I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2) (16 page)

Another thing I learn—and this is definitely my favorite—is that Chase likes to tease and play. I think, maybe, he’s just that way with me. And that makes his teasing and playing so,
so
much better, like it’s our thing, something between only us.

But today, Friday, the teasing and playing are on the back burner for now. We’re just having a regular discussion. Chase has just returned from the restroom, and I’ve packed away my thoughts. He picks up on the story he was telling before he got up from the table, reiterating again how he thought he was really going to die from embarrassment when Father Maridale asked to see his sketchbook the day he was offered the job. He tells me about the artwork inside, says it’s all prison-related stuff. And though he gives me some light details, I have a feeling he’s abbreviating the content.

“Can I see it sometime?” I dare to ask.

Chase seems to ponder my request. His jaw flexes, and he appears somewhat conflicted. At last, he gives me a “Maybe.”

That’s good enough for me. Possibility, that’s what Chase and I are all about.

I take a sip of iced tea. “What was it like?” I softly ask, toying with my straw.

Chase looks up. “What?”

“Prison,” I whisper.

Based on his grimace I know I shouldn’t have asked. Chase pushes away his plate of half-eaten grilled cheese, and it’s not because he’s saved some for me. No, he looks upset. He leans back in the booth and scrubs his hand down his face. “What do you want to know exactly?” His tone is flat.

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess…just what it was like in general.”

When he doesn’t answer right away, I hastily amend, “Look, we don’t have to talk about it.” I push my own plate away and almost knock over my glass. I stop it from falling and keep my eyes glued to the table. “I’m sorry, Chase, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Hey, hey…” He places his hand on mine. It’s rough and calloused in places, but also smooth in others, and definitely warm and strong all over.

“I don’t mind you asking.” He squeezes my hand gently. “But there’s nothing really to tell. Whatever you imagine prison is like, Kay, however horrible. Multiply it by a hundred times, maybe a thousand, and you still won’t even be close.”

“Chase…” I glance up and we hold one another’s gaze.

A dozen emotions pass. The resulting connection gives me the confidence to flip the hand that’s under his over. Our palms touch—rough against soft—and it feels so very
right
for some reason. Before I even know what I’m doing I wrap my fingers around Chase’s hand and squeeze lightly. And for about thirty seconds, there is no one in the diner but me and my wayward boy. Or so it seems.

His eyes hold mine, his mouth opens. I fear what he might say. Reject me, or not reject me. Both are equally scary at this point.

Fear overrides everything else and I yank my hand away. “Sorry,” I mumble, my gaze skittering away.

Chase says nothing, but I feel him watching me. At the same time, the lingering warmth from his hand having been on mine has my whole arm tingling. When our hands were touching, and our eyes meeting, something happened, some stronger bonding. I mentally chastise myself for chickening out and not letting the moment play out.

Under the table, out of sight, I hold the hand touched by my complicated and beautiful friend. I cling to the possibility that something—something that gives me butterflies in my stomach and skipped beats in my heart—may be starting here.

Without looking up, I whisper, “We should get back.”

As we head back to the church, nothing further is discussed regarding the whole sort-of-but-not-really-hand-holding exchange. We amble back, side-by-side, in somewhat awkward silence, until Chase notices me trying to readjust the tie holding my ponytail in place.

“Here, let me,” he offers.

Suddenly, there’s mischief in his blues. I grin in relief. This is Chase getting us back to where we need to be. So it’s an easy decision to accept his assistance, even though I know some sort of tomfoolery is afoot. Truthfully, I have no idea what he’s up to, but I can’t wait to find out.

I turn so my back is facing Chase, but instead of adjusting the hair tie, like he’s supposed to, he slides the band all the way down my hair in one smooth move. Then, he promptly takes off.

“Hey,” I call out after him.

Stopping several yards away, Chase turns back to me and dangles the hair tie from his fingers. “Come and get it, sweet girl,” he purrs.

He’s talking about the hair tie
, I remind myself, momentarily wishing he meant something else entirely.

“No fair, Chase. I have a dress on here.” For emphasis, I flip up the hem of my eyelet lace dress. “How am I supposed to catch you when I’m wearing this?”

