After We Fell (93 page)

He doesn't respond.

When most of the blood is removed, I rinse the stained towel and leave it in the sink. “I'm going to grab our bags. Stay here,” I say, hoping he'll listen.

I hurry to the room to gather both of our bags and unzip the suitcase. Hardin is shirtless and barefoot, wearing only athletic shorts, and I'm dressed in just his T-shirt. I didn't have time to think about getting dressed, or even to be embarrassed about running downstairs half naked when I heard the shouting. I didn't know what I was expecting to find as I raced down the steps, but Christian and Trish having sex wasn't one of the scenarios that I ever could have anticipated.

Hardin remains quiet as I pull a clean T-shirt over his head and pull socks onto his bare feet. I dress myself in a sweatshirt and jeans, not giving a thought to my appearance. I rinse my hands again in the bathroom, trying to scrub the blood from under my fingernails.

Silence stretches between us as we reach the stairs, and Hardin takes both bags from me. He hisses in pain when he lifts the strap of my bag onto his shoulder, and I cringe as I picture the bruise beneath by his shirt.

I hear Trish's sobs and Christian's low voice comforting her as we exit the house. When we reach the rental car, Hardin turns around to face the house again, and I watch as a shudder passes through his shoulders.

“I can drive.” I take the keys, but he quickly pulls them away from me.

“No, I'm driving,” he finally says. I don't argue with him.

I want to ask where we're going, but I choose not to question him right now; he's barely coherent and I need to tread lightly. I place my hand on his, and I'm relieved that he doesn't jerk away from my touch.

Minutes feel like hours as we drive through the village in silence, each mile adding another layer of tension. I stare out the
window and recognize the familiar street from this afternoon as we pass Susan's bridal shop. The memory of Trish wiping away tears, staring at herself in the mirror while dressed in her gown, brings tears to my own eyes. How could she do this? She's supposed to be getting married tomorrow; why would she do such a thing?

Hardin's voice snaps me back to the present. “This is so fucked up.”

“I don't understand it,” I say, gently squeezing his hand.

“Everything and everyone in my life is so fucked up,” he says, his voice emotionless.

“I know,” I agree with him; even though I couldn't disagree more, now is not the time to correct him.

Hardin slows the car as he pulls into the parking lot of a small motel. “We'll stay here tonight and leave in the morning,” he says, staring out the windshield. “I don't know what to say about your job and where you'll live when we get back to the States,” he continues, and climbs out of the car.

I was so busy worrying about Hardin and the violent scene in the kitchen that I momentarily forgot that the man rolling around on the floor with Hardin was not only my boss, but the man whose home I'm living in.

“Are you coming?” Hardin asks.

Instead of answering, I step out of the car and follow him into the motel in silence.

T
he man behind the desk gives Hardin the key to our room with a smile that Hardin does not return. I try my best to offer one to make up for it, but it comes off as forced and awkward, and the desk clerk looks away quickly.

In silence, we walk through the lobby to find the room. The hallway is long and narrow; religious paintings line the cream-­colored walls, a handsome angel kneeling before a maiden in one, two lovers embracing in another. I shudder when my eyes drag across the last painting, meeting the black eyes of Lucifer himself right outside of our assigned room. I'm stuck staring into the empty eyes as I hurry behind Hardin into the room and flip the light switch, illuminating the dark space. He tosses my bag onto a wingback chair that sits in a corner and drops the suitcase by the door next to where I'm standing.

“I'm taking a shower,” he says quietly. Without looking back, he walks into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

I want to follow him, but I'm conflicted. I don't want to push him or upset him any more than he already is, but at the same time I want to make sure he's okay and I don't want him to wallow in this—not alone, at least.

I pull my shoes off, then my jeans and Hardin's shirt, and follow him into the small bathroom, completely naked. When I push the door open, he doesn't turn around. Steam has already
begun to billow through the small space, filling it, covering Hardin's naked body with a cloud of vapor. His tattoos peek through, the black ink visible through the steam, drawing me toward him.

