Dirty Past (22 page)

“Mila! We gotta go!” Conner calls from the back door.

Mila pouts, but Tate scoops her up and plants a huge kiss on her cheek. “Go on, Mimi. I’ll come get you tomorrow, and we’ll stay on the beach all day, okay?”

“Oh! Okay. Anight, Tay. Anight, El!” She grins and runs across the yard.

I smile after her. Feeling Tate’s eyes on me, I tilt my face toward him. “Hey.”

His lips twitch. Several heartbeats pound in my chest, then his hands are framing my face and his mouth is pressed against mine.

I crinkle his shirt in my fingers at his sides and lean into him.

“You got me out of there,” he murmurs into my hair.

“I did,” I whisper, burying my face in his chest.

He wraps his arms around my shoulders. “Shit, Els. You didn’t have to go down there and do that. You really tell ’em everythin’?”

“Everything,” I confirm with a shake in my voice. I circle his waist with my arms and tilt my head back to look at him. “He messed with me for so long. He’s not doing it to you.”

Tate kisses the tip of my nose. “You don’t have to protect me, darlin’.”

“I do if I can.”

He presses his face into my neck and squeezes me tightly. “You’ve gotta go back, don’t you?”

“I don’t have to.” I swallow. “But I should. For a bit.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow maybe.”

“Stay this weekend,” he asks quietly. He brushes his fingers through my hair. “Please.”

“It’ll make it harder,” I whisper, feeling a sting at the back of my eyes. “I don’t know when I can come back or where you guys will be.”

“We’re in New York in two weeks. If you ain’t back with us by then I’m draggin’ your fuckin’ ass with us.”

I laugh, but I half-choke on it. “I’m counting on it, Tate.” I slide my hand up his chest and cup his cheek. “I have to sort this out. It’s in the NYPD’s hands now. It’s easier if I’m there.”

“I know.” He looks at me with a sadness I’ve never seen in his eyes before. “I know.”

Tate

I wish she’d let me go with her. She shouldn’t be going back to New York alone, especially not when I know that motherfucker is there.

She shouldn’t be fucking leaving me here while she goes to deal with this shit herself. That ain’t how it works. It was painfully damn obvious when her mom called that she doesn’t give a shit about Ella—she’s too caught up in believing that Matthew is some perfect husband-to-be when in reality he ain’t worth the bird shit on the roof of my dad’s car.

And now my girl’s gotta go up there, listen to that crap, and try to walk away without being hit once again.

Letting her do it alone is going against every goddamn instinct I possess. She should be here with me, safe, or I should be there with her, making sure she’s safe. But, damn. The fact she’s making me let her go is amazing and shows me who Ella Dawson really is. Once upon a time, she could barely say boo to a goose without barricading herself into a barbed-wire cage for fear of being hurt. Now, though, she’s determined to do this, and she’s determined to do it alone. And I don’t even have the words for how much I respect her strength.

Then, when she gets it, her once upon a time will be done, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to give my sweet girl her happily ever after.

I stare at her from beneath the covers as she runs a brush through her long, dark hair. She sweeps the wet locks to the side, exposing her neck, and I climb out of bed quietly. My hands clasp her tiny waist perfectly, and I lower my mouth to her neck. She pauses at the touch, then she drops the brush and turns her face into me.

“I thought you were asleep,” she says softly.

“You were out of bed. Of course I’m awake.” I trail my lips down to her shoulder. “You tryna get away without me knowin’?”

She looks up and meets my eyes in the mirror. Her light is dulled by the sadness I see there.

“Els.” I turn her in my arms and clasp my hands at her lower back. She rests her hands on my chest and flexes her fingers. “Don’t run from me, darlin’. I don’t want you to go, but I won’t make you stay if this is what you gotta do.”

“Really?”

“Don’t you know a thing about me?”

“I thought I did, but you keep surprising me.” She smiles.

I return the gesture. “Sure you don’t want me to come?”

“Tate . . .” she sighs. “You have stuff to do with the band. Practices, concerts . . . Plus now you have to deal with the media, since they found out you were taken in for questioning yesterday.”

I grunt. Fucking nosy pricks. “I don’t care, darlin’. I’ll come with you if you want me to. We can reschedule a show.”

