Afraid to Fly (Fearless #2) (2 page)

“Of course,” I nodded. I didn’t have an idea. I’d never know that feeling of immeasurable pride and joy.

“Ok, cool. I’m outta here.” Blaine jumped to his feet, suddenly anxious and enthusiastic to get home to the woman of his dreams. The woman of my dreams too. If I actually had dreams, instead of the nightmares that broke free and wreaked havoc on my subconscious almost every night.

I waved goodbye just as a waitress strolled up to our table, pen and pad in hand. “What can I get you guys?” she asked, popping her pink bubble gum. She captured my attention, seizing my senses with undiluted femininity wrapped in concentrated sex appeal. She was tall for a girl—slim, but curvy and soft in all the right places. She wore the usual cocktail waitress get-up of obscenely short shorts and a skintight tank top that looked like it belonged on the runway, rather than Hoe Stroll, North Carolina. Hell, she
owned
that shit. Confidence was practically oozing from the pores of her alabaster skin.

“Well?” she asked, looking up from her paper pad and pinning me with her bright blue eyes. Fuck. Me. She was gorgeous. Dark hair framed her heart-shaped face—a hauntingly beautiful backdrop for those remarkable eyes. She wore very little makeup, thank God, but her full lips were painted a shocking red. Just the sight of those lips had me licking my own.

“We’ll have another round,” CJ said before I regained vocal function, his eyes roaming her ass without shame. I wanted to tell him to back off. Wanted to knock those eager eyes to the back of his head. But the delicate beauty in front of me left me breathless, and ultimately, speechless.

What the hell was wrong with me? Um,
hello?
I was Dominic Trevino.
Dirty-fucking-Dom.
I wasn’t exactly new to this shit. I never got flustered with any chick. Ever. I loved ’em and left ’em just as quick as I could bag ’em. And the girls . . . the girls knew the game. I didn’t have to lie to them. I never fed them any false bullshit, nor promised them anything more than a few orgasms and maybe a meal or two. Sometimes it took less than that. Women were weak for my exotic good looks and Latin charm. It was a gift and a curse. Because, most of the time, that was all they saw.

So why was this chick looking at me like I had three heads, and all of them were butt-ass ugly? Hell, she was nearly scowling at me. Oh shit, had I already slept with her? And forgot to call or something? No. I would have remembered her. Definitely.

“Hey,” I finally said, touching her elbow just as she turned to walk away. She jerked her arm away with so much force that her pen clattered to the floor. “You’re new here.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Now get your hand off me, prick,” she snapped through gritted teeth.

“Whoa, whoa, my bad.” I raised my palms up to show her that I wasn’t a threat. That was the last thing I wanted her to think about me. “Sorry, uh, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t,” she sneered, her ethereal blue eyes sparkling like sun-filtered prisms under the multi-colored, neon lights. “I just don’t want your hands on me. Got it?”

“Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to offend you.” I furrowed my brow in confusion and dipped my head to one side, trying to unmask the reason behind her visible disdain. Despite the hardness of her scowl, there was something soft and graceful about her. Angelic, even. Like a lamb in lion’s clothing. I just needed to peel off all the layers. “Do I know you or something? Like, did I do something to upset you?”

She popped her pink bubble gum again, chomping on the gooey goodness like it was my manhood she was grinding to bits. My nuts ached, but I couldn’t tell if it was from arousal, fear or some convoluted mix of both.

“Know me? Ha!” she laughed sardonically. “Like I’d ever associate with someone like
you.
”

In the span of three seconds, I had somehow morphed into a two foot, yellow, Twinkie-like creature wearing overalls and goggles, because I swear, the only reply I could think of was,
“Whaaaaaat?”

“Someone like
me?”
I snickered, shaking my head. “Funny coming from a chick in booty shorts and a top that looks like it was painted on . . . in a strip club, no less.”

Hello, mouth. This is foot. Now choke on that shit.

Before I could open my mouth to apologize, the waitress let out a frustrated growl and stormed away, leaving her pen to die a slow, cruel death on the sticky, fluid-splattered floor.

