Authors: Danielle Pearl
In Ruins (24 page)
But he pulls me to him instead, tucking me neatly against his feverish body, and I sag into his embrace.
But most of me knows I really shouldn't. That we shouldn't be doing this at all. Friends don't cuddleâat least not after a mind-blowing round of passionate sex. Still, the rational part of me hasn't regained its control, and I snuggle into him, afraid to say a word, not wanting to break this spell.
He doesn't say anything for a long while either, and I wonder what he's thinkingâif he's thinking at all.
Finally I risk turning my face up just enough to see his beautiful, pensive face watching me.
“Princess?”
“You probably shouldn't be calling me that,” I reluctantly remind him.
“I know,” he sighs. “But I called you that long before we were ever something more than friends, right? When we were just kids. It's like muscle memory, you know? There's just something that feels so wrong about not calling you that.”
My eyes sting and my chest grows heavy with a sense of hopelessness at what we've become. “So much feels so wrong, Tuck.” I hate the wistfulness in my voice. I hate that it sounds like I might cry. But most of all, I hate that I actually might.
“Carlâ”
“I know. I'm sorry. I should go.” I try to sit, but his arms tighten around me in protest.
“Stay,” he says simply.
“Tuck⦔ I should argue, but there isn't a cell in my body that wants to.
“Just tonight.” His voice is vaguely pleading, and I inwardly laugh at the irony. “This once. We'll chalk it up to being drunk.”
“I don't think I'm drunk anymore.”
“I don't think I was ever all that drunk, Princess.”
And with that, he pulls me to his chest and I surrender to the bittersweet torture of it all.
I close my eyes, but I don't fall asleep. I don't really try to. Okay fine, I fight desperately to stay awake. To savor every moment of being back in his arms, achingly aware that it may very well be the last time.
If you told me a year ago that I would become this pathetic creature, starved and desperate for the slightest ounce of affection he might grant me, I'd have cackled like the overconfident, independent feminist I fancied myself. And maybe I'm still that, in most aspects of my life. But not now. Not here.
I try not to gasp as Tucker's arms tighten around me, revealing the fact that he's still very much awake. As does the reawakening of his body against mine.
I lift my chin to look at him, too stubborn to pull away from his chest to make proper eye contact. He's staring down at me, eyelids lowered, his expression uncharacteristically unscrupulous, serious, and I can't get a read on it.
His hand starts moving, his fingers ghosting along my cheekbone, tracing the lines of my jaw and throat. “You really are the most beautiful woman in existence,” he murmurs.
My instinct is to scoff at that, but for some reason, it doesn't feel right. “Do you really believe that?” My voice is too small to be my own. It belongs to this new heartbroken, pathetic, desperate version of me I barely even know.
Tucker smirks ironically. “Well, it's not a line to get you into bed,” he points out.
Touché.
His face softens. “Come on, Princess, why would I tell you anything other than the truth?”
I flinch. “Right. Lying is my job.”
“I didn't mean it like that.”
But it doesn't make it any less true.
Tucker sighs. “Let's not go there tonight.”
I nod meekly. Because it's very much in my own interest not to go there tonight.
“So beautiful,” he breathes. “Even the innocent parts. Especially them.”
“Innocent parts?”
A smile. “Yeah.” His finger sweeps down the line of my nose, doing a small jump off the end. “Like this little nose. Almost too small for your face, but not. Like a tiny ski slope,” he murmurs. He continues downward, his finger dancing along my upper lip. “And this perfectly shaped bow.”
He clasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting my gaze to his. “And your eyes. Flawless gemstones. Sometimes more emerald, sometimes jade. But always fucking captivating.”
I can't help my blunt giggle. “When did you become so poetic?”
He smiles sheepishly. “Maybe I am drunk after all.”
I return his smile.
“Or maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
But his words echo in my chest. “Is that what I am? A punishment?” I ask tentatively, trying to hide the sting of his words.
“Sometimes it feels that way,” he admits.
I nod vaguely, frowning.
Tucker's fingertips absently continue their path downward, feathering along the column of my throat and along the swell of my breasts.