“You aren’t rescheduling because of me.” She looks horrified. “No. No, I’m okay. Really.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I never said you had to. Just . . . pretend.”

“I’m shit at pretendin’,” I mutter, lowering my face to hers. Her lips part, her breath tickling my mouth, and I spin her around and push her backward.

We fall onto my bed and I silence her shocked squeak with a kiss. I kiss her long and hard, until her body relaxes and she winds her fingers into my hair. Until my dick is throbbing and hard, desperate for her.

“Tate,” she says breathlessly.

My lips trail along her jaw and down her neck. I pepper kisses along her collarbone and down her chest to where her towel is tied between her tits.

“Tate,” she repeats. “What are you doing?”

I free the towel and push it to the sides. I cup her breasts and take one of her nipples in my mouth, lavishing attention onto it with my tongue. She gasps and arches her back, her grip on my hair tightening. I turn my attention to the other, giving her other nipple the same treatment, and then kiss my way down her stomach.

“Tate . . .” This time she gasps it, bending her leg up.

“You gotta go, then you gotta go.” I kiss from hip to hip and flick my tongue across her skin. “But I’m gonna give my girl a proper fuckin’ good-bye.”

I hook her legs over my shoulders, lower my mouth, and set right to it.

S
he passes her purse through security and walks through the body scanner. She pauses on the other side and waves to me, sadness glaring from her chocolate-brown eyes. I lift my hand in good-bye and watch until she disappears into the terminal completely.

My hand, still raised, drops to the top of my head, and my fingers rake through my hair. Fuck me. Every part of this feels so fucking wrong, but there’s nothing I can do. She’s gotta do this. I know that.

I pull out my phone and bring up the last text from her. I hit reply.

Come back to me.

I stare at the screen until the box pops up with her response.

You’re under my skin, Mr. Burke. Only you. XO

My lips form a pained smile and I nod slowly, pocketing my phone.

Fuck.

I’m totally in love with that girl.

“I
can’t believe you wrote a song.” Conner stares at the lyrics again, then back up at me. “And it ain’t half bad, man.”

“Really? Feels like a bunch of shit to me.”

“Tate wrote a song?” Ads snatches the sheet of paper and reads it. Kye looks over his shoulder and skirts his eyes across the lines. “Fuck me,” they say.

Conner takes the page back. “I’m guessin’ it doesn’t have music.”

“Nothin’. Just . . . that.”

“Wait here.” He gets up and goes back into the house, still holding the sheet of paper.

I frown after him, but I shake my head and turn back to the twins.

“Quiet without her,” Kye states. Fucking obviously.

“No shit.” I rest my elbows on my knees and lean forward.

“Look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” Ads says, unhelpfully.

“Fuck you.”

“I miss her,” Kye continues. “She’s like a little ray of fuckin’ sunshine despite all the shit, ain’t she? Now it’s dull as hell.”

“Right,” Aidan agrees. “It’s like when Sofie went away all over again, except it’s more shockin’ because the mopey bastard is Tate.
Tate
.”

“Wanna keep chattin’ or are y’all done yet? Because funnily enough, I know all this crap,” I snap. “One day, some chick is gonna come along and grab y’all by the balls with a vice-like grip and I’m gonna laugh my fuckin’ ass off.”

Aidan sniggers. “No chance.”

“It happened to me. Gonna happen to you.”

“Shit, can’t a guy make three photocopies of a single page without a bitchfest startin’?” Conner teases, handing me the original sheet of lyrics, then Kye and Aidan one each before sitting with a fourth sheet.

Aidan looks down. “What music you thinkin’?”

“More country than rock,” I answer. “Not necessarily a pop tune, but not a ballad either.”

“Right. Classic Tate song.” He gets up and moves to the drum kit. Setting the sheet on his knees, he grabs his drumsticks and drums a slow, steady beat. We sit in silence as his lips move. “Kye. Guitar.”

Kye grabs his guitar without a word and swings a stool over to the drum kit. He puts his lyrics on the floor in front of him and looks at Aidan. Kye’s head bobs a few times, then his fingers move, and he hums the tips over the tight strings. A few more notes and Aidan beats the drums a little harder.

Me and Conner sit back and watch them. The magic they create from fucking
nothing
is scary as shit. It’s always been that way. Conner writes, they create, I go along with. But this time, it’s my damn words they’re bringing to life.

