Walk with Me (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (5 page)

“What is this place?” I ask, breaking our silence first.

“It’s pretty isn’t it? I like to come up here on clear days, sometimes to think. It’s called the Heroes Garden and was built after the 9/11 attack.”

“I didn’t even know this place existed,” I say with a slight sadness to my voice.

We sit quietly for a little while before catching each other up on our activities over the past few months. I tell Cruz about my school plans, and he in turn, tells me of his study abroad program in Paris. We talk for half an hour, looking out onto the incredible view, before I remind him I need to get back home because of the dinner plans with my uncle.

“Are you sure you have to go over to your uncle’s? I haven’t seen you for so long and we are just starting to settle into a nice flow here. Can’t you see him another day?” Cruz uses his best puppy dog expression, trying to sway my plans.

“I wish I could, but he’s expecting me. It’s a set dinner thing we have every week. It’s become part of our weekly routine. Sorry.” I pout.

Uncle William is the only other family I have in California. He’s my great-uncle on my mom’s side, and when she moved here from Virginia with me at a year old, she started working for my uncle at his restaurant as a waitress. Richard used to come into the restaurant and Uncle William was the first person to introduce him to my mom, not realizing the demon he invited into our lives.

Richard was jealous of the time I spent with my mom, and hurting me wasn’t enough, so he banished me to my uncle’s on some weekends, tightening the bond between us even more.

I can remember, the first year after they were married, Richard marching into the house after a typical day’s work and catching me sitting on the couch reading next to my mom.

“What the hell is this?” Richard’s voice raises a couple octaves, prompting the dog to jump off my lap and hide under the coffee table.

“We’re just enjoying a little quiet before I have to start your dinner, dear, and Kenna starts her homework.” My mom tries to temper his anger with her sing-song tone before he takes action.

“I don’t work my ass off so your little bastard daughter can sit on her lazy ass reading. And how many times have I told
you
”—Richard turns his narrowed eyes toward me—“that you and the dog are not allowed on the furniture. Get on the floor where you belong.”

I look to my mom for support, to speak on my behalf. She subtly shakes her head for me not to challenge Richard, her expression telling me,
just do as he says and don’t cause me problems, too
. I guess the financial comfort for my mom is worth getting knocked around once in a while and turning a blind eye to the abuse of her child.

I purse my lips and puff out a stream of air from my nose, accepting my subclass fate.

“Now!” He yells, his face turning red. “Or do I need to condition you with the paddle again?” Richard’s face goes from red with anger to alight with excitement.

My eyes shift to the hall closet, housing his varied paddles. The skin on my backside pricks in remembrance to the last paddling and the welts he left behind. I scamper to the ground.

After that day, Richard made sure I had enough “chores” to keep me busy from the time I got home from school and until I was sent to bed. Without my weekend trips to my uncle’s or exercise, surviving the oppression and abuse at home wouldn’t have been possible.

Flashing me his best panty-dropping grin, Cruz leans in to nuzzle my neck, calling me back to my current day filled with fun and excitement. “Maybe once we get back to your place I can convince you to call your uncle and tell him you’re going to be late.”

I giggle at the warmth from his breath tickling my skin. “Maybe I can be a little late,” I say, cowering from his hot, moist mouth and the titillating effect on me. I may have time to see if he kisses as good as I remember, applying his soothing lips on mine to lift the painful thoughts of my past.

As I stand next to his bike, putting the helmet back on, I ask, “What kind of motorcycle is this?”

“Honda Shadow. I like it because of its retro style,” he says, pulling his helmet over his messy, sexy hair.

“I like it,” I say and boldly continue. “It’s hot like its owner.”

He walks closer to me and grabs my helmet. “Let’s get you home because this hot owner would like to show you how much he’s missed you.” My muscles tighten in all the right places. He releases my helmet and straddles the bike, making room for me to slide on behind him.

I secure my spot behind Cruz. The sound of the thundering engine and the vibration between my legs is building the anticipation of the kiss waiting for me back at my place.

Cruz weaves in and out of traffic at a quicker pace than our ride up to Malibu. He must be in a hurry to show me how much he’s missed me. A distinct sound catches my attention. I can’t place the sound but when Cruz slows and pulls over to the shoulder, I look back and see we’ve been pulled over by a motor cop. I panic and throw my right foot down to jump off the bike, and where my bare leg singes from contact with the hot muffler, a red welt is starting to rise and sting from the pain.

My heart is pounding. W
hat would Donovan think of this? Would he be disappointed in me?
I don’t know why I even care, but I can’t help those thoughts from flashing in my mind. I even look at the uniform to make sure he’s not a Santa Monica Cop, afraid Donovan would find out.

The highway patrol cop comes up to Cruz and with genuine concern in his voice asks him if he knows how fast he was speeding.

Cruz hands the officer his driver’s license. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention to the odometer. I was just showing off for my girlfriend,” he answers politely, no hint of bad-boy attitude.

My eyes almost bulge out of their sockets. Did he just call me his girlfriend? This comment must be for the benefit of the motor cop, like when my uncle used to refer to me as his granddaughter instead of his grandniece, because I am
not
Cruz’s girlfriend.

The motor cop takes Cruz’s license and walks to his bike. Both Cruz and I stand on the side of the road, not sure what to do or say. When the cop returns to us, he hands Cruz his driver’s license. “I’m not going to give you a ticket today, but keep to the speed limit.” I exhale audibly, rolling my eyes at Cruz as I pull on the helmet.

The ride home is slower with anticipation still brewing in the pit of my stomach, but the burning pain on my calf is matching those feelings equally. By the time I get home, the burn has risen into a large blister.

Cruz parks in front of my place and kills the motor. I point my toes and show him the red, angry blister. “Look what I did when I was getting off your bike.”

