Finding A Way (5 page)

Mac laughs deeply and sits. "They're a match made in heaven. What I wouldn't kill to have
all
that."

I shake my head at him, still laughing.

I gather the rest of the dishes from the table and I motion for everyone to follow me. I take Sierra and Evan to the guest house so they can have their privacy, which I don't mind. I mean I love them and all, but I don't feel like having to clean every surface of my parents house after they get done screwing all over it.

I show Mac to one of the guest bedrooms downstairs adjacent to my room. I feel him behind me even though he doesn't speak. There's some kind of gravity that happens when I'm near him. It's surreal. I've never experienced something so intense in my life. It's as if he has some strange hold on me.

I open the guest room door, flip on the light, and turn to face him. I shouldn’t have even looked his way. In the dim lighting of the room, the features of his face shine more than in the daylight. His chiseled jaw is dominant on his face, yet accents the rest of his features. His deep set eyes, green like the forest, catch the lighting and twinkle. They're beautiful. He's beautiful. He's like your dream car—the perfect color, the perfect model, and the perfect features which cause you to get all giddy when you take it for a test drive. The perfect thing you know is unattainable, but you still take the test drive just for the high you get for those couple of minutes.

Yeah, that's what I'm feeling right now. Desire. Lust. Hope. All of the things I know are bad for me.

"It's all yours. There's a bathroom connected to it if you wanna take a shower or anything," I manage to squeak out. It is getting harder to push away my thoughts so I can be a true hostess.

Stop it right now, Callie
, I scold myself. He runs his hand through the longer part of his hair and leans against the door frame casually. His muscles flex with every movement. "Thanks, I appreciate it. Looks comfortable." He nods toward the king size bed.

I know it's comfortable because my parents bought the same one for my room. Is it odd I feel like if I pretend hard enough, it will be like we're sleeping on the same one? Probably. I have to scold myself again, plastering on a smile I've become so good at.

"You're welcome. If you need anything, I'm only across the hall, but sometimes I sit outside on the deck. So, if you need me, check there first," I blurt out, hightailing it the hell out of there before I willingly throw myself at this man's feet. I'm assuming he hears me because he makes a noise which kind of sounds like an okay, but I can’t really tell.

I close his door behind me and make my way back into the kitchen. I grab a few beers from the fridge for myself and head to the deck where I can enjoy the silence which I love so much. It's peaceful, a place where I can gather my thoughts.

My parents' house is in a rural area of Pennsylvania. Woods stretch around the house for miles. It's peaceful and beautiful all at the same time. The woods are almost as comforting for me as the garden once was. It's the best I can do right now.

When my dad hit the big time, he insisted we move to a larger, newer, upscale home. I remember being thirteen years old and crying so hard I thought my chest would collapse. My mother scolded me for being
immature
about it. I remember begging him not to make me go. I even offered to live alone and take care of the flowers until I was old enough to get my own house so I could take them with me. I didn't want to leave my childhood home. It was a home. This house I live in now is not and never was a home. It's a house where a housekeeper comes twice a week to make it spotless and impressive.

In my opinion, she cleans away all of the things which are supposed to be cozy and warm. After all, cobwebs and dust bunnies are a part of life. In real life, people don't have time to sweep them away. They don't have time to organize their kitchen drawers. They don't have time to clean the bathroom counter every morning before they leave for work. In real life, homes get messy—and sometimes they get used and abused—but that's where their character comes from—the memories attached to every stain on the carpet, or even dirty handprints on the walls. It's the way it should be.

I make myself comfortable in one of the brown wicker chairs, pulling out my phone and opening my sticky note app on it. Tapping the icon, I type my daily entry. “
Freedom
.” I press save, setting my phone down on the arm of the chair.

The words I type are something the second shrink suggested before her medications turned me into a whack job, even though my attempt at killing myself wasn't at all her fault. I think there was somewhere deep inside me which knew exactly what I was doing, although I told no one this because I realized it was a mistake as soon as I swallowed the last of the bottle. There was a moment where I wondered what it felt like to die. Was it peaceful? Was it painful? Was it relieving? Would it help me rid myself of the guilt that hung in my mind on a daily basis? All of these questions ran through my head as I attempted to do it. I guess that something or someone greater than us all decided it wasn't my time. Whatever was holding my life in its hands at that point sent Sierra sneaking through my bedroom window at the perfect time, saving my life.

I remember the shrink told me with the type of depression I was battling, it was hard to remember all the good in my life. All of the things which didn't include watching my high school sweetheart die horribly in front of my eyes. She suggested making a journal of some sort, but instead of long meaningless entries she knew I would never write, she simplified it.

"Write one or two things you are grateful for every day. Even if it's as simple as the color of the sky, or a stranger waving at you. Write it down anywhere you can save it. If you're feeling down, look back at all of those things to remind yourself of all the good things that are a part of your life."

I thought she was bat-shit crazy at first. I really did. I even laughed at her when she suggested it, but she assured me if I gave it a shot I would enjoy it, and I did. It was kind of nice to flip back through the entries and remember all the good things I had going for me. Each day that went by, I thought about what I could write.

I stuck with it for a while, filling notebooks upon notebooks. It got to the point where I couldn't keep carrying a bag of tablets everywhere I went. It got awkward, and not to mention it caused me get some odd stares from strangers. So, I opted for my little yellow notepad app on my phone. It was much easier, and nobody gave me strange looks anymore.

Through the volume of my thoughts, I hear a creak. I come back to reality, looking over to where the noise came from. Just as I think it might have been the wind, I see Mac watching me from the patio door. His arms are crossed across his chest again, but this time he wears a hooded sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants which make my mouth crave any type of liquid I can get. He looks like trouble with his neck tattoos peeking out from under the sweatshirt and a devilish smirk that has been on his lips since he arrived. I think I want to get in trouble and it would be a hell of a lot better if he was the one to start…and finish it.