Kye and Aidan sync in a terrifying way, but when it creates music like this, it’s more amazing than terrifying. Scratch that, it’s both. Terrifyingly fucking amazing.

“Like that?” Aidan asks, resting his sticks down.

“Exactly like that,” I confirm.

“Fuck yeah!” Conner inputs, grabbing a guitar. “Let’s do this.”

I grab my bass guitar and pull up a stool. Conner falls into the melody seamlessly, and I close my eyes, humming the words to the beat, my lips forming a smile as it fits perfectly. Sure, there’re probably some notes out of place here and there, and some chord changes are needed, but the beat, the pace . . . it’s fucking perfect.

It’s Ella. All over.

You’re not broken, baby, you ain’t shattered,

Maybe a little cracked, but darlin’,

I can fix you if you let me.

Let me soothe the sting, let me kiss your scars,

Let me wipe your tears and dry your cheeks,

I’ll hold you tight and love you deep.

As soon as we finish the song, we launch back into it, both me and Conner singing. We stop whenever something needs changing or tweaking.

Over and over, we sing, play, adjust, redo. We switch a few odd words out in the lyrics so it fits better musically, but the feel stays the same. Over and over.

We don’t leave the garage for six hours.

Ella

I stare at my childhood home like it’s a foreign country.

I have no idea what I’m going to find behind the front door. I have no idea if I’ll be welcome or not. Matthew has always been a hero in my parents’ eyes. Hell, it was bad enough when they called and refused to believe anything I said.

Now I know it’s because Matthew went to them before the police. He could speak to them, charm them, and convince them that his words were the undisputable truth. He would have played up the poor-me card, just like he used to whenever he made an excuse up for hitting me.

“But, babe, I’ve had a stressful day and I was expecting dinner when I walked in . . . You’re a woman. You should be able to boil potatoes right. It makes me angry when you make careless mistakes, you know that . . . You know we have company tonight. If you’d just cleaned the house, then I wouldn’t have gotten so mad . . .”

I can’t even begin to imagine what he said to my parents.

I swallow hard, still staring at the door, and turn back to the cab that just drove me here. I open the door and give him the address of my mostly unused apartment.

I’m not quite ready for this.

I close my eyes as he makes the drive through New York City. The glaring of angry drivers and loud, beeping horns break through my attempt at finding serenity.

It’s a wasted attempt, though, since I know that as long as I’m in the city, I won’t find serenity or peace. I left that when I left the Burke family.

I left laughter and happiness and playfulness. I left everything I’ve wanted for years to come back to the place I’ve been dying to leave.

Driving away from here was the most invigorating thing I’ve ever done.

I hope that I’ll be able to get on a plane in a few days and feel the same feeling.

If I’m lucky.

I throw the driver enough to cover his fare and a tip, then grab my purse and get out. The sidewalks are busier than I’m used to, especially after spending two days in a sleepy seaside town and a couple weeks before that on a damn live-in bus.

“Miss Dawson,” the doorman, Ian, says with surprise. “You’re back.”

“Yes, I am.” I walk past him and toward the elevator.

“Miss,” he interrupts me and stands in front of me. “Are you aware your tenancy ends tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry?” I blink at him. “It doesn’t.”

“It does. Your parents informed us a few days ago that if you failed to return by the end of the week that we were to clean out your apartment and have your belongings shipped to them.”

What the fuck?

“Well, thank you for informing me of what they couldn’t,” I say with an edge to my voice. “I’ll make sure to collect any items I’d like to keep and get out of your way. I’d appreciate if you could call for a car service to collect me in approximately thirty minutes.”

“For your parents’ address, ma’am?”

“A hotel downtown. A reservation would also be appreciated.”

“Ah, your father requested you be directed to their residence were you to arrive here.”

“But until tomorrow morning, I’m still a tenant, so my father can take his instructions and insert them into his behind with as much vigor as he’d like.” I sweep past him and jab at the elevator button. I step into it and press the button for my floor. Anger swirls in me as I travel up and dig for my key.

I shove it into the slot and slam the door behind me. The apartment is blessedly silent. I wouldn’t put it past Matthew to be here waiting for me to return . . . or just in case I did. He had to know I would.