He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, bending down to inspect my leg. “Ouch, you did quite a number on your calf,” he says and runs his hand up the outside of my leg as he stands upright. “I can help you out of these pants, if you’d like.” He raises his eyebrows and smiles suggestively.

I purse my lips and roll my eyes at him. “I need to put medicine on it. It’s really starting to sting. Are you coming in?” I turn and walk toward the house. Cruz doesn’t say anything but follows me in, planting himself on the couch while I rummage through the medicines in the bathroom, fixing a large bandage over the burn.

Without a word, I walk out of the bathroom and over to Cruz who’s sitting on the couch. I stand facing him and point to my handiwork. Unexpectedly, Cruz grabs my wrist and pulls me into his lap. Gently hooking his arm around my waist, he lowers my back to the cushions. My legs are still lying on his lap and his torso is turned over my body. My breathing quickens and my chest heaves from his abrupt move. Cruz hovers over me with eyes half-mast and a sexy smirk on his face. I think he is enjoying the view, watching me melt under his stare and submitting to his advances. Slowly without breaking eye contact, he lowers his mouth down to mine, but stops about an inch away. “I am very sorry you burned your leg, but I also think it’s kind of sexy,” he mumbles over my lips.

“What are you talking about? What’s sexy?” I’m getting a little perturbed he’s talking.
More action, less talk, that’s what I need from you
.

Cruz shifts his lips over to my ear. “The burn on your leg from my bike is sexy. It’s like now you’re branded mine,” he whispers.

What the…
He said the wrong thing to the wrong girl. I sit up, sliding off his lap, pulling my legs up in front of me like a wall between us. “It is a burn, that’s all. No one owns me as theirs.”

“Oh come on, baby. I was just saying things to get you going,” he pleads, reaching out, stroking my knee. “I didn’t really mean anything by it.”

This guy, albeit hot and sexy, is too possessive for me, and my libido has now left the building. Why did he have to say that? Things were going just right—a ride up the coast, a little excitement with the motor cop, ending with a make-out session. Now he’s gone and ruined the moment with his girlfriend talk and saying that he owns me, which might work on other girls, but not me. I need to end this now.

“That’s okay,” I lie, placing my hand over his. “It was something you just said in the heat of the moment. I understand. But we need to stop anyway.”

“Okay,” he says, smiling, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Call me if you want to do something this weekend.” Cruz gets up off the couch and I follow him to the door. As he steps over the threshold, he turns to me, grabbing my hands in his. “I really have missed you.”

I smile slimly at his comment and I close and double-lock the door behind him. I turn and lean against the locked door, shutting out any future with Cruz. Why do I attract these guys who want to own me? I thought most guys under the age of thirty were like me, looking for a good time, no commitment, no strings attached.

After the debacle with Cruz, I decide I need a break from all guys. I can’t think about going out with Donovan. Cruz was supposed to take my mind off of the feelings Donovan is stirring in me, not pile more on top.

The next day I text Donovan to cut things off.

Me: Sorry, it’s been a couple days. Not feeling well. Think I may have caught a cold. I’ll call you in a week or two, when I’m feeling better.

Donovan: Poor baby. Rest. Drink plenty of fluids. Hope to see you soon.

Easy enough. If I’m lucky something will happen between now and then and I won’t have to text him. Life will take care of the problem for me. I could probably blow off any further contact and let things drift away. We can both move on with our respective lives and never see each other again.

I busy myself with daily responsibilities, but when I come home Friday night, a note is taped to my door. “A package was delivered for you. It’s in the fridge.” It’s signed by Danielle’s mom, Sunny.

Curious, I walk back to the kitchen. In the refrigerator is an Izzy’s Deli bag on the top shelf with my name on top. I pull the bag out, placing it on the breakfast counter. Inside is a clear container of soup, some rye bread, and a note card.

I tear open the note made of simple ecru stationary with the letter
D
embossed in gold on the front. Inside reads, “Hoping for a speedy recovery. Get better soon, Donovan.” I stand staring at the card, looking at the soup, which he picked up and brought over himself. Wow. That’s the single most caring, selfless thing anyone has ever done for me, and it warms my chest, the spot right between my lungs.

My mind wanders to our first meeting at the coffeehouse and how he talked to me like we were the only ones in the room, connecting on so many levels, and to our double date at Disneyland, where he served all my needs, ensuring my first experience was perfect. God, I’m such a coldhearted ice queen, jumping at the chance to rub up against the first guy who comes along because I’m scared of Donovan—scared to let him get close to me, to feel the emotions he evokes deep within me. What a damaged, broken mess I am.

Calling him and agreeing to go out is more than just a date, though. It’s opening myself up to more than a casual physical connection with a guy and a chance of being hurt. But reaching out to Donovan is also a chance of feeling something other than numbness and distraction. Am I ready for this?

I pour the soup into a bowl and set the microwave to reheat. While I watch the bowl spin, I text Donovan.

Me: Got the soup. Thanks


I stir the broth and noodles, waiting for Donovan’s reply.

Donovan: Anything to help speed up your recovery. Looking forward to seeing you soon.

Looking forward to seeing you soon,
shows a subtle note of interest, but no pressure to set a date, which could be a week or even a month, although, he may move on after one month.

Acting impulsively, I text him back.

Me: How about next week?

Donovan: Tuesday?

Me: Sure.

Donovan: Will touch base Sun or Mon.

Me:

.

The rest of the week flies by, and the closer to Tuesday it gets the more anxious I become. I’m nervous because I still can’t get this guy out of my mind. I thought the distance and time would quell these feelings, but instead the flames have been stoked, making them stronger. The internal battle is exhausting me, and the memories, or the fantasies, are beginning to take root in my psyche.