Knock Love Out (A Sensual New Adult Crossover Romance) (7 page)

I like his hands on the small of my back and the soft pecks in between whispered lyrics I watch his lips produce. His arms around me. The way girls half my age look at him and he doesn’t look back. Right here. He’s right
here
.

Three more drinks and I am brave enough to dance to a faster song. Then another and another. Two more drinks and all I know is Cash has to carry me in his arms to the car. The motion is terrible, but amazing.

Gingerly, he sets me on my feet as we find the parking garage. His car. I slump into the leather seat and laugh without knowing why or caring. He puts the music super loud and I suddenly love it.

I have no idea what it is but I freaking
love
it.

The music dims. “You hungry?”

I laugh louder than needed. “Are you kidding? I could eat twenty-four hours a day nonstop.”

Cash smiles, touching my cheek affectionately. “Want to go to my place? I could cook you something.”

I take off my seatbelt, turning toward him. “If you’re trying to get in my underwear you could just say ‘Lilla, I want to have relations with you’ —oh my word!—
relations
! Who thought of that word? So stupid! Relations.
Relations
! We are gonna have relations.”

He cups my cheek. “I should’ve cut you off five Lemonade Shooters ago. Not that I don’t find you adorable, Honey-girl.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because it’s the truth. And you deserve the truth.”

“How am I a
Honey-girl
?”

“You’re sweet. Delicious.”

“I want a turkey sandwich with mustard and French fries.”

Cash laughs and I love it so much. Shifts gears. I lean against him, head on his shoulder.

“Lil, put your seatbelt on. I’m already driving a neon sign. I really don’t need to get pulled over, considering I’d probably flunk a fucking breathalyzer. Please?”

“Drinking and driving is very bad, Cash.”

Cash shakes his head. “I’m good, just not legally speaking.”

A yawn escapes me. “
I’m
sleepy.”

***

His keys jingle as he unlocks the door, allowing me entrance into his apartment. Three steps and I’m rendered still as lights flick on, illuminating something unexpected.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Lil. I’m sure you were hoping for Xbox, empty pizza boxes and dirty laundry everywhere?”

Pretty much.

But no.

This place is … honestly? It puts
my
house to shame.

Two leather sofas. A glass table with some sculpture thing in the middle. Neat stacks of magazines and, of course, art on the walls. It smells great too. A little lemony and floral. Shiny hardwood floors. Can I move in here?

I hear the friendly sound of a fridge door opening.

My stomach speaks up.

Cash’s head is ducked down, looking for something.

“If you have to pee the bathroom is down the hall,” he pulls away from the fridge with an arm full of things, nodding towards a darkened hallway.

I do have to go, but honestly? I’m really just super curious about what that room looks like.

And you know what?

It is just as nice as the rest of his home. Sigh of epic proportions. Everything is gleaming clean and organized. He even has nice hand towels. Crap,
I
don’t even have nice hand towels. Who is this weirdo guy?

Ugh, my mascara is super smeared and I look like a raccoon.

When I’m finished fixing my face and hair, and spying on what’s in his medicine cabinet and small linen closet, I go back to the kitchen. He has a beer in one hand, taking a sip as the other hand flips something over in a pan. The stereo plays low in the background.

“You said
turkey
, right?”

He glances to me briefly. I don’t respond beyond a simple nod of my head. I’m just sort of … observing this whole ordeal.

How the hell did I end up in the kitchen of a produce clerk, watching him make me a turkey sandwich? A
toasted
turkey sandwich.

Can the man get any better?

Drunk. Snooping through his stuff? Wondering why …

I point to his face.

“One of your eyes is blue and the other green. I never noticed that before. How is that possible?”

His lips smirk. “It happens when a pretty girl is near me.”

“Funny.”

He flips the sandwich in the pan. “Not trying to be. It’s the truth.”

“It’s
amazing
.”

“You should see what my other body parts do around pretty girls.” He laughs into his beer bottle.

“Very mature, Cash.”