I stop in the middle of the living room and look around. To think I only lived here for a few months before Matthew insisted I stay at his house with him every night. To think my home was never really my home. It was my escape from his violence, sure, but never really a home.

I don’t even feel particularly upset that it’s not mine anymore. Just plain old rage at my parents and their actions. I already know my visit to them tomorrow will be pointless. They’ll only confirm with words what their actions have already told me. But I’m still going, because I’m a glutton for punishment.

If I weren’t, I’d still be in Shelton Bay with Tate.

I hold my purse to my stomach and close my eyes. Tate. My cocky, lovable pain in the ass. My protector. My surprise, because he really is someone other than I expected him to be.

The guy who took blows to keep me safe. The guy who almost got arrested for his part in it.

His text before I boarded the plane flashes into my mind.
Come back to me.
Like there was ever any other option. Like I could stay away from him. Like I could live without his smirk, or the sexy glint in his eyes, or the sizzling, seductive way he trails his hands across my body.

He promised me he’d get so under my skin I’d forget Matthew’s touch.

He has.

In a crazy way, I can remember the punches, the slaps, the beatings, but I can’t remember how they feel. Every time I try to, my skin tingles with the memory of Tate instead. It’s almost as if my brain has kicked into a new coping mechanism to protect me, and Tate is it.

I’ll take it.

All day, every day, I will take it.

I walk through into my bedroom and look around. I can’t see a single thing I want to take with me. Not the comforter, not the picture on the nightstand, and I sure as hell don’t want the hideous lamp my mother made me buy when I moved in. And in the bathroom—I don’t want the perfume on the windowsill, nor do I want the mirror on the wall.

The phone rings, and I pick it up. “Hello?”

“Miss Dawson? Your car is waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Ian.” I put the phone down, ignore the blinking icon for the messages, and leave the apartment key on the table by the door. I glance around, leaving the place exactly as it was when I walked in.

Then I walk into the elevator, travel downstairs, get my reservation details from Ian, and get into the waiting Mercedes.

And I drive away from yet another piece of my past.

N
ew York is freaking cold.

Yes, eighty degrees at noon isn’t cold by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve been spoiled by the nudging-one-hundred-degrees Southern temperatures for the last several weeks.

I pull a light sweater on over my tank top and slip my purse over my shoulder before getting into the elevator. The concierge smiles and tips his cap to me when I step from it into the lobby moments later, and I shoot him a polite smile. The doorman opens the door for me with a “ma’am,” and another opens the door of the waiting cab.

I get in, holding a deep breath in until it burns my lungs. Exhaling slowly, I lean back in my seat and stare out the window. For the second time since I arrived in New York not even twenty-four hours ago, I’m en route to my parents’ house. This time, though, I have to go inside.

And I’m terrified.

The ink etched into my skin reminds me to fear nothing, but if only the ink went deeper. If tattoos went soul-deep, some of us would be a lot more scarred, but others would be a lot stronger. I would be a lot stronger, for sure.

The cab stops, and I hand the driver the fare.

“Thank you.” I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car. The driver smiles at me, but the daunting view of my parents’ house eclipses it, and I can barely raise a twitch of my lips in response.

I walk up the long pathway to the front door. My hand hovers over the bell, and with another deep breath, I press it.

The door opens slowly, and Cathy, the maid, stares at me. “Miss Ella!”

“Hi, Cathy.” I offer her a weak smile. “Are my parents at home?”

“They are. They’re in the sitting room. I’ll take you there.” She waves me in and shuts the door behind me. She adjusts the neckline of her dress and takes me through to the back of the house. I swallow when she knocks lightly twice. “Excuse me, sir?”

“What is it, Cathy?” My father’s voice asks sharply.

I step around her and push the door open wide. “Hey, Dad.”

“Ella.”

Mom stands slowly, and she takes her sweet-ass time turning around. When she does, she pins me with eyes as dark as mine, but hers are bitter and angry. “You decided to come in today.”

Of course. She doesn’t miss a thing.

Except the truth.

“Yeah, yesterday I clearly decided I wasn’t equipped to deal with your skewed vision of my ex-fiancé. I’m not particularly ready today, but given I no longer have anywhere to live in New York, I figured I should probably suck it up.”

