Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (24 page)

“No.” My refusal stops him just inches from my mouth. My eyes squeeze shut as though blocking out the sight of him will make him vanish. I crawl back on my hands. I need space from him, distance and I hobble to my feet, stand in front of the bookshelf, giving him my back. “Just go. Please go. I don’t want Sayo to come back here and find us together.” I swallow, let the knotted breath lingering in my throat clear. He did this. It was his choice and I want him to taste the sting of hurt, to feel just a hint of what he gave me that day on the pitch. “I’d hate for Tucker to find out we’re fighting. We—we need you playing. Cameron gave us hell last season and—”

Declan releases a loud, frustrated cry, cursing under his breath and then slams his fist on the table. “Don’t tell me about you and fecking Tucker. I don’t want to know about it.”

“I didn’t say anything about us.”

He rushes me, jerks me back against the bookshelf, cages me with his large hands. “Did you want to hurt me? Last night, when you were with him? Did you want me jealous?”

“I didn’t do—”

“I saw you, McShane. I saw you with that bollocks. You know I saw you. Him touching you—” His eyes close, pinch at the corners and he shakes his head as though he tries to rip the memory of Tucker and me from his mind. He opens his eyes and his pupils are dilated, huge. “He kept touching you. You let him. He held your hand, you held his, I saw that too. God, did he kiss you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

His eyes widen and I swear I think I see his chin shake. “Did you fuck him?”

“What?”

“Jaysus, you did, didn’t you? You fucked that nancy bollocks.” His face turns nearly purple as his temper flares and he pushes back, away from the bookshelves, away from me. He rubs his hands over his face and curses low and guttural. “I can’t believe that pouncy little shite—”

“Declan! Stop it.” I’ve never seen his anger so present. I’ve never seen him so desperate. “Calm down, will you? What is your problem?”

“I told that arse not to try anything. I warned him—”

“You can’t do that. It’s not your place.”

Realization hits him, it must. I can tell he wants to make an excuse, that he needs to find a reasonable pretext for this abnormal bout of possessiveness. He doesn’t. He steps forward, seems barely able to manage focusing on me without his hands squeezing down on my shoulders, without his eyes wild and frantic. “Did you, Autumn? Did you let him touch you?”

“I didn’t sleep with him, dammit.”

Declan’s hands tremble as they smooth up my shoulder, as they hold my face. “Don’t ever let him, love. He doesn’t deserve you. I can’t stand the thought of you with him…you have to—” he finishes with his lips on my mouth, pulling, twisting before he tugs me forward, lapping his tongue against mine. “No one touches you, McShane. No one but me.”

I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense. But I can’t find the words to stop him. I want this, him. I want his hands on my body. I welcome his heavy pant, his strumming heart as he pulls me close. The moan in my throat breaks free and I don’t stop it, can’t think far enough ahead of his touch, his lips, his body arching against mine to hold him back, to control the way my hands slip under his shirt, up his finely ridged stomach, to scrape against the tight muscle there.

I want to control this moment. I want him to remember what it’s like when I touch him, to have my hands on his body. I want him to miss this connection so that he knows he can’t simply walk away from me. When my hand slides beneath his waist and I feel the trail of course hair and the firm, silky texture of the head of his dick against my fingers, Declan releases a hiss, stares at me, desperate, eager. That expression tells me to continue, to move forward, to never, ever stop touching him.

His dick is against my hand, smooth, throbbing and I pop the button of his jeans, relieving the constriction, smiling at the measured roll of his eyes, at the grating whine in his groan. He rests against me, his forehead on my shoulder and my hand works further down, his jeans loosening with every stroke I make against him.

“Yes,” he moans, grinding against my palm, working his hips forward until my hand is fully around him, until my fingertips touch.  I squeeze once, twice and Declan grabs my breast, pinching my tender nipple between his fingers and my hold loosens, too distracted by his touch to concentrate fully on him. “Promise me,” he says against my ear. “Fecking promise me you won’t let anyone else touch you.”