“Not trying to be.”

He slides a sandwich onto a plate and hands it over. I follow him into the living room and we sit, sunken into an enormous bean-bag chair. I sort of love it. He turns off the stereo from one remote, using another to flip on the flat screen.

I pick at the edge of my sandwich. “Not to be rude, but I’m just curious about something, Cash.”

He takes a bite of the food, keeping his eyes on the television.

“Mm?”

“If you can afford all of this stuff, selling your art, then … why can’t you just give your dad money? Help out the grocery store’s financial situation?”

He settles on an action movie, lowering the volume.

“My father has a really bad problem with pride.”

“He won’t take your money?”

Cash shakes his head. “Plus, while all of this looks cozy, I’m not exactly
rich
, Lilla. The store is in
serious
debt.”

I nod, going back to my food. He remembered the mustard. I relax into the beanbag, feeling the filling form around my body.

“I haven’t sat in one of these since I was nine.”

He takes a sip of beer, before passing it to me. “One of the perks of dating a kid.”

My heart sours. “That’s not what I meant. I like it. It’s comfy. I like everything in your place, actually. Even the art I’ll never understand, drunk or not drunk.”

Cash smiles, sinking down into the chair. “You don’t have to understand everything. If you like it, then, you like it. Why complicate shit that isn’t complicated?”

“I just thought artists had some underlying meaning for things they paint.”

“I do,” he nods, “but it doesn’t always have to be obvious, or even meant for people to see at full face value. Sometimes it’s nice to have a secret only
you
know.”

My insides flutter. I pass him back the beer. My eyes look to the large canvas on the wall. A lot of red and black splotches.

“What does that one mean?”

“To who?”

I roll my eyes. “To
you
.”

“I slept on the beach for three hours during the hottest part of the day. For six hours straight all I saw was fucking spots,” he laughs.

“Why would you need to paint that?”

“I liked that beach, but I am opposed to painting palm trees?” He shrugs. “I told you, not everything has some deep-seeded meaning.”

“Which one has a deep meaning to you?”

“Those aren’t on display, Honey-girl. Not in this room.”

“Where?”

“Finish your food, Lil. I’ll show you later.”

***

I’m lead up a small staircase to a floor above the main living area. It’s like two different worlds. Messy and chaotic. Papers everywhere. Stacks of canvas and paint. Cash clicks on a lamp that doesn’t own a shade. Takes a seat on a paint-splattered wooden stool. Watching as I snoop through his things. There’s just … so much. I don’t know where to start. Softly, his voice finds me.

“They told my parents when I was little, I had a problem—the shit they call
ADD
—these days? Wanted to pump me full of drugs just because I didn’t act the way
they thought
I should. Poppy didn’t buy into it though. She knew I was special. My mind just worked differently than other kids.”

“Better,” I encourage, holding up a piece of paper that has a girl’s face sketched in charcoal grey. It’s amazing. So detailed.

Cash’s face lights up, liking my words. “That’s why I’ll take all of my father’s crap and put up with that shit grocery store. It makes my mom happy. I owe her my life. Literally.”

“No one noticed me when I was a kid. I was just another snotty-nosed nobody,” I tease.

“You were probably the cutest little girl. Boys chased you on the playground, didn’t they?”

I stay silent.

He grins, nodding. “Yeah, I knew it.”

“I’m sure you were a nightmare. With
those
eyes.”

He gets up from the stool. “A
dream
, you mean?”

I set the paper down, wanting to play this game. Dance
this
dance.

“No, I’m sure I was right the first time.”

I’m swept up in his arms, only to be laid down on the piles of paper crinkling underneath us. He crawls over me, looking down. His fingers dig into the sides of my knee, making me jerk with laughter.

“What about my eyes, Lilla?”

I go for the age stuff. “Are you seriously tickling me like we’re
five
?”

He answers with action. Smart.

The alcohol is still speaking in my absence. “I could think of other things you could do in between my legs, Cash, other than tickle me. Very
mature
things.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t tempt me, Lil.”