"Mind if I join ya?" he asks, staring at me.

I swear I have a Mac radar going on here. I can feel every spot his eyes touch me, even in the darkness. I feel the heat travel throughout my body, begging for me to give it what it wants. I wet my lips, taking a sip from my beer bottle.

"Sure, want a beer?" I hold it up in the air for him to see. I raise my brows suggestively, hoping he'll accept my offer.

He takes a seat across from me. His eyes stay locked with mine. "Depends what you're drinking, sweetheart." He sounds out the last word,
sweetheart,
rolling it off the tip of his tongue smoothly as if he's said it a thousand times.

His voice does serious things to me. Things that shouldn’t be happening. My mind fills with dirty thoughts about the man who sits across from me. I try to suppress them, almost embarrassed about what I would let him do. While my heart pounds in my chest, he just sits there, waiting for me to show him some sort of response. I can't. I'm hypnotized by him. How is it even possible for a man to be this cocky and sexy at the same time?
I mean, he can’t have his cake and eat it, too. My mom taught me that when I was young. I assume maybe he didn't get the cake-titled memo in his childhood years.

Leaning forward to grab a bottle from the ground, he inspects it and twists off the cap. He takes a long pull and I watch him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing vigorously. Warmth spreads over my body. Suddenly, my hoodie feels ridiculous.

I smile at him, letting out a small laugh. "I guess it meets your standards?"

He lowers the bottle, nodding his head. I watch the beads of liquid enjoy their time spent on his lips.

"Yeah. I expected a shitty chick beer, but you seem to have good taste."

I shake my head. “Do the girls you usually sit on decks with have shitty taste in beer?” I ask.

His lips turn upright into a sly, seductive grin. “I usually don't give a fuck what kind of beer they like to drink,
Callie
. I like to focus on more important things.”

I become intrigued by his statement, wanting to know more. “What do you consider to be the more important things,
Mac
?”

I use his name like he uses mine, for the added effect of emphasizing how serious our tones are. His grin turns wicked. His eyes hood with a darkness that causes my toes to curl in my pink sneakers.

"Do you want honesty, or do ya want me to sugar coat it?"

I swallow down a lump that forms in my throat before I answer him in almost a whisper. "The truth would be nice."

"I like to fuck women, Callie. So, the only thing that matters is how much they want it. How much they want me. That's the only thing which really matters at all. Not what type of beer they prefer, but I guess you're the exception somehow. "

I'm going to pass out right here on this wicker chair. I expected something to come out his mouth when I asked for honesty, but I didn't expect the sex that just spilled from his lips. This man is a walking, talking, oiled up, sexy ass machine, and even though I want to act on the dirty thoughts which fill my mind, I know it would be a mistake. He could ruin everything for me. My fresh start, my happy mood. He could ruin it all. I have to play it safe with him, and I know just the way to do it. I’m friend-zoning his ass right the hell now.

His eyes roam over me and a heavy silence fills the air. I try to come up with words, but fall short. I fidget with my bottle, nervously picking at the label with my nails. I steer the subject into more of a friendly conversation, since it seems to be my best option at this point.

"Can't sleep?" I question, feeling stupid as hell the minute I ask it.

I have to squeeze my thighs together just to keep from soaking my panties. He’s entirely too good looking, and those tattoos…don’t even get me started. An amused expression lights up the features of his face.

"I don't sleep much. Never could. Sleep is for the dead. I enjoy the nighttime. It's when everything comes alive," he clarifies.

"Huh." is all I come up with, which is sad. My brain is almost mush at this point. He's just so damn good looking and seems to have some kind of weird interest in me which I'm not used to. I mean he came out here to find me, or did he come out for a smoke? Either way, I'm gonna root for team
he-wants-you-Callie
.

"I guess you don't sleep much either?"

It's more of a statement than a question. I can already tell he knows me well by the way he looks at me. Why can't he be ugly? I keep repeating the question in my head, but I fall short of an answer.

"Well, I used to. The medications I was taking took care of that for me but now that I'm sober, I don't quite grasp the concept of it I guess."

Worst topic ever. My mouth should check in with my head before it spews any other cock-blocking sentences out of it. I can't even blame it on the five sips of beer I had, but I can blame him for derailing my train of thought. I didn't plan on telling him my story, but it seems a little late for that now.

He cracks a breath-taking smile before lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply.

"When did you stop using, beautiful? Because you don't look like no junkie I've ever seen." His eyes shift to my arms, searching for the answer to his question.
Or track marks. I'm not sure.

Shaking my head, I answer him quickly before he gets the wrong impression. "I'm not a junkie, never was. I stopped taking them about a week ago. I was prescribed them by my psychologist. I didn't willingly take them, believe me."

He must be confused by my answer because his eyes leap to mine, trying to figure out what I'm talking about. "Why the hell did you need to see a shrink, sweetheart? You seem to have a pretty cushy life judging by the looks of your mansion. You're a regular ol' princess here." He gestures toward my parents large house and bright green, manicured lawn which screams I must be what my parents are—rich assholes.

This guy has no room to judge me when he looks like he gives beat-downs for a living. He may be eye candy and exceptionally gifted when it comes to smooth talking, but I refuse to take shit from anyone. I refuse to take shit from him.

I snap harshly, standing up from my chair, and pointing my index finger at him. "You shouldn't judge a book by its cover, Mac. It's rude and unappreciated, but if you must know, my rich parents held college over my head until I saw a shrink after I watched my boyfriend get splattered across a fucking highway. So, before you pass judgment, know the facts. Oh, and I hope there's fire ants in your bed tonight asshole!" I storm away, slamming the French doors behind me.