The heat bubbling in my body, lowering down my stomach, right to my clit, is instantly dowsed by his request. I release him, extricate my hand from his body, push him back and try to ignore the throbbing in my breast and the warmth that lingers in my hand. “What are you doing to me? What the hell are you doing to me? You can’t tell me that we don’t spark anymore and then kiss me. You can’t ask me if I’ve slept with Tucker and then order me to promise never to let him touch me. You don’t own me. I am not yours.” I shove his chest and he wobbles back, stricken. “Do you hear me, Declan? I don’t belong to you.”

His gaze flicks to my breast, then to his loose jeans. He closes his eyes as though he’s just realized what we were doing, how we touched each other. “I know you don’t.” He adjusts his jeans, buttons them without managing to look at me. “I’m…I’m sorry, McShane. You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m just…I’m not for you.”

Declan leaves me in the basement, confused and wanting. I close my hand, and pull it under my shirt to keep the feel of him there. His shadow shrinks as he marches up the steps and I slide to the floor wondering what just happened. I hope, fleetingly that it might happen again.
 

I shouldn’t be listening to sad, haunting music. Yet here I am, my iPod on shuffle. It’s my “Just Eat a Bullet Already” playlist. Matt Walters sings about a dark love that he would die for; Mumford and Sons made me teary with their “Reminders”; and Ed Sheeran wants me to kiss him like I’m falling in love. I want to drown myself in copious amounts of liquor that will lead to my inevitable heaving. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a kid anymore. Declan’s idiotic behavior shouldn’t make me feel all “dumped at the junior prom.”

Even training yesterday and today didn’t help extinguish my ridiculous melancholy. Layla had her dad set up a course on the back five acres of his property, complete with a tar-slick wall and tire lanes. I experienced a few moments of excited glee, but then I remember Declan wouldn’t be there, that we were now left to our own devices in our preparation for the Dash. The course was brutal and I did love the feel of exhaustion I experienced running through it, but it was fleeting, which only made me angry with myself.

 The music continues, soaks into my ears, causes me to suddenly want a distraction. Liquor. Yes. It won’t do me any favors and will probably threaten the ten pounds I’ve lost these past few weeks, but at the moment, I can’t seem to find the will to care. But, I’ll have to be quick about it. Joe will be here soon. Oh goodie. An afternoon with my long lost father. It can wait though. There’s not even enough fight in me to roll myself off the sofa and hobble into the kitchen.

The track shuffles ahead and I’m treated to Mumford again. I love their British irony and morose companionship, but when a mood such as this strikes, there is only one lady that seems appropriate.
The
lady, actually. I flip through the playlist and Billie Holiday sings what is burning in my soul. “Fine and Mellow” invades the silence of the room, the cracks and pops of the recording filling those fractures in my internal wall. I can’t dismiss the irony of the song.
“My man don't love me, Treats me oh so mean.”

“Ain’t that the truth, sister,” I say to Billie.

Shadows of images collect in my thoughts. My eyes unfocus and in that blur, I recall Declan’s sarcastic smirk pulling across his lips. His condescending eye rolls, him biting the inside of his mouth, his breath heavy against my neck, the feel of him, hard, smooth, against my palm. 

“Crap,” I say, eager to drive those images from my mind. I wobble off the sofa, my ankle still a bit tender from my tussle to the floor two days ago and head for the kitchen, snatching up a bottle of Jameson’s. I hope Joe is late. I down two glasses, refill the glass for a third and mean to run to the bathroom and grab my mouthwash when the doorbell chimes. Joe will just have to handle my whiskey breath.

When the door opens, I forget to smile, to erase my foul mood from my features. My father’s expression is warm, excited, but he sees the glass in my hand and then looks behind me to where my iPod is plugged into my speakers and his body droops, the wrinkles around his mouth amplify.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what happened?” I wave my hand and he follows me in, stares down at me as I take a sip from my glass. Joe walks to my iPod and turns it off. “Sweet Lord, Autumn, you are your mother’s child.”

“Huh?”

