Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (15 page)

“Let me go,” I hiss. “He needs a tip.”

Gabe draws me closer until I’m inches from him.

“You’re jealous.” His tone is full of fact.

“It was disrespectful,” I counter.

“You’re jealous,” he repeats, this time the slightest grin
curving his lips.

“It’s natural to be hurt by your carousing so soon after the
fact,” I tactfully argue.

“You’re jealous
and
pissed.” His tone is full of wonder.

“Your flirting made me feel cheap.”

“Super fucking jealous.”

“Like the only thing between us was a one night stand.”

The smirk on his lips dies and he grabs me by the upper arms.
My coat falls to the floor. His face creases with tension. “What do you want from
me, April?” he demands, his face inches from mine.

Confused by the plea in his eyes, I look down at his chest.
“I don’t know.”

“Because the other night you begged to be just friends,” he
says harshly.

His bitter tone has me blurting, “What do
you
want?”

“I don’t know either.” His grip tightens on my arms. “I…this
started because I needed to feel—in control, but then, well, I liked being with
you”—this warms me up, even with his tight grip on my arms—“and I do want to be
friends.”

I try to yank out of his grasp. “Is this how you treat
friends?”

He lets go of my arms and takes a step back hitting the wall.
“No.” He bumps the back of his head on the wall. Twice. “But then I don’t have
a shit load of friends.”

“Me either. That’s why I’m not very good at this. I’ve heard
that—that sex can mess everything up, and I don’t want it to mess us up.” I let
out a sigh. “I’m pretty sure it is.” I go to bend for my coat, but he beats me
to it.

Sighing, he holds my coat for me to get into. “I encouraged
those two to flirt with me. I was hoping you would get jealous. But I don’t
want anything to do with them.”

Putting an arm into a sleeve, I blink at him. “Why? Why would
you do
that
?”

He looks away. “I—girls like you tend to use guys like me.”

With all the uppity, preppy comments he has made in the past,
it doesn’t take much for me to figure out what he means by girls like you. “I’m
not like that. The other night…things just seemed to happen.”

“I know you’re different, but it’s hard for me to accept. And
maybe—no, tonight when things felt weird, cold,” he elaborates, “between us I
just…when you asked to be friends, I assumed that was the reason.”

He draws in a deep breath and it becomes obvious he is
forcing himself to explain. That he believes I deserve an explanation, even
though it appears to be torture for him, helps me empathize with his twisted
view. He expects to be used and treated like crap because obviously he has been
in the past. After being told physically by his father that he
is
nothing for years—and probably verbally—it’s easy for me
to understand his fear. My heart weeps
and
beats—that he is confused about us as I am—for him.

My fingers find his jaw and turn his gaze from the floor to
meet mine. “I meant it. I want to be friends. Still mean it. It’s not that I
don’t…”—I need him to understand that I think he is more than good enough for
me—“couldn’t imagine wanting something more from you.”

In reality, touching him, glimpsing the conflict and hurt in
his eyes, I want him with a fierceness that frightens me, and it’s not just the
sex, although I want that too. I want to know everything about this man, his
past, his dreams, what’s in his glove box, his favorite bands, his …just
everything. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. And the depth of my want scares
me. Even though I’ve been more honest with him than I’ve been with anyone in a
long, long time, I’m hiding my scars. And they’re not like his.

I deserve mine.

I drop my hand and my gaze. “Even if—well, I don’t think
either of us are emotionally ready for anything other than friendship. We’re
both messed up, and you need to stay focused on music right now and controlling
your temper, and I need to stay focused on my education.” I finally look at
him. “Being friends is really for the best…”

He studies me for a long, uncomfortable silence, perhaps
recognizing I’m withdrawing into my shell and debating on calling me out. A
tremble fills my insides. Outside, I’m motionless, hoping he’ll let me retreat.
I’m not ready to dissect whatever is going on between us. My brain needs to
catch up with my emotions.

He finally says, “You don’t have to go because of me.”

And my hope wins. I shake my head. “I have to get up at five
to get back by eight. Someone is covering my shift at the Family Center until
then.”

“Can’t take a day off?”

“Not usually, plus Romeo is taking the day off.”

He lets out a sigh. “You have to wait for the shuttle?”

I nod, digging in my glove for a tip.

“Then I’ll wait with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You’re not waiting outside by yourself,” he says in a stern
tone.

I resist rolling my eyes, give the coat attendant a tip, and
let Gabe follow me outside.

We talk about safe things as we wait in the cool night air.
How school is going for me, how the new album is coming together for
Luminescent Juliet, how his new apartment is coming along, and other mundane
items while we wait. The hotel shuttle is supposed to come around to the venue
about every forty minutes. Luckily for Gabe and me, it comes within fifteen
minutes. Or else all the tension and want floating in the air between us may
have unraveled into something that would make a bigger mess. I somehow keep my
emotions—that seem to be all over the place—at bay during our trite
conversation.

As the shuttle pulls up, Gabe moves closer to me. “I’m sorry
for being an ass, April.” He lets out a puff of fog from a deep breath. “And
yeah, being friends is probably the best for us.”

I force a close-lipped smile and nod. “Sorry for losing it
too.” I step around him, but say over my shoulder, “See you at group.”

And then I’m in the bus, swallowing and trying hard not to
cry.

Oddly, it feels like I just lost something that I didn’t want
to let go.

Chapter 22

~Gabe~

I try not to think about her, but she comes to me
at night in dreams or during mindless activities—like breaking down a
carburetor or when I’m practicing some song that I’ve played for ages. The
floral scent of her hair, the soft feel of her body, the depth of her aqua
eyes, the curve of her cheek, the sweetness of her smile…fucking silly,
romantic things that I’ve never thought about a woman before. They assault me
at the oddest times.

