Chaste (26 page)

Instead I back up.

“I want you to hold me, Quinn,” she whispers. “I know it’s a breach of your rules. But I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so … “ her voice trails off.

Scared? That makes two of us. She’s scared of Mike, but I’m afraid of doing something I’ll regret.

She glances at the floor while I count the daisies on her toe ring,
one … two … three … four.
The clock ticks. The floor creaks when I shift my weight. Her nails make a clicking sound against the granite countertop. We must be the sorriest couple ever, too ashamed of our building fears to look each other in the eye.

“My father has said some nasty things to yours,” she finally says. “You need to know I don’t agree with him. I’m sorry for not listening to you in the woods earlier. You were right.” She clears her throat. “About Mike.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

She touches the edges of her toes together, and I’m reminded of the self-conscious girl who cooked me breakfast wearing mismatched socks.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Quinn.”

“I didn’t trust you for a long time. Even after you came to my house and made me breakfast, I was suspicious.” I play with the zipper on my coat, pulling it down and up again. “Then, when we spoke this afternoon, I told you what to do and behaved like a spoiled brat when you didn’t listen.”

“Let me take your jacket,” she offers, holding out her hand.

So that’s it? There’s no need for me to grovel?
I slip off my coat and watch her carry it to the closet, giving me a view of her sweet round bottom as she sways her hips from side to side.
Holy crap!
I want her so bad it hurts. My palms itch with the urge to rip her robe off, lay her on the kitchen island and run my hands all over her body.

“At least you trust me now,” she calls over her shoulder.

Um, yeah … way too much!

Truth is, I really shouldn’t be here. One major slipup and I can forget going on my mission. I’ll be in the bishop’s office confessing all my wayward thoughts, my sexual urges, my sinful acts of debauchery.

She crosses the space between us and puts a hand on my elbow. Warmth spreads up my arm as she looks me up and down.

“Seriously, Quinn. Spiderman pajama bottoms?”

“They’re lounge pants,” I say in my own defense.

“Right,” she raises an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with a superhero who risks his life to save the girl he loves?” I ask, wracking my brain for a sensible solution to Kat’s problem and mine. “I bet Molly would take you in tonight. It’d be safer.”

Her hand tugs me forward, leading me toward the stairs. “I don’t want Mary Jane Watson to protect me. I want you.”

42

Katarina

“Are you ashamed of your feet?” I ask the boy sitting in my bedroom.

For days I’ve dreamed about getting Quinn alone, of feeling his hands on my breasts, his mouth on my body. But never, in any of my fantasies, did he sit on the edge of my bed and refuse to take off his shoes.

I take a deep breath. Why does he put up so many damn walls?

“Tell you what,” I say, sitting on his lap and snaking my arms around his neck. “If you let your rules slide for tonight, I’ll keep things from going too far.”

When I called him earlier it had been for comfort. I hadn’t thought what potential this scenario had for seduction. But now that he’s here, I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance like this again.

He purses his lips as if considering my proposal, which is a good sign and more than I’d expected. His hormones have already cast their vote. The lump beneath his pajama bottoms tells me that. Maybe I should give him a push.

“I’ll take off your shoes for you,” I say, dropping to my knees in front of him.

The deep
V
of my neckline slips lower as my chest brushes against his legs. With my fingers, I loosen his shoes and pull them off.

When I glance up, his eyes have darkened with desire. Even though I’m looking straight into his face, he can’t tear his gaze away from the view of my body below the robe. I climb back onto his lap, this time straddling him. My hands go around his neck. My thighs spread. My blood is heating with a heady sense of power.

“You trust me, don’t you?” I ask.

He puts his nose in the hollow of my neck. “You know I do,” he rasps. “Just … let’s keep our clothes on, okay?”

I suppress a smile. Four rules knocked down to one. It’s not even Thanksgiving, and I’m going to win that bet. Maybe, if I’m really gentle, I’ll get to keep him in my life.

He scoops me up and lays me on the bed, settling over me until my thighs press against his. Limbs tangle, feet touch. My hands go to his stomach. His hands go to my cheek, my chin, my neck. They slide between my breasts, exploring my body through the robe. We’re breathing hard, and I grind against him, tease him with the feel of my chest against his. My pelvis moves up and down as his hand slides up my thigh and beneath the satin. His fingers play with my thin, lacey underwear. He cups my butt and holds me against him.