He takes the glass from me and sets it on the coffee table. “Lady Day? I always knew when something was troubling Evelyn.” He sits, drapes his arm behind me on the sofa. “She’d play the same Billie Holiday songs over and over.”
 

“Good thing you weren’t there when your anniversary rolled around. That’s all she played then.”

Joe’s arm leaves the couch and I instantly regret my comment. I grab his hand and offer him a smile. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“It’s fair, love. I deserve that rudeness, don’t I?” Again he puts his arm around me. “Tell me what’s got you fussed.”

I want to tell him, and think about how to separate the details so I don’t completely shock him, but there is still awkwardness between us. We have spent some time together over the past month, dinners and films, listening to bands on the weekends, watching away matches at McKinney’s. But I still feel this distance between us, a barrier that keeps us from connecting. Joe does seem more relaxed now that we’ve spent time together and it isn’t anything like the uncomfortable one-word conversations and curt replies we bounced between each other that first day in my apartment. He’s asking. He wants to help, that much I can tell. 

“Joe, you really don’t want to hear about my disaster of a love life, do you?”

He thinks for a moment and I see the indecision flash in his eyes. “It’s not the topic of conversation I expected on way here, but you do seem out of sorts. Think I can help, sweetheart?”

So I tell him. Not everything. God, no. I gloss over my post-date activities with Declan, our brief groping in the basement, but I tell him what I feel, how he pushed me aside, even about Tucker, our history and the bet. After a moment, Joe stops rubbing his beard, erases that contemplative expression from his face.

“It sounds to me there is something this Declan lad isn’t able to share with you.”

“Well, obviously.”

“Perhaps it isn’t all what you think, love. Perhaps his reasons are wholly honorable and his hand is being forced.”

“But he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me.”

“Given him reason to, have you?”

I haven’t hurt him, not intentionally, at least not enough to warrant his rejection and certainly not before our date. Still, logically Declan and I have only known each other a short time. There is a connection, something that whispers behind each look, each touch that tells me experience isn’t important. What truly matters is what we feel.

“Probably not.” I can’t take the consuming thoughts, the weight of all those skittering questions or the very fatherly expression Joe levels at me. There’s this placating expression on his face, eyes soft, squinted, a half-smile pulling his lips as though he thinks I’m a child, that my erratic emotions are not warranted. The window calls to me, displaying the activity of match day, the streams of red, of the passing crowds and I stand in front of it, glad that I’m not there for Declan’s first match back. I don’t know if my presence there would bother him or how it would affect me.  “It’s all so stupid, really. I haven’t known him that long. I shouldn’t be so upset by this. I shouldn’t be even considering him at all. On the surface, he’s a terrible match for me.”

Joe laughs, bringing my attention back to him.
  “Oh, Autumn, you can’t rationalize love. There is no bit of logic to it.” He taps his chest. “It’s all heart.”

I want to be able to ask him questions without seeing the guilt that always flashes in his eyes when I mention the past. But as I watch him fiddle with the tassels on my pillow, work the loose strings around his fingers, I sense his ease, his comfort. “Did you…is that what happened between you and mom? There was too much logic?”

Joe’s easy smile vanishes and I immediately regret my question. He throws the pillow off his lap, lets a soft exhale move his lips. “No, love. There was no logic between us. Despite what she may have told you or what you might have guessed, there was love. A great deal of love.”

I want to ask him why he left. Just now, I want to ask if there had been so much love, why did he run away from her. Was that love all-consuming? Did it overwhelm him? Scare him? But there is honest sadness in his eyes, as though he’s remembering her. As though those memories are heartbreaking to recall, and I can’t bear to bring up his failings. I can’t manage to hold on to my anger. That conversation would come, it had to, but for now, I was enjoying hearing Joe’s advice.

He scans my entertainment center, walks close to it to see my collection of DVDs. “It’s a great Irish truth that all the quandaries of life can be measured and sorted by one of the greatest thinkers of all time.” Joe’s finger passes over my collection, searching for what I’m not sure, but then his finger stops and he points at a small case. “Ah ha! I knew I had at least gifted you with my good sense and taste.” He pulls the case out of the stack and hands it to me. “Joss Whedon, love. The whole of life’s questions, even those of the heart, can be resolved by the words and knowledge of Whedon. Shall we skip lunch and partake?”