His lips quirk sideways into a lopsided smirk. “And then there are the parts that make me make bad decisions.”
I know he's trying to lighten the mood, but all I register is another barb. “So now I'm a bad decision,” I grumble.
He doesn't answer. We both know that's exactly what I amâwhat tonight is. Because nothing has changed. I am still the daughter of the man responsible for his father's deathâthe reason we could never have any real kind of future. And I'm still the girl who swore her love, only to lie to him for months even after I knew how profoundly the truth would affect him.
I wait for him to make his next moveâto move his hand lower or roll me onto my backâbut he doesn't. His hand instead finds the back of my head and he tucks my face into his neck, securing it with his chin, his fingers digging into my scalp like he'd do anything to keep me here. His other arm slings around my waist, and I both love and hate the fervor with which he holds me. It says so much and so little at the same time. Because I know it can't mean what it feels like it does.
Present Day
Despite my attempts to evade sleep, the firm, warm pillow of Tucker's chest rises and falls with his slowing breaths, soothing me into unconsciousness. But it's when I drink that my dreams are most vivid, and tonight is no different. Unfortunately my subconscious chooses to bring me back to one of the worst mornings of my life.
I jog back toward our colossus of a home, in through the open, cast aluminum gates that are designed to pass for antique wrought iron. They are much like the rest of the house, and everythingâand nearly everyoneâin it. A veneer meant to portray wealth and success. Good fortune to be coveted. In reality, of course, they are fabricated from cheap material. Not salvaged from a French chateau, but manufactured in eastern Asia, likely by child laborers.
I set my foot on the front step and bend into a lunging stretch. I pushed myself more than usual on this run, and my hamstrings burn a little. Usually when I exert myself like this, it's motivated by frustration or distress. But not today.
This morning, when I woke up and pulled on my leggings and sports bra, I did so
wearing the perpetual grin that's barely left my face in weeks. The one that's left my cheeks as sore as certain other parts of meâall welcome side effects of Tucker Green.
I didn't know I could be this happy. It sounds trite, but it's completely true. Me, Carl Stanger, abandonment issues and all, is in love, content, and excited for the future.
Well, the near future, anyway.
Because just under the surface, the malignant truth of who my father is, and his connection to Tuck's family, ticks away like a time bomb, a constant threat of devastating ruin.
I've tried to tell him so many times. At one point I even convinced myself he could somehow get past it. But every time I opened my mouth, my mind would conjure the memory of his derisive scowl, his scornful words wishing my father a punishment far worse than prison, and equal suffering on his familyâme. And every day I let pass, I just became more and more of a liar, hammering yet another nail into the coffin that will one day be the end of us.
But presented with the choice of losing him now or later, when my father is released and the truth inevitably comes out, I've made the selfish decision to keep him as long as possible. To embrace what we have while we have it, living in the moment, because living in constant fear of being found out would destroy the time we do have.
I stretch my arm over the front of my chest, and I'm startled by the roar of an engine, tires squealing too quickly to be safe for a driveway, and I spin to see who's so impatient.
Tucker's truck comes into view, and my heart, which has only just begun to calm from my run, jolts into warp speed as he steps out of his vehicle. My gaze trails up his denim-clad thighs, past narrow hips, and takes in the way the cotton of his T-shirt clings to his broad chest and shoulders. He was always gorgeous as a boy, but
watching him grow into thisâthe epitome of masculine beauty and strengthâhas been nothing short of a privilege. And he's all mine.
I freeze when I finally pry my eyes from his body to catch his expression. It's remarkably unfamiliar and it takes me aback. It's utterly inscrutable, serious and solemn, and it is completely alien to me. Tucker has always worn what he's feeling freely on his face. Joy, anger, amusement, frustration, desireâ¦But right now his face appears carved from stoneâhard and unreadableâand fear coils deep in my gut.
Tucker takes in the house behind me, one he's seen a hundred times, but this time his lip curls with disdain.
It strikes me like a bolt of lightning, obliterating my fragile denial. He knows.