I slip off my robe and toss it to the floor.

This is the moment I expect him to stop. Instead his eyes turn to molten pools of hunger. He kisses my neck, cups my breasts through my bra, lifts his arms as I take off his shirt. My heart is racing; my skin is on fire. I need him to fill me, take away the hollow space, complete me with his … I curl my fingers around his erection.

He inhales sharply. “I want you so bad,” he says.

Running a hand down his chest, I hook my thumb in the waist-band of his pants.

I can do this, take his virginity. It would feel damn good, and it’s what he wants. But then the room starts getting darker. The lights from the Duvall house are dimming as someone runs from room to room, turning them off one after the other.

A shiver goes up my spine.

Mike.

I remember the rainy day he took me on a drive in his Lexus, when he spoke in a tender voice and promised to treat me with respect. His hands had been warm as he held mine, his eyes so soft and earnest and sincere that when he said he’d never rob me of my innocence, I believed him.

And I realize that even though the relationship ended when he cheated, the fairy tale lost its appeal when he demanded my body as proof I loved him. When he used it as a means of comfort mere hours after Roland’s funeral. Two bodies merging in the back of his Lexus, my eyes on the ceiling as rain pummeled the fogged-up windows.

Does seducing Quinn make me just like Mike?

I look into my lab partners darkened eyes.

When I made that bet with Tasha, I didn’t know or care about this warm-hearted Mormon boy. But now … damn, I see myself in him, or at least the self I used to be. The thought of hurting him, of ruining his life, makes my heart hurt. And that’s when it hits me—I’d rather have something real with Quinn than destroy him with a night of reckless sex.

I move my hands from his perfect Ken doll body, roll sideways and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I walk to the closet and throw on a pair of gray sweat pants and an oversized shirt. It’s the only thing I’ve done today that feels right.

“We have to stop,” I say, realizing this principled boy was ready to throw away his morals for me.

He should be angry, maybe throw a pillow across the room. Instead he curls sideways and buries his head in his hands.
He’d better not be crying.
I take a cautious step forward and poke him in the arm.

He looks at me with sullen eyes. “Kat, I’m sorry. I should have stuck to the rules. Coming here was a bad idea. Maybe you should call Molly.”

He puts on his shirt, his left shoe, his right. His shoulders slump; shame comes off him in waves.

My tongue is frozen in my mouth.

“I’ll call her myself if you want,” he says.

Without asking my permission he picks up the receiver on my nightstand, listens for a second and then puts it back down. A line forms between his eyebrows.

“Hm,” he says.

“What is it?”

“There’s no dial tone.”

I grab my cell phone from under my pillow, turn it on and watch the screen light up. Six missed calls, all from Mike. The first was at twelve o’ five, the second at twelve ten, the third at twelve fifteen and so on and so forth.

My blood runs cold.

He stopped calling around the same time Quinn arrived at my house. Coincidence? I think not. There’s a crash in the hallway followed by the sound of a fist hitting boxes, shoes smashing against metal appliances, an object thrown against my door. Damn.

I give the phone to Quinn and push him into the closet. He hits his head on a low shelf and winces.

“Stay in there until he’s gone. Don’t make any noise!” I hiss.

“But Kat—”

“I said stay … unless you have a death wish.”

The moment I slide the closet door shut, a gun goes off and I jump. My bedroom door flies open and Mike walks in. His oily brown hair is in his eyes, nostrils flaring, gun aimed at the floor.

I should be scared, but instead I’m angry. How dare he try to control my life!

“What are you doing here?” I scream.

“Don’t blame this on me, Alley Kat. It’s what you want. You invited some guy over in the middle of the night to mess with my head and make me jealous. Once a slut, always a slut. Now where is he!”

I shake my head. “There’s no one here but me.”

He blinks and sways on his feet, more drunk off his ass than I’ve ever seen him.

“There’s a car,” he accuses, his words slurred.

“What car?”

“Parked near your house.”

