. I want to hurt Dylan. I want to hurt them both. “You’ll make me?” I drop my purse and walk onto his bed with my sandals on, standing in front of him. I lean down and put my face inches from his. “Try it.”

Hatred drips out of his eyes like acid. “Don’t push me, Harley.”

I want to slap him so hard his ears ring. But I don’t. I’m better than Bach. Plus I can see this small part of him that might want me to hit him. He wants me to hurt him the way he hurt me. “What’s wrong with you? Why do you have to be so nasty?”

He closes his eyes. “Leave.”

“Who is she?” I scream.

He explodes off the bed, grabs my hand, and pulls me off too. I snap. I grind my heels in and wrench my arm out of his grasp. Then I do it, because I’ve never been so mad in my life. And once I start, I can’t stop. I’m not hitting Bach. I’m hitting Dylan. I’m hitting the men who planted the bomb that killed father and took him from me forever. And okay, I’m hitting Bach because he’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. I didn’t do anything wrong to him and he insists on watching me fall. He pushes me over and over again, then he tells me I’m beautiful just so he can tell me I’m not.

“Stop it!” He grabs my hands and pins them to my sides. “What the hell, Harley?”

I yank my arms free and march out of the room. Dick. They’re all dicks.

Before I can get to the door, Bach grabs me again. There’s a scratch under his eye and his bottom lip is puffy. I can’t look at him. My anger goes, leaving shame in its place. How could I let him get to me like that? I’m suddenly disgusted with myself. I hit him. I’ve never hit anyone in my life. I don’t lose control like that.

Bach doesn’t say anything as he pulls me against him. I don’t realize I’m near tears until they burst out of me like a waterfall.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats over and over again. “I’m sorry, Harley.”

He’s sorry? I hit him and he’s the one that’s sorry? I can’t believe I hit him and that he’s bleeding because of me.

“Let me go.” I push against him.

He wraps his arms around my waist, locking them so I can’t move. “Look at me.”

“No.” I look at his chest, my hands, anything but him.

“Please?” he begs, childish again.

I look up into his pale green eyes. “Bach … ”

“It’s okay, babe. It’s not that big of a deal. I was asking for it. Trust me. I deserve worse than what you did. Girls have done way worse to me.”

That only makes me cry harder. “You’re bleeding.”

He licks his bloody lip. I want to lick it too. I want to take his blood in me so I can’t see it anymore.

“Come sit down. Don’t leave like this.” He leads me over to the couch. I don’t want to sit down and look at him anymore and see what I did. “Sit,” he orders crossly when I try to pull free of him.

Damn it. Just hearing him order me makes that flash of anger return. I glare at him as I fall onto the couch. His handsome face glares back. “I can’t stand you.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Does that make you feel better?”

“Nothing makes me feel better, Harley.” He touches his lip and winces. “I’m sorry I told you that. It wasn’t my place.”

“How long have you known he was cheating on me? How long have you lied?”