“Great Irish truth, Joe?” I laugh when he nods, quite serious. “I can remember watching vintage “Doctor Who” with you all those years ago, but I had no idea that you would be a Browncoat.”

“Love, there’s a fat lot of things we don’t know about each other. But here’s a start, a bit of advice on love and life in general: ‘Everything’s shiny.’ Or at least, it will be.” 

Joe stayed far longer than either of us had planned. That entire afternoon we watched Firefly, laughing, eating far too much popcorn, uttering “Oh, I love this part,” and more often than not one of us cursed the network and their hasty cancellation of the show.

It was nice, bonding with him over something we both clearly adored. There were long moments when we simply watched, when nothing could be heard in my apartment except our own laughter and the clamorous noise outside as the match ended. Cars honked, roosters clucked and drunks sang inappropriate drinking songs and various out of tune choruses of “The Wild Rover.” Joe and I exchanged grins when we heard “And it's no, nay, never, No nay never no more” being shouted just outside of my front window.

It was a good day, one that I was surprised to discover I didn’t want to end. Before I realized what was happening, I nodded off and woke up on Joe’s chest, his fingers brushing through my hair.

 There was only one awkward moment, just before he left. Joe’s advice had been somewhat benign, a bit unbiased but as he turned to leave and kissed me on the cheek, he hesitated.

“I think you know this Tucker lad isn’t right for you, love. From all you’ve said, he seems unable to be done with you. Seems to me he doesn’t want you being friendly with Declan.”

“Joe, you don’t know either of them. They both could be serial killers. Declan, I’m sure, is very insane.”

“My inclination is to advise you to
never
let
any
man ever kiss you or even so much as hold your hand, but I suppose I lost that right years ago.” He watched me, as though he expected me to correct him. When I didn’t he smiled sadly and moved in for a hug. “There are so many things I’ve need of sayin to you, Autumn.” I smelled his familiar scent and a dozen images flew to my mind, memories I’d tried to suppress for so many years. But if felt good for Joe to hold me, to have my father’s arms wrapped around me. He pulled away and let his hands cup my face. “Some things you may not be eager to hear, but soon, when your spirits pick up, I must make confessions.” He didn’t wait for me to respond. He simply kissed my cheek again and walked away. 

I only heard from Joe twice in the following week, and he made me laugh when I realized he had recently sorted out texting. His messages had been mostly discernible, some containing ridiculous things like “Isn’t the sunrise grand this morning?” with an attached picture of his thumb.

Tomorrow would bring another match, and I informed my friends during training this morning that I wouldn’t go. My love of the game didn’t seem to surpass my need to stay off of both Declan and Tucker’s radars. My ex called me as well during the week, asking for a friendly chat, emailing me to let me know his mother’s birthday was coming up and she’d asked if I’d join them for dinner. I hadn’t decided if I wanted to go, but knew I needed another excuse to snoop.

Today will be awkward, I’m convinced. After a month of sorting and cleaning, organizing and shelving, it is time for the book sale. So here I am, huddled next to Sayo at a long table outside of the library, primed to smile my sweetest and bat my eyes to any student eager for cheap books.

Declan made an off-handed comment to Sayo last weekend about helping out despite her reassurances that we could handle it. Still, if I’ve learned anything during my time with him, it was that, given the chance, Declan would make my life as complicated and stroppy as possible.

I’ve seen him twice today. Both times, he ignored me when I scanned his face. It’s good though. I don’t want to talk to him. Talking to him leads to arguing and touching, something I’m sure Sayo wouldn’t appreciate in the middle of her book sale.

Students saunter around us, thumbing through books, messing up our neat organization that took Sayo and me all morning to arrange. To my surprise, Declan runs back and forth from the sale to the library basement to restock the quickly emptying tables. Not once does he acknowledge me. It’s starting to piss me off.