Chase cocks his head to the side, his hungry eyes on my bare legs. “I don’t know, lacy girl. Why don’t you hike that pretty dress up a little higher and try to catch me.”

Oh. My. God.

I want to hike my dress up for Chase, and, damn, do I long to catch him. Hearing him
say
these things though, in that sex-promising voice, makes me have to remind myself to breathe.

“I dare you,” he taunts. And that’s all it takes.

For Chase, I accept dares, I’m learning to take chances. He makes me feel unafraid. I’m willing to let go and live when I am with this man. So, with no further hesitation, I lift white lace up with abandon, and take off after my favorite Chase—playful Chase.

Thankfully, I have on flats and I miraculously manage to catch him. Well, okay, he lets me catch him. But it still feels good. I play-punch him in the arm with one hand, while making sure my dress hem is back down and in place with the other.

“Ouch.” He pretends like my play-punch really hurts, which makes us both laugh, because, really, who is he kidding?

“Okay, tough girl, turn around,” he says, spinning me so my back is facing him and he can put the tie he stole back in my hair.

I stand perfectly still while Chase works my hair back into the tie. His fingers work adeptly, but also gently and carefully, never pulling or tugging. It amazes me that hands that punish and perpetrate violence against men—I’ve heard of how brutal some of his fights have been—can touch me like this, tenderly, so sweetly. But I already know Chase is complex and his actions are sometimes contradictory. After all, the same hands that break bones also create beautiful art. Yet another contradiction of this complicated man. This complicated man that I am
really
starting to like.

Chase’s fingers graze the back of my neck lightly as he secures the tie and the hair around it. I shiver a little, my body instinctively leaning back into him.

Maybe Chase feels the pull too, because he places his hands on my shoulders, his lips at my ear. “All done, sweet girl,” he murmurs, his warm breath caressing my neck and giving me goose bumps.

Our bodies are so close, touching, but not. Heat radiates from his chest to my back. His proximity, his lips at my ear, I am left all aflutter. But then Chase breaks the spell when he gives my newly secured ponytail a little flip and steps away.

When we start to walk once more, I
cannot
stop smiling. I glance over at Chase, and though he stares straight ahead, I see a grin on his lips too.

I decide this day with Chase Gartner—my friend, my maybe-possibility—is the best one yet.

The weekend is weird with no Chase, no lunches with him at the diner. I do see my sharply dressed boy on Sunday, at Mass. He’s sitting in his usual spot in the back, and I’m sitting with Missy and her mom.

I find it odd that Missy doesn’t glance back even once to where Chase is seated, nor does she urge me to do so. Nonetheless, I steal a peek on my own and when Chase looks up I give him a quick wave. He smiles and waves back, and then he bows his head.

When I turn back to Missy she’s glaring at me. “Why are you waving to
him
?” she hisses.

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know, Why not? You’re the one who’s always going on and on about how hot he is. What’s with the change in attitude anyway?”

She snorts. “He may be hot, Kay, but he’s also a real prick.” She says this low, so her mom doesn’t hear.

The organ music begins to play so I don’t have a chance to ask anything more. But I have to wonder: Did Chase do something to piss Missy off? I didn’t think they really knew each other all that well, but maybe I’m mistaken. Or, maybe her crush has just run its course. Who knows? Who cares? I let the thought slip away as I open my hymnal.

The minute Mass ends, Chase is out the door, which is just as well. I have my weekly visit to attend to. But this week when I kneel at Sarah’s grave I don’t just tell her three more things I’ll never forget about her. I also tell her all about my new friend, Chase Gartner.

“I think you’d like him,” I say while clearing grass clippings from her marker. “He has a younger sibling too. A brother named Will. He’s turning fifteen soon.”

I pick up the tiny bouquet of wild violets from last week. It’s wilted and dried. I sigh and put it back. “Chase doesn’t say it outright, Sarah, but I can tell he misses his little brother. It’s kind of sad. He told me Will won’t talk to him anymore. And the look on his face…I just don’t know.”