“Dude, talk about crash and burn!” CJ guffawed, enjoying the sight of someone else getting beat with the rejection stick for once. I downed my whiskey to nurse the invisible wounds.

Before I could harp on the evening’s odd turn of events, Cherri sauntered over to our table, depositing her nearly bare ass on my lap.

“I get off in two hours,” she whispered, twirling a lock of her bright red hair.

I looked over at CJ just as one of the more seasoned dancers escorted him to the Champagne Room for a “private” dance. I shook my head. Hope he was up to date on all his shots.

I stroked Cherri’s bare thigh, my fingers grazing the mound of hot flesh that only a thin layer of silk concealed. She moaned as my lips slid up her earlobe. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

I
WOKE UP IN
a humid, tangled web of naked limbs and tousled hair. Three sets of legs, including my own, were twisted in the sheets. Both blonde and red tresses tickled my face and chest. Two hands grasped my torso in slumber, yet one was decorated with fire engine red nail polish, while the other was painted a familiar powder pink.

I’d been here before too.

This scenario. This feeling. This regret.

Same shit, different day.

I unraveled myself from the erotic mosaic of my bed and shrugged on the pair of discarded jeans from last night. Fatigue was still heavy in my joints, so I sat on the edge of the mattress, running a hand over my sleep-matted hair, and trying to piece together the last several hours.

Shit.

You know what’s worse than reliving some of the lowest points of your deviance? Being too fucked up to remember them.

A part of me wanted to do the Dirty Bird on the fifty-yard line of my immoral psyche. While the other part—the more rational, mature part that wouldn’t be placated by random hook ups—knew that I was wrong. But how do you stop doing the only thing that gives you a sense of security? The thing that makes you feel connected and accepted by someone—anyone—if only for a few hours?

I wasn’t jaded to what I was really doing—what I was really hiding under a collection of ripped panties, scratches on my back and dirty sheets. Yeah, the sex, the women . . . it was exciting and satisfied me physically. But it did nothing to fill the void of confusion and shame. Still, I was resigned to bury them both, no matter how impossible that feat seemed.

I trudged into the kitchen for my caffeinated wake up call. I was on my second cup when Angel emerged, dressed in a pair of my boxer shorts and a white, ribbed undershirt, sans bra. Without a word, she lumbered over and took my cup into her small hands, taking a long sip.

We stood in heavy silence as I worked to fix myself another cup. When two people shared what we did . . . there really wasn’t much left to say.

“So . . .” Angel said, finally breaking the awkward tension.

“Yeah.”

“Crazy.”

More silence stretched between us as we sipped our brew. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of what happened between us. Hell, it wasn’t the first time. And it’s not like Angel and I had had sex. But, I knew what we were doing wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t right. It was just a placeholder for the happiness we both longed to obtain.

“Let’s keep this between us,” I murmured. “We don’t need Kami thinking we’re falling apart over here. She’ll pack her bags and be in her old room in a heartbeat.”

“Would that be the worst thing in the world?” Angel shrugged. She was dead serious, although I could tell she regretted her selfish intentions. “Yeah, you’re right . . . she’d flip. We promised her we’d knock it off last time. I
so
cannot sit through another one of her lectures.”

I smiled, remembering the last time Angel and I stumbled into a little mischief. Kami nagged us for hours, and oddly enough, we let her. “That girl is more of a mother than she gives herself credit for.”

“Shit, if I’d had a mother like her, maybe I’d be less of a train wreck,” Angel added with a melancholy grin that didn’t meet her cornflower blue eyes.

“Hey . . .”

Dismissing me with a wave of her hand, she shrugged and looked away. “It is what it is. We both know I was doomed from the start.”

I wanted to wrap her in my arms. Wanted to take away whatever bullshit she was trying to label herself with. On the outside, Angel Cassidy, rocker extraordinaire, had bigger balls than any man I had ever known. But inside, beyond the makeup, money, and material things, she was a scared, lonely little girl. I had found her that way almost ten years ago. And somehow, the years, time and circumstance had aged her, but she had never truly grown up.