Yet in group, as she sits quietly across from me, it’s
impossible not to think of her. Her presence looms no matter where I look. The
other idiots in group have become shadows. April sucks up all my vision. Like
right now as Jeff drones on, she stares at her hands. I know this even as I
stare at the floor, because for every second of group, I’m completely aware of
her every move. I was hyper aware of her from the moment I joined group, but
lately I’m consumed with her for the entire hour.

It’s been over two weeks since we slept together, weeks of
wishing it never happened because I’m addicted. At the same time I’m wishing
for more that should never be. She’s right. After life with my pop, I’m fucked
up to the point that I can never be twisted back into right. And while I’m more
screwed up than her, she’s
depressed,
or maybe guilt
ridden for some idiotic reason, over her cousin’s suicide to the point of obsession.
She carries it with her like a hidden badge that shines between the layers of
polite perfection if you can get close enough to look.
 

And I’ve gotten close. Too close.

Besides all of that
fuckery
, the
mere idea of seriously being with someone like April fills me with an
unfamiliar anxiety. My past girlfriends, chosen for their empty minds and open
homes—the more I could be away from my father the better—never expected much,
other than lots of attention.
You’re hot,
hot, hot. You make me want to fuck, fuck, fuck.
And yeah, she does that to
me too. More than any of the ones before her. Shit, just peering across the
circle at her has me rearing to go. But in those quiet moments of day to day
life, my subconscious dares to imagine more.

Me.

Having a real relationship.

With her.

As if fucking possible.

Like my pop would say,
Shit
for brains, Gabe
.

Pissed that I’m in this predicament, I need to get over her.
Learn how to deal with it. Move on. Maybe and truly just be friends.

Fortunately, these last few weeks have been busy. The band
has become
a writing
and practicing machine,
rehearsing four times a week and almost six hours the last two Saturdays. We
have two recording sessions coming over the next two months. One over
Thanksgiving break and one after Christmas. Romeo is determined to finish out
college, Sam wants to also—just not as bad—and Justin doesn’t give a shit. The
rest of us have to follow Romeo’s lame ass schedule so he can get what he
wants, a degree. Therefore, we’re cramming practice in between school
schedules, work, and my fucking never-ending therapy, which keeps me busy—while
the want of April hovers like a desolate ghost lodged in the back of my
head—most of the time.

But here
in group
, my obsessed mind
can’t get away from her.

Once Jeff finishes his wrap up and excuses group, April and I
are in the parking lot sharing our usual nonsense about day to day things—or
more precisely pretending to be friends. While we talk about bullshit, I plan
to drop the bomb. The bomb that is the first step toward mending our
friendship. And maybe mending her.

Somewhere along the way, I truly began to care about April,
so much that my care is a tight knot in my chest that I carry throughout the
day and sleep with at night. My own little coil of April anxiety. I want to
help her get over her crippling sadness, free her from the guilt that is
holding her back, and loosen that knot so maybe
I
can at least sleep.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a few?” I ask, keeping my tone
level as we veer toward her car.

“Ah…I believe we are talking right now,” she says, her smile
a touch sardonic.

Damn. She’s so beautiful it hurts to look at her sometimes.
“About something important.”

Her brows rise a bit, but she nods as we come to her car.

“So the band’s going to L.A. over break.” Her expression
turns confused as she hits unlock on her key chain. My feet shuffle as I
concentrate on a way to explain my idea. “And I was wondering if, well, we fly
out on Friday, but if you were going to miss class on Monday or Tuesday, you
could fly out on Wednesday. Plus we don’t have group that week either.”

She leans back, staring at me with wide eyes. “Why would I
fly out?”

“Shit,” I say, thinking my dad is right. I can’t do a damn
thing correctly. “I’m not explaining this very good. I emailed that actor, the
one your cousin wanted to meet.”

Her pretty winged brows shoot up. “And he agreed to meet?”

“Not yet, but he will.”

She blinks at me, then slowly asks, “Why are you so sure?”

“Told him we wanted to interview him for a video.”

She pauses, her hand above the door handle—her escape. “What
video? Romeo agreed to let
Michael Thomas
in your
video?”

“No. It’s just an interview.” I lean a hip on the door,
stopping her from opening it.

“Thomas will be pissed when nothing comes of it.”

I shrug. “Don’t care what some washed up teeny bopper actor
thinks.”

“Um…”

“Do you seriously care what this guy thinks?”

“Well, no, but it’s rude…”

“Never know, maybe we
will
use him. Anyway, we all have our own rooms for once. Sam said I
can
stay with him, so you can have your own room. I
mean…”—fuck, I do not want her thinking I’m hitting on her, that’s not what
this is about—“I’m not trying to set something up with you. I just—you just—the
list is almost done. You should finish it.”

She searches my gaze with her conflicted one. “I don’t need
to finish the list, Gabe. My interview for the clinical program is right after
Thanksgiving. Jeff gave a good report and Dr. Medina recommended me weeks ago.
Once this semester is over, I’ll be done with group too.”

I bend closer, almost over her. “You should finish the list
for
you
.”

She looks past me, drawing in a visible breath. “I—”

“And for me. I think
I
need
closure on that fucker,” I add, like the dickhead that I am hoping to sway her
with my needs.

Her expression becomes more conflicted.

I stand up. “Just think about it. I can get your plane
ticket.”

Her eyes grow huge. “You don’t have to do that!”

“Think about it.” I turn toward my car, but say over my
shoulder, “I’ll text you in a few days.”

I don’t look back, and by the time I get to my car, she’s
gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

The way it should be.

But I still feel like punching my hood.