I exhale loudly and think about how Chase quietly told me on one of our walks back to the church that his brother hates him for going to prison. I’d suspected as much. Anyway, Will refuses to respond to any of Chase’s calls or texts. I told him I feel confident his little brother’s cold shoulder won’t last forever. That made him smile.

What I didn’t say is that Will is alive, not gone like Sarah. And where there’s life, forgiveness always has the chance to prevail.

The next two weeks are more of the same. Lunches with Chase go on, and we continue to learn more and more about one another. There are smiles and laughter, playing and flirting, and more confiding.

Something I keep to myself, however, are my feelings for this man. They’ve deepened considerably and Chase is becoming more than just a very good friend. He represents life and friendship, two things that were seriously lacking in my pre-Chase existence. But it’s more than just the hope and possibility Chase shows me that draws me to him. There’s definitely something else, something strong, something burning. I don’t know, though, if I’m ready to label all these foreign emotions I’m feeling. Maybe that’s because I have a secret I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to share. And that bothers me, because we’re starting to share just about everything.

Chase and I share a lot, we’ve become much more open, but I still can’t bring myself to divulge the biggest secret I hold—the facts surrounding what really happened the night Sarah died. I worry if I confess to Chase what role I played—or the things I should have done, but didn’t—he’ll see me as a different person. What if that happens and he turns away? Losing him would hurt badly. Just the thought alone leaves my stomach heavy and knotted. I don’t know if I can take that kind of a chance. So, for now, I keep this secret hidden.

I push these thoughts away as I work through another Monday morning, the start of the last week of June. This Monday is the same as most. I am sitting at my desk, counting down the hours till lunchtime with my guy.

At five to twelve, I am out the door, and, within minutes, halfway down the steps to the gymnasium, where Chase is working on repairing one of the backboards.

I catch sight of him and stop in my tracks.

He’s up on a ladder, and since today is a scorcher, especially in the non-air-conditioned school, my gorgeous friend isn’t wearing a shirt. Chase’s entire upper body is bare, all toned and hard and tight. He even has a little bit of a tan from the work he does outside. His jeans hang low on his hips, revealing two indentations on either side of his lower back, right above the band of his black boxer briefs.

I fan myself a little and catch my breath. His lower body is nothing short of amazing—strong legs, great ass— but my eyes return to his bare back, to where ink I had no idea existed is on full and vivid display. I can’t help but stare. I’m frankly mesmerized by the intricacy and beauty of the tattoos Chase has on his back and shoulders.

There’s an angel inked between his shoulder blades, in profile with her head bowed. The angel is beautiful, but in a sad and tragic way. Framing her are large wings, inked above and on either side. The tips trail down the sides of Chase’s back, while a few feathers cascade down around the angel. One or two even reach to just above those sexy indentations.

Still unaware that I’m on the steps, Chase reaches to tighten something on the backboard. His two other tats that, up until now, I’ve seen only bits and pieces of are finally fully visible. The number—72, just as I thought—inked on his right bicep is clear as day, the ink heavy and dark. The mysterious scroll of words trailing around his left bicep is also fully visible, but the words still elude me. I can’t make them out from this distance.

Chase turns and catches sight of me. He smiles. “Hey, you snuck up on me,” he says as he begins climbing down from the ladder.

His T-shirt is draped over one of the bleachers. He picks it up and fluffs it out, unknowingly making his upper body muscles tense and flex. I know Chase’s body is incredible, but I’ve never seen it like this, half of it bare. Nor was I aware my badass boy was this heavily tattooed.
Damn.
Chase is so lean and ripped, and such a real-life bad boy. There’s something very alluring about all that.

Today I have on an above-the-knee skirt and cotton blouse, but I suddenly wish I’d worn something more revealing. I fumble with the button at the top of my shirt, debating whether I should undo one more. After all, I have a valid excuse—it’s stifling hot in here.

But before I muster up the nerve to pop open a button, I notice Chase eyeing me curiously, gunmetal blues focused on my fingers that are caressing a button. I quickly lower my hand. Chase looks away and pulls his shirt over his head.

“Am I early?” I ask, pretending as if I am not aware that I’m exactly on time.