I step over the pile of his discarded clothes and stand behind him, keeping more than a foot of distance between us.

“I don't need you to—” Hardin begins, his voice flat.

“I know,” I interrupt him. I know he's angry, hurt, and he's beginning to slip back behind the wall that I've fought so hard to demolish. He's been controlling his anger so well that I could kill Trish and Christian both for making him lose it that way.

Surprised by the dark direction my thoughts have taken, I shake them away.

Without another word, he draws back the shower curtain and steps into the cascading water. I take a breath, summoning every ounce of confidence I can muster, and step into the shower behind him. The water is scalding, barely tolerable, and I hide behind Hardin to avoid it. He must notice my discomfort, because he adjusts the water temperature.

I grab the small complimentary bottle of soap and squeeze it onto a cloth and carefully bring it to Hardin's back. He finches and tries to move forward, but I follow him, stepping closer.

“You don't have to talk to me, but I know you need me to be here right now.” My voice is almost a whisper, lost between Hardin's deep breaths and the falling water.

Silent and still, he doesn't move as I brush the cloth across the letters etched into his skin. My tattoo.

Hardin turns to face me, allowing me to clean his chest now, his eyes studying every stroke of the cloth. I feel the anger radiating from of him, mixing with the clouds of hot vapor, and his eyes are burning into me. He looks as if he's going to explode. Before I can blink, both of his hands are pressed against my jaw, cupping my neck on either side. His mouth desperately collides against mine, and my lips part involuntarily under the rough contact. There is
nothing gentle, nothing soft about his touch. My tongue meets his, and I pull his bottom lip between my teeth, gently tugging, avoiding his wound. He groans and presses me against the wet tile.

I hear myself whimper when he pulls his mouth from mine, but he quickly reestablishes contact and peppers rough kisses down the column of my neck and across my chest, then cups my breasts, rolling them beneath his busted and bruised hands while his mouth works back and forth, licking, sucking, biting. I roll my head back against the tile and bury my fingers in his hair, tugging the way I know he loves.

Without warning, he lowers his body even further, resting on his knees under the spraying water, and for a fleeting moment I'm reminded of something vague. But then he touches me again, and I just can't remember what it is.

T
essa's fingers rake through my hair, bringing my mouth to her flushed, already swollen skin. Touching her, tasting her this way, pushes everything else from my tortured mind.

She cries out as my tongue laps around her, pulling tightly at the roots of my hair. Her hips lift from the tile, meeting my mouth, desperate for more.

Too soon, I stand back to my feet and lift one of her legs to wrap around my waist, following with the other. She groans as I lift her, entering her slowly.

“Fuuuuck . . .” I draw the word out, my voice almost a hiss as I'm overwhelmed by the warmth, the wetness, of feeling her without the barrier of a condom between us.

Her eyes roll back into her head as I push forward, withdrawing and filling her again. I fight every urge to slam into her, to fuck her so hard that I forget everything around us. Instead, I move slowly but allow my mouth and hands to be rough on her skin. Her arms tighten around my shoulders as my lips latch on to the skin just above the curve of her full breast. I can taste the blood rising to the surface underneath my tongue, and I pull away in time to see the faint pink mark left in my wake.

Her eyes dart down between us, examining it herself. She doesn't scold me or even frown at the bruise left by my lips; she only brings her lip between her teeth, staring almost adoringly at
the mark. Tessa drags her fingernails down the slope of my back, and I press her harder against the tile wall. My fingers are pressed into her thighs, indenting her skin, and I thrust inside of her, repeating her name over and over.

Her legs tighten around my waist, and I push and pull, in and out, bringing both of us closer to our release.

“Hardin,” she softly moans, her breathing erratic as she comes around me. The realization that I can come inside of her without worry brings me to the edge, pushing me over. I spill into her with a shout of her name.