I've lied to Tucker for years, even when I knew just how monumentally my secrets would affect him, and any hope I might have that he could forgive me for it is snuffed out by the look on his face.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and calm. “Tell me, Carl, where is your father?”
It takes three attempts at opening my mouth before words finally scrape their way out. “You know where he is.”
Tucker nods.
“
How did you find out?” I ask tremulously, though I'm not sure that it even matters now.
Tucker breathes out an ironic laugh. “I was worried about you.” He shakes his head in self-reproach. “Had Cap's dad look into your dadâ¦So you know where he is, I assume you know why he's there, then?”
I stare at him, waiting to wake up from this nightmare, but I know there's no escape. That I don't get him back at the end of this conversation.
Tucker takes my silence as the affirmative answer it is. “So every time you said your dad was away on business, or traveling, you just lied right to my face?”
I have no defense. I just stand here, blaringly silent.
“
Every time I confided in you about my life, about my own dad, you just looked me in the eye, and lied, again and again?”
I say nothing.
“
You knew exactly who your father was, but you just continued to lie, even in Miami, when⦔ He shoves his hand through his hair, shaking his head in condemnation, both for himself and for me. He huffs out another sardonic laugh. “When I thought I was confiding my darkest secrets to the girl I thought I fucking loved.” He chokes on a sharp exhale.
The words echo cruelly in my mindâ
the girl I thought I loved
â¦
“
And you never said a goddamn word. Every time you told me you loved meâ”
“
I do love you, Tuck!” I cry. I may be as guilty as he says, but I never lied about that. Tucker has had my heart since we were kids. He will always have it, even if he doesn't want it anymore.
“
You were the only person I talked to about him!” he snaps. Were.
“
I know,” I breathe.
“
And you never thought you should speak the fuck up?” he snarls, but behind his fury lies a glimpse of betrayal, of the hurt I've caused him, that I can never take back.
“
You would have hated me.” We were doomed no matter what I did, and I suspect that deep down, Tucker knows that, too.
“
As opposed to now?” he sneers.
I flinch. “I didn't know what to do,” I say pleadingly. “Tuck, I love youâ”
“
Did you know, or didn't you.” It's a question, but not. Because he already knows the answer.
And I know without a doubt that it doesn't matter what I say. No excuse or explanation could ever suffice. For Tucker it is as simple as that one question, and the only answer I have is the one that will solidify our end.
There's an eternal pause while I try to go back in time and change the factsârewrite our past to save our future. But that's not reality.
“
I knew.”
Tucker's jaw ticks and he swallows down his rage, his Adam's apple rolling between the tensed cords in his neck. “We're done,” he says simply.
My throat dries up and my lungs seize. I can't speak. There'd be nothing to say even if I could. How can I argue? He deserves better and I deserveâ¦this.
Devastation.
Tucker turns on his heel, heading toward his truck, and my tears well so thickly that my vision is blurred when he turns back, though unfortunately not enough to hide his ire, his blatant disgust. But it's more than that. More than just hatred. Tucker is looking at me like he doesn't even know me. Like I am unrecognizableâa stranger. It pierces through my chest, and his next words only slice deeper, gutting me until there is nothing left of what makes me meâuntil I am a stranger even to myself.
“
Your father is evil,” he spits. “He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew, and he took my dad on as a client anyway. Knowing it would eventually ruin him. And it did. And my dad is dead because of it.”
My heart stops beating; my stomach is weighted with lead. It's no worse than what he said in Miami, but hearing him repeat it, attribute it to my fatherâ¦it guts
me.
“
That's who your family is. Who you are. StangersâStanleys, whatever your fucking names are,” he spits. “Just put on a convincing smile and hide your betrayals behind it, right? And you're the worst of them, Carleigh, because you claimed to fucking love me.” He chokes on the word, the only sign of vulnerability in his armor of derision. “And all along, you looked me in the eye, knowing what he did, distracting me by spreading your fucking legs. Never mind that my father was dead because of yours.”
Every word cuts me deep, carving away another piece of me. The man I love has essentially just called me a traitor and a whore. But it's his calling me Carleigh that stings most of allâas he knew it would.
Yet I deserve every word.
