Awaken Me (The Jaded Series Book 4) (16 page)

Nick

I swear I need to be committed or something. What in the fuck possessed me to agree to allow Chris to stay a couple more days? Didn’t I just come to the conclusion that she had to go for my sanity’s sake?

I slam my truck into drive and skid out onto the road, pissed at myself for getting in this situation. A silent Chris sits beside me, stewing I’m sure, and I’m grateful. I need her to keep her mouth shut right now so I can come up with a way to deal with the fact she’ll be in my space for another couple of days.

I think back to the panicked look on her face in the diner. She had gone pale and sweat had popped up on her forehead. When she started struggling to get up, mere concern was replaced with outright fear. I had no idea what brought on the near panic attack, but seeing her like that did something to my stomach. I didn’t like it one bit. Then when she threw my hand off when I reached out to her, my anger spiked.

Months and months, hell, for more than a year, she’s butted her way into my life and tried inserting herself into my business, and the first time I do it, she turns bitchy. There was one thing she was right about though. One minute I’m practically kicking her out of my house and then the next I’m demanding she stay. I am so fucked-up.

I’m not stupid enough to think the story that Jaxon told us about Chris’s pipes was true. One look in his eyes said he was up to something. I not only have Chris trying to push her way into my life, but now I have Jaxon pushing her in as well. I could have forced the issue, but I didn’t. And I have no idea why I didn’t. All I know is that in the end it was just on principle, to prove Chris wrong, that I agreed to Jaxon.

Now I want to cut out my own tongue for saying yes. This is going to be a long two fucking days. I’ve got to find something to occupy my time and stay the hell away from her.

My grip on the steering wheel is so tight my knuckles are turning white. I loosen my fingers a fraction. I try to keep my eyes on the road but they keep stealing sideward glances at her. She’s in the same position each time; hands clasped tightly in her lap while she stares out her window. I’d bet my left nut that she’s not paying attention to the scenery passing by. Her tense body says she has something on her mind, and I know just what it is.

We pull up to the house a few minutes later. She jumps out of the truck before it’s even in park. I uncurl my fingers from the steering wheel, open my door, and get out. By the time I climb the steps with a few bags in hand, she’s already waiting for me by the door with her own bags.

Without a word, I unlock the door and she rushes inside with a muttered “Thank you.”

I sigh and rub the back of my neck, where tension has caused the muscles to bunch.

Chris drops her overnight bag right inside the door and without a word or backward glance, marches the groceries she’s still carrying into the kitchen. Her hips sway ahead of me as I follow her at a slower pace. I scowl at her ass for tempting me to reach out and grab a handful. Luckily, the vision disappears when she enters the kitchen, and the need lessens.

She has one bag unloaded on the bar and is emptying out the last one. I place my bags next to hers and we both finish unloading and putting the items away in silence. Tension fills the space around us in thick waves. Chris’s movements are less jerky than when I first walked in, but I can tell she’s still agitated about earlier. As much as I don’t want to, I know I need to find a way to get along with her, or these next couple of days will be even more miserable. I plan to do everything possible to keep away from her, but we’re bound to run into each other.

Gritting my teeth, I play nice and ask a random question to break the irritating silence.

“Why did you decide to be a guidance counselor?”

She drops a can of vegetables on the counter and looks at me with surprised but wary eyes. She has good reason. We went from yelling at each other in Maggie’s to me asking her a personal question twenty minutes later.

I hold her stare, amazed that I actually want to know the answer. I shouldn’t want to know anything about this woman, especially since she’s already taking over my thoughts, but I do.

After a few seconds, she collects herself, picks up the fallen can, and grabs two more. She walks to a cabinet and deposits them inside.

“I’ve always wanted to be that person in school that kids depend on to help guide them in the right direction. I don’t know how much you know, but my parents weren’t the best. They didn’t abuse Jase and me, but they weren’t there when we needed them. It was more a form of emotional neglect.” She stops long enough to put the meats and frozen rolls in the freezer. Then she turns and leans against the counter beside the fridge. I cross my arms and my ankles and lean against the bar as I listen.