“Ella Dawson, you do not speak to your mother with that tone.” My father steps forward and wraps an arm around Mom’s shoulders.

“Last time we spoke, neither of you were particularly respectful of me, so I assumed that was the tone of the conversation.”

“Clearly living with trash for so long has injured your manners.”

“Or it’s opened my eyes,” I reply, putting my purse on the table. “And, hey, if something has to be injured, I’d rather it be my manners than my body.”

Mom jolts. “Ella.”

“Oh, was that rude?” I tilt my head to the side. “Sorry, Mom, but so is kicking me out of my apartment and leaving the doorman to give me notice.”

“We decided it was for the best.”

“Sure you did. Like it’s painfully clear you’ll believe anything Matthew says over what your own daughter says.”

“You haven’t told us anything.” She clasps her hands in front of her and steps forward, away from my dad’s hold.

“No, I have, Mom. I told you on the phone when I was in New Orleans. Tate didn’t hurt me. This black eye you can still see through my makeup? It wasn’t Tate Burke. Neither was this mark here on my lip.” I tap my bottom lip.

“Ella, you should consider what you’re saying very carefully,” Dad says, stepping up. “If the Hamiltons get word of this, things could become incredibly difficult.”

I stare at him. His graying hair, the lines around his eyes, his aging yet still intimidating figure, and my jaw drops. “Are you serious, Dad? Are you honestly telling me I should not be honest about the shit I suffered just to make sure I don’t upset the Hamiltons?”

“Ella!” Mom gasps.

“Oh, I said ‘shit.’ So what?”

“That’s it,” Dad says, stepping toward the telephone. “Being around these . . .
Dirty B. . . .
boys is doing nothing for you.”

Or it’s doing everything for me.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling the police, and this time you’re going to tell them the truth.”

“I already did!” The words explode from me, and I run to where Dad is standing and snatch the phone. I slam it on the holder. “Mom, you remember your anniversary party six months ago when I was limping and I told you I slipped after mopping the kitchen floor and sprained my toe on the dining table?” She nods. “No. Matthew pushed me. And the time I sprained my wrist while falling on a run? He shoved me into the wall, and my wrist bent the wrong way when I tried to steady myself. That time I had a migraine and couldn’t do family dinner on Easter? He beat me so badly I could barely walk.”

“Ella, you don’t know what you’re saying,” Mom argues, her face white. “Did you tell the police this fairy story?”

I step back, staring between my parents. “Wow. You really don’t believe me. You’d rather stay friends with his family than believe your own daughter.”

“This Tate character has some kind of hold on you, honey, and it has to stop,” Dad implores, his hands out in front of him. “We can help you. You’re here now.”

I flatten my hands against the sides of my head and shake it. “The only hold Tate Burke has on me is my heart. For the first time in two years, my life is my own, Dad. My mind is. I can wear what I want and do what I want and say what I want. If you can’t step back and believe me, then I’m done.”

“Done?” Mom shrills. “Richard, what does she mean? Ella, what do you mean? Done? What is done? Richard!” She fans herself and steps back.

Oh, Queen of Drama, here we go.

“I mean I’m leaving, Mom,” I explain with a sigh. “Leaving New York. Going back to be with the Burkes.”

“Ella!” she cries, stepping forward. “You can’t! Richard, stop her—”

“Do you believe me?” I ask, staring at her, her features so similar to mine.

“That Matthew hit you?” Dad clarifies.

“Yes. For two years. Hit, pushed, shoved, bruised, insulted, belittled, isolated, and manipulated. Take your pick.”

Mom inhales sharply. Dad steps to her side and curls an arm around her waist. I’ve seen this so many times before. It’s the thing they used to do when they were telling me what was best for me. Like going on a date with Matthew. Becoming exclusive with Matthew. Accepting Matthew’s proposal—which I knew about before he asked, because he asked Dad’s permission, and Dad wanted to ensure I would accept.

Basically, it’s the thing they do when they’re telling me what they think is best for me, but it’s actually the worst.

So I know exactly what Dad’s going to say before he says it.

“I believe Tate Burke has brainwashed you, Ella.”

I breathe in slowly and close my eyes. I will not lose my temper. I will not give Matthew the satisfaction of finding out over dinner tonight that I flipped. I will not give my parents what they will see as confirmation of their beliefs.