The piercing sound of stiletto heels against hardwood drew our attention, and we watched as Cherri made her way into the kitchen, her barely-there mini dress looking harsh and offensive in the morning light.

“Hey, guys,” she smiled lazily. Remnants of black mascara creased at the corners of her eyes, and her hair was matted. She pressed her lips against mine before turning to offer Angel the same. “You two . . . wow. A girl could get used to this.”

She grabbed Angel’s mug of coffee and took a sip before she could object, then spun on her heel. “Last night was fun. Call me,” she shot from over her shoulder. Neither of us even bothered to ask her how she was getting home, being that Angel had been our ride. I don’t think we even cared.

We looked at each other with raised brows. “We gotta stop this shit,” I finally said, more for myself than anyone else.

“I know.” Angel’s voice was feather-soft, just a wisp of a sound. It was hard to believe that three nights a week, she was the badass lead singer for AngelDust, the all-girl band that was quickly becoming a force to be reckoned with within the Charlotte indie rock circuit. But then again, I could believe it. Angel was as talented as I was when it came to keeping up appearances. We were cut from the same cloth of bullshit artists. We spewed our own deviated versions of the truth in order to camouflage the wars raging within. Our situations may be different, but the pain was the same. Misery didn’t discriminate.

“I gotta run,” Angel said, dumping the stripper-tainted remains of her coffee into the sink. “Got plans for lunch.”

“With who? Your
giiirlfriend?”
I teased, poking her in the ribs.

I could almost feel the heat radiating from Angel’s flushed cheeks. “Shut it, asswipe. Not my girlfriend. A friend. She’s married, remember?”

“So?” I quipped with a cocked brow.

“Soooo . . . I don’t fuck with married broads. It’s bad ju-ju. I don’t need karma taking a massive shit on me. I’ve got enough bullshit to deal with on my own.”

I nodded, the memory of last night’s news pressing its way to the forefront of my mind. I knew Blaine was confiding in CJ and I, and I truly didn’t want to tarnish that. But I needed to vocally digest it. Maybe saying it out loud would make it easier to accept.

“Speaking of being married . . . something I need to tell you.” I took a deep breath and exhaled my own selfish feelings, plastering on a smile. “Blaine is proposing to Kam.”

Angel’s eyes grew twice their size and glazed with shock and horror, which would have been my initial, honest reaction. “What?”

“Yeah. He told me last night.”

“Fuck!” she shrieked, scrambling to the house phone a few feet away. “I have to call her.”

“What? No.” I grabbed her elbow, halting her pursuit. “You can’t do that, Ang.”

“Why? Why the fuck not? Wouldn’t you want to be warned before someone ruined your life? Before someone took the only good and whole and sacred thing you have and destroyed it?”

I let her words sink in, hearing the desperation in her voice. She was genuinely scared for Kami. Shit, she was scared for herself. We’d all seen it firsthand—how fragile love could be. So beautiful, yet paper-thin and translucent. One wrong move, and it would crumble in your hand like ash, falling away into the wind like it was never really there.

“No. We can’t,” I forced myself to say. “We have to let her go. We gotta let her fly. If we hold her back, we’ll be grounding her. Damning her to a life that even we don’t want to live.”

“Whatever,” Angel replied, though she settled the phone into the cradle. “You know, you’re usually less emo once you get some.”

I shrugged, and quirked a mischievous grin. “Maybe I just need a little more.”

I spent the remainder of my Sunday like I usually did—working out, lounging and thinking about my parents. About the life I could have had if they had survived that car crash twenty years ago. It seemed like so long ago—like a page out of someone else’s story. Someone else’s stolen memories. I never knew them—never knew what it felt like to be truly loved and cared for—but anything had to have been better than what I was left with.

That was all I gave myself. I didn’t sulk and mourn. I didn’t let my tear-stained past tear me apart. I swallowed it and pressed forward, telling myself that I was okay. I was strong. And I was safe.