“
Liars, all of you,” he mumbles before walking back to his truck. He stops at the driver's door. “I never want to see you again, Carleigh Stanger. Do you understand me? I fucking hate you. Fuck, I don't even fucking know you!”
He opens the door, and finally my feet manage to free themselves and I take an automatic step in his direction. And then another. I don't have a defense, but my body is physically incapable of just letting him walk away from me without trying to do somethingâanything.
But his palm slams against the roof of his truck and his warning thunders through the entire three-acre property. It shocks my bones, paralyzing me except for an insuppressible trembling.
“
Stay the hell away from me,” he orders. “I mean it.” And then he climbs into his truck and peels out of my driveway.
*Â Â *Â Â *
I linger half in a dream, wondering why I feel as if I'm waking up inside my past. My fingers automatically reach to the base of my throat for the white gold crown charm Tucker gave me before graduation last year, a reminder that I would always be his
princess
. But
always
didn't last, and my fingers come up empty as I recall tearing off the necklace and stuffing it unceremoniously into my bathroom drawer minutes after he broke my heart.
The subtle scent of fresh spring soap, aftershave, and the faint musk of last night's sweat ambush my senses. My eyes flutter open to find dawn breaking in through the window shades. It's still early enough that I doubt anyone else will be awake for a while, but I know that whether it's minutes or an hour, once Tucker's eyes open, it won't be long before I'm asked to leave.
It takes no more than another second or two to register the pattern of his breathing, too lively to indicate sleep, and I stiffen above him. I swallow anxiously and reluctantly look up.
He's watching me, gaze impassive, but his arms don't move. His fingertips dance, feather-light along the small of my back, and I wonder if that's what woke me. I clear my throat, though I have no idea what to say in this moment. But Tucker speaks first.
“This can't happen again. You know that, right?”
I nod. Because I do know. We'll never be friends if we blur the lines with this. Not just the sex. Not even mostly the sex. But
this
. This intimacy. This is what could break us. Break me.
In an instant, the haze of last night's lust begins to lift, and anxiety settles in its place. Because I doubt I could survive his breaking my heart a second time, and that's precisely what I'm setting myself up for. I've laid my own trap, and I need to free myself before it's too late.
“We shouldn't be lying in bed like this,” I tell him.
His smile is wistful. “I know.”
But he makes no move to disentangle himself from me. Instead, he does the opposite, his hand leisurely roving up the avenue of my spine, as if it's going for a Sunday drive.
I shrug it from my body and sit up, startling him. “Stop doing that,” I snap.
“Touching you?” His brow furrows.
“No!
Yes
. Touching me, and agreeing with me but continuing thisâ¦this
affection
anyway.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs halfheartedly.
“No you're not.”
He frowns as I yank the sheet out from under the bedspread and drape it around myself.
“Maybe it was wrong of me,” I admit. “Coming here last night. Maybe I was stupid to believe we could just hook up and walk away. Or that I could. But Tucker, if you wanted to fuck me, then why couldn't you just fuck me?” My words drown in regret. “You can't say these thingsâabout my eyes, how you think about meâ¦You can't stare at me the way you do, or call me
Princess
. It isn't fair.”
“Carlâ”
“
No
, Tuck. You know how I feel about you. And you said it yourself. When you love someone more than your own life, you don't let them go for anything.” I stare at him meaningfully. “
Anything
.”
Tucker shakes his head, eyes lined with exasperation. “Carl, I tried to talk to you about that last nightâ”
“No, Tuck. I get it now,” I assure him. “And maybe I always should have known. But
you
must have, right? Or at least you do now.”
“Know what?” His brow furrows deeply, vaguely bewildered.
I glare at him, trying to determine if he's undermining my intelligence or if I'm somehow not making sense. But I know him better than that, and as easy as it would be to vilify him right now, I can't lie to myself. “Maybe you really did believe it at the time,” I admit. “That you loved me back.”
“Carlâ”
“Or maybe you really did love me. Just not enough, you know?” I don't bother fighting the tears. He's seen them plenty of times now anyway, and if there's ever been a time to let them flow, it's now.