“In elementary and middle school, the guidance counselors sucked. They had the job but didn’t actually do the job. Seemed they were always busy or never had time when I needed someone to talk to or needed help with academics. By the time I reached high school, I had given up on them. I had a couple of friends’ parents I could go to if I needed something. Pissed at my parents for always missing my soccer games and school functions, I went through a rebellious phase and started missing school and slacked on work. My grades were dropping fast. The counselor noticed and took an interest in me. She pulled me aside one day and asked what was going on. Said she saw how I always had good grades and never missed school, until that year. I was reluctant to talk with her at first because I was so used to them not caring, but eventually I opened up. She seemed genuinely concerned. We started meeting once a week. It was her that made me realize what I was doing was stupid, and I was the only one that could fix it. That if I didn’t, I would end up working at a fast-food joint and would never really have anything. It was up to me to make something of myself, and if my grades were good enough I could get into college and away from my parents. It wasn’t until my last year of high school that I realized I wanted to be to other kids what Mrs. Emerson was to me. I don’t know if I would have continued with my behavior, but I like to think that she helped me get where I am today. At the time she was my saving grace. My hope is to be someone else’s one day. Kids should never go without a friend or someone to guide them when they need it, whether it be emotionally, physically, mentally, or academically.”

I watch with fascination as she talks. It’s the most I’ve heard her say at once. I know that’s my fault. I don’t really encourage her to talk. If anything, I normally do everything possible to keep her quiet. But watching her now, how her eyes light up at the mention of her old guidance counselor, is mesmerizing. When she first started talking her eyes looked sad, like she was remembering all the times her parents let her down. Then came a hint of anger, her hands balling into fists on the counter behind her and her body going rigid. When she spoke of Mrs. Emerson, a smile touched her lips and her green eyes blazed bright. This Emerson woman is someone she really cares about. I’m glad she was there for her, and I hope her parents rot in hell for all the times they weren’t.

I clench my hands as a mental image of a smaller red-haired green-eyed Chris left alone with no one to depend on. She had her brother, but he was just a kid himself.

“What about you?” she asks hesitantly, pulling me from my thoughts. I look at her with questioning eyes.

“Why did you decide construction?” she clarifies.

I uncross my arms and legs and walk to the fridge for one of the flavored bottles of water I bought. When I close the fridge, she’s still leaning against the counter, watching me. Instead of resuming my place across from her, I lean my shoulder against the fridge and face her, leaving about three feet between us. As much as I hate to admit it, for some reason when she’s in a room I want to be closer to her. I don’t do it on purpose. Half the time I don’t realize I’ve done it until I’m already there.

She waits for me to answer with curious eyes. I oblige her.

“My granddad was a carpenter. He actually built this house,” I say, and look around the kitchen. “It was built for my grandmother. He finished it a week before she had my dad. They originally wanted to have several kids, but my grandmother almost died when she had my dad and it scared my granddad so much he refused to have more. My dad took after him and started his own carpentry business. I remember helping him at an early age. He started out building simple things like bookshelves, cabinets, rocking chairs. Anytime he was out in the barn, I’d be right there beside him with my own little tool kit.”

I chuckle at the memory of me standing on a stool beside him hammering away at a nail my dad told me to hit. I had to hit the nail three times as many as my dad, but eventually I got it all the way in.

I fiddle with the bottle cap in my hand as I continue.

“I loved working with wood. As I got older, I realized I wanted to build bigger things. My dad still preferred the smaller stuff. By the time I was in high school, I was working part-time with some of the local construction companies that built houses in the neighboring towns. I loved it and decided that’s what I wanted to do. I still do houses, but most of my business nowadays is commercial.”

Chris has shifted so she’s now facing me. Her expression is one of rapt captivation. She’s just as much into what I’m saying as I was into her earlier.

“I wish I could have seen some of your dad’s work,” she says, a small smile touching her pink lips.