“I love you.” I press my lips against her temple before placing my forehead against hers to catch my breath.

“I love you,” she gasps, her eyes closed. I stay inside of her, allowing myself to simply enjoy the feeling of skin on skin.

On my back, I can feel the heat leaving the water; we won't have more than ten minutes left of hot water. The idea of a cold shower in the middle of the night causes me to carefully help her back to her feet. As I withdraw from her, I watch shamelessly as the evidence of my orgasm seeps from between her legs. Fucking hell, that sight alone is worth waiting seven fucking months for.

I want to thank her, to tell her that I love her and that she brought me out of the darkness, not only tonight, but ever since the day she caught me off guard by kissing me in my old room at the frat house, but I can't find the words.

I turn the hot water up and stare at the wall. I sigh in relief when I feel the soft washcloth on my back, continuing what she started only minutes ago.

I turn around to face her, and as she brings the cloth to my neck, I stay silent. My anger is still around, lurking and simmering below the surface, but she's taken me beyond it in the way that only she can.

M
y mum is so fucked up.” Hardin finally speaks after long minutes of silence. My hand jerks at the sudden noise, but I quickly recover and return to bathing him as he continues. “I mean this is some shit right out of Tolstoy.”

My mind scrambles through Tolstoy's works before landing on
The Kreutzer Sonata.
I shiver despite the heat of the shower.

“Kreutzer?”
I ask, hoping I'm confused or that he and I have interpreted the dark story differently.

“Yes, of course.” He's becoming emotionless again, crouching down behind that damn wall.

“I don't know if I would compare this . . . situation to something so dark,” I softly argue. That story is filled with blood, jealousy, and rage, and I'd like to think this real-life one will have a better ending.

“Not completely, but yes,” he answers as if he can read my mind.

I play the story line through my head, trying to see some connection to Hardin's mother's affair, but the only thing I can come up with has to do with Hardin himself and his beliefs about marriage. That causes me to shiver again.

“I didn't plan to ever marry, and I still don't, so no, it didn't change anything,” he coldly responds.

I ignore the pain in my chest and focus on him. “Okay.” I run
the cloth down one arm, then the other, and when I look up, his eyes are closed.

“Whose story do you suppose we'll have?” he asks, taking the cloth from my hand.

“I don't know,” I answer him honestly. I'd love nothing more than to know the answer to this question.

“Me neither.” He pours more body wash onto the cloth and runs it across my chest.

“Couldn't we make our own story?” I look up into his troubled eyes.

“I don't think we can. You know this is going to end one of two ways,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

I know he's hurt and I know he's angry, but I don't want Trish's mistakes to affect our relationship and I can see Hardin making comparisons behind the green of his eyes.

I try to take the conversation in another direction. “What is it about all of this that bothers you the most? It's that the wedding is tomorrow . . . well, today,” I correct myself. It's almost 4 a.m. now, and the wedding is, or was, supposed to start at two this afternoon. What happened after we left the house? Did Mike come back to talk to Trish, or did Christian and Trish finish what they started?

“I don't know.” He sighs, dragging the cloth down my stomach and across my hips. “I don't really give a fuck about that wedding. I guess I just feel like they're both fucking liars.”

“I'm sorry,” I tell him.

“My mum is the one who'll be sorry. She's the one who sold her fucking house and cheated the night before her damn wedding.” His touch becomes rough as his anger builds.

I stay quiet but remove the cloth from his hands and hang it on the rack behind me.

“And Vance, what kind of fucking asshole has an affair with the ex-wife of his best friend? My father and Christian Vance
have known each other since they were kids.” Hardin's tone is bitter—threatening, even. “I should call my father and see if he knows what a backstabbing whore—”

I reach my hand and cover his mouth before he can finish the harsh words. “She's still your mother,” I softly remind him. I know he's angry, but he shouldn't call her names.