“Like this?” I lock my legs around him.

“I don’t fuck drunk girls.”

“I’m fine. Just not legally speaking,” I laugh.

“The fact that you are asking me to fuck you on the dirty floor is evidence to the contrary.”

“Maybe I just want you.”

He kisses my nose. “Who
doesn’t?
”

“That’s the only reason I came in the store. I wanted to have an affair with someone.”

Cash dips his head into my shoulder, laughing softly. “Shut up, Lilla.”

Rejection. Drunken stupid rejection.

“It’s because I’m an old hag, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“I’m too old for you. It’s gross, isn’t it?”

“It has nothing to do with age and everything to do with not taking advantage of someone. I’m pretty sure you get enough of that shit at home. Speaking of which, I should probably be taking you there, before Adam thinks you’ve run away again.”

“Adam left for the weekend. He won’t be home until late on Monday.”

“Is that so?”

I nod.

Cash slides away from me, rising to pull us to our feet. The light is clicked off. Down the stairs and slowly everything is put to bed. Television. More lights. And then us.

His bedroom is a reflection of the rest of the apartment. Small tokens of his childhood lingering in the details. A picture of his family. Someone I assume is his mother, Poppy. A thick comforter is folded down before he digs through a dark-wooden dresser, pulling a shirt out.

A long finger calls me over.

Just like in the park, he undresses me, slowly tugging my dress away, over my head. Replacing it with a soft cotton shirt of his. He hoists me in his arms, walking us over to the bed and lays me down, removing his own clothing, sans underwear before he spoons himself along me.

“If I push you away during the night, don’t get a complex, Lilla. I’m just an emotional sleeper.”

I smile in the darkness. “Okay.”

He kisses my shoulder.

“Dream about something you’d like to do tomorrow. When you wake up in the morning, tell me what it is.”

PART TWO

CASH

Chapter Ten

I see Lilla peaceful and clean. I see Lilla a wonder and light. I see her small and precious. I see her soft and wrapped in warmth.

Just watching. Admiring the picture in my bed.

Green lights of the alarm clock tell a story I’ve already read. Four in the morning. Sleepless. Hopeless. So still I sit at her side, watching, breath shallow. The clock ticks. My fingertip skates lightly down her arm, seeking bumps. I’m treated well. Given many.

Lilla shifts, rolling to her stomach. I want to press my mouth against the back of her skinny legs. Kiss just below the crease of her ass cheek. I pull the covers over her and exit my bedroom, quietly.

Or, so I thought.

Lost inside of the bristles sweeping over the blank page, suddenly I sense eyes. A shadow blocking the light gives her away. I don’t look. I keep working, trying to knock the vision inside of my head onto the canvas.

Sleepy warmth rests down beside me, legs tucked under her gentle frame. She smells like marshmallows and vanilla. Smokey from my smoking. Familiar because of my bed and shirt.

Lilla’s head rests on my back. Her voice is raspy and tired. Scratchy from the alcohol. Smoke.

“What are you drawing?”

I dig the bristles into the canvas, angrily.

“It hasn’t told me.”

She remains against me as I keep my hand moving, creating something and nothing. The warmth of her body so close and heavenly, calling to me. Twisting to seek her out, pull her into my arms so that she can linger in the comfort of my lap.

“Why aren’t you sleeping, Honey-girl?”

“I’m not very good at it.”

“Me either.”

Small fingers play with the crease of my arm. I watch her face as she runs her digits along the black ink, tracing the lines. A thin brush finds its way into my hand. The sleeve of my shirt she wears is pushed up, the tip replacing it as I scroll along her skin.

“My mom used to yell at me when I was little for coloring on my hands,” she gives away.

“What did you color?” I dip a new color and continue my design further down her arm.

“Nonsense,” she laughs sleepily, “mostly flowers.”

Her thin arm twists in my palm as I move the brush to her wrist, swirling an intricate pattern.

“What kind?” I choose another color.