I don’t know why, but I tell her, “He has some pieces still out in the barn. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

Her small smile turns so big there’re dimples on each of her cheeks. I stare at her. I’ve never before seen her smile so much. She’s absolutely gorgeous. Her luscious red hair falls around her shoulders. My fingers itch to run through the thick tresses. The increasingly familiar punch of desire forms in my belly, and I turn away from her. It’s getting harder and harder to resist her. And the more I’m around her, the less I think of Anna. Chris makes me forget and that’s something I can’t do. Anna can never be replaced. There’s no way anyone can compare to her. Chris may tempt me physically, but Anna will always hold my heart and soul. And I know if anything were to happen between me and Chris, I would end up hurting her in the end, because I could never give her what she deserves. I have to remember that.

I walk to the bar, grab the plastic bags that held the groceries, and take them to the trash.

“I’m going outside for a while. Do whatever you want in here. I’ll be back in later.”

I give her one last glance before walking out the door. Her look of disappointment at my abrupt departure almost has me halting. My back and forth between being cordial and a jerk has to be giving her whiplash. Not to mention the heated glances I’m sure she’s noticed. I know I’m giving mixed signals, and I’m an ass for it. That’s part of the reason why I don’t want her here. When she’s close, she brings out more emotions in me than I’ve felt in years. I have no idea what to do with them. They scare me. Being scared is not something I’m used to feeling. Sometimes when I think about it, it pisses me off. She has no right to make me feel this way. Even if it’s not her fault, I still blame her. It’s crazy and ridiculous, but I can’t help but feel like she’s purposely playing with me. It’s an emotional struggle I don’t want to deal with.

I close the front door behind me and head toward the barn. There’s more wood I need to cut for Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, but I’ll get to that later. Pulling the large red door open, I reach for the light switch and flip it. The big building lights up to show stacks of finished wood, a multitude of tools, small electrical equipment, wood-cutting materials, and numerous other items. In the far back corner are a few handcrafted pieces my dad built. There’s a corner cabinet Anna and I had planned on putting in the living room, along with a few other pieces. There’s also the first small bookshelf my dad let me help him make. Normally he would have sold it when he was finished, but he wanted to keep that one because it was my first. Anna and I were going to put that one in our kids’ room.

Pain lances my chest, and I kick a two-by-four that’s in my way. Ignoring the pain in my toe, I walk to the stack of wood lying off to the side. Setting up the two sawhorses, I place several of the one-by-fours and grab an old paintbrush to brush away any dust or dirt. Next, I grab a can of stain, pop open the lid, snag a brand-new paintbrush, and start brushing on the dark color.

The wood I’m working on now was cut over two years ago when Anna was still alive. It’s for the front porch. We bickered over what color to paint the wood. She wanted a stain while I wanted black. Just like every other time Anna wanted something, we finally decided to go with the stain. I could never say no to her for long. She’d give her sad puppy-dog eyes, and I was a goner. Every single time.

I dip the brush in the can of stain, let the excess drip off, and carefully bring the brush to the wood again as I think about all the plans we had for the house. I know I need to get over my hang-ups on not wanting to refurbish. Anna is gone and she’s not coming back. But the house still needs a lot of work, whether she’s here or not. I haven’t made a decision on whether or not to sell, but the more I think about it, the more I don’t like the idea. I don’t think I can get rid of such a big piece of my history. Anna and I had planned to pass it down to our kids, but that’s out now. I’ll die in this house and then it’ll go up for auction to the highest bidder. I have no plans to have any kids, so the line will die off.

Out of the blue, an image of Chris helping me pick out furniture for the living room and bedroom comes to mind. I see her so clearly, her laughing green eyes looking up at me as we walk around looking at sheets and curtains, hand in hand. The vision shocks me so much I drop the brush on the concrete floor.

What the fuck is wrong with me?
I ask myself.

I snatch up the brush, suddenly pissed. Why in the hell won’t she leave my thoughts? Who in the fuck does she think she is, inserting herself like that? She has no business interfering. There’s no way in hell that vision will ever come true.