“Do you recognize it?” I ask.

“No.” He glances at the floor.

“It could be anyone, Mike. Have you gone to the Johnson’s, the Flynn’s, the White’s … threatened the Changs with a weapon if they don’t tell the truth?” My voice rises and shakes with fury. “How dare you bring a gun into my home!”

“Just say you love me, Kat.” He demands, putting the barrel to his head. Tears stream down his face, turning his cheeks a shiny red.

“Put the gun down,” I say.

“No. This is what you want! Don’t deny it. You’re glad that Roland died because now you have his friends. No more being tag-along Kat, forced into the shadows to do his dirty work. No more having to defend yourself against jabs and insults you don’t deserve.”

He sniffs, steadies himself against the wall and grips the gun handle tighter. “You meant to kill him when you looked the other way. Now you want to kill me too!”

My hands shake. I hate the way he makes me feel. Like he’s an innocent victim, and I’m a psychopath villain with a heart of stone. He’s cruel, but refusing to say those three small words is crueler. Burying my brother was hard enough. I can’t watch Mike die.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“Louder,” he says, metal shaking in his hand.

“I love you,” I yell.

“I don’t believe you. Prove it.”

If I could cry, I’d do it now because for the first time I understand that sex with Mike was never about love. All those times I’d given myself to him in the name of love had been a lie. He wanted power. Love had nothing to do with it.

“How do you expect me to do that?” I ask, my voice shaking and breathless with fear. Dangerous as Mike can be when he’s drunk, I can’t believe he’d force himself on me.

“Get on your knees and beg for forgiveness.” He waves the gun in the air, pointing it to a spot four feet in front of him. “Right on top of the mud stain in the carpet. Like a worm. You need to grovel like a worm.”

“I won’t.”

“You will or I’ll shoot,” he puts the gun to his head again.

I drop to my knees on the carpet and say everything he tells me to say. About how I’ve hurt and manipulated him, slept around, taken him for granted, about how perfect he is and how hateful I am. My worth is torn to shreds by my own voice. Bitter words float from my tongue to my ears until my brain begins to believe them. My eyes drop to the floor.

“Forgive me?” I squeak out.

“Not this time,” Mike grunts. When I look up, he’s pointing the gun at my head. How many times has my ex gotten into fist fights with strangers, screamed obscenities at friends and threatened girls who said no to him? How many times have I bailed him out of jail and taken him to the hospital, all while telling myself he’d never treat me like that?

He always had a reason. It was always someone else’s fault. Mike wasn’t bad, he was misunderstood. I saw the good in him when no one else did. My breath catches; my body freezes in terror and shock.

“Mike, you wouldn’t.”

“I trusted you.”

“You’re drunk.”

Mike’s eyes harden. I can feel his rage in the silence, see it in the set of his mouth, in the barrel of the gun as it inches closer.

And that’s when I know it’s over.

Mike is going to kill me.

Everything happens quickly. The sound of sirens cuts through the night, and I’m pushed to the side as a shot goes off. My cell phone lands at my feet with 911 lit up on the screen, and there, right there next to the phone is my sweet blond hero in his Spiderman pajamas bottoms. His face is in the carpet. His shirt is limp like his too-still body.

The sirens grow louder. Red lights flash through my bedroom blinds. Mike stuffs the gun into his jean and stumbles from the room.

I turn over my lab partner.

“Quinn?”

There’s a growing red spot on the floor, blood gushing wet and hot between my fingers as I press the heel of my hand into the gunshot wound below his ribs. It oozes around my fingers. I hope to God I can stop the flow, that I can keep him from bleeding to death so the EMTs can work on him.

“Don’t be dead,” I whisper to the body in my arms. “Damn it, Quinn, you have to stay alive for me.”

43

Katarina

I call the Walkers and ride in the ambulance with Quinn. The EMTs speak in urgent voices as they hover around him, stopping to exchange worried glances every few seconds. They might as well be speaking Greek with how much I understand.

What’s worse is that whenever I glance at my lab partner lying on that stretcher with monitors hooked up to him, straps tight around his body like Frankenstein in a black and white movie, I feel as if this can’t be happening. None of this is real.