Rock My Heart (Luminescent Juliet #4) (8 page)

His gaze over a gulp of coffee is wry.

“I
wanted
her to get back with him. Romeo and I are just friends. Very good friends.”

“You dated.”

“So what?”

“People are going to assume.”

“Don’t care. I don’t have many friends like him, so
people can think whatever they want.”

“You know, you’re like a walking dichotomy.”

My
brows rise.

“You want people to think you’re perfect, yet you
don’t care what they think.”

Suppose it seems that way. I take a sip of water,
collecting my thoughts. “I don’t care. I keep up the perfect image for me.”

“Why?”

“So… so I keep going.”

His fingers drum a slow steady beat on the rough
wood of the bench as he leans back, studying me. He opens his mouth to say something,
but then slightly shakes his head and sits up. “I’ve spilled my guts. Tell me
about your parents.”

I don’t like talking about myself. Maybe because I
tend to hide too much, but after him sharing so much, it seems more than
discourteous to brush the question away. Instead, I push the fries away.

“They’re not very exciting. My mom lives in northern
Ohio with my stepdad. My dad lives in California.” I was born in Malibu, but
when I was two, my mother took a job in Ohio, hoping my father would beg her to
stay and propose. “My parents never married—”

“You’re a bastard,” he says in a shocked,
high-pitched tone and clutches his chest.

“Takes one to know one,” I say in a sassy tone.

“You’re right,” he says with an uncharacteristic
wink. “Guess it’s something we have in common.”

“Are we supposed to be ashamed or something? What is
this? The fifties?”

“No.” He laughs. “But I’d guess people who grow up
with dysfunction, though I suppose some kids with unmarried parents are fine,
recognize it better than others.”

I slowly nod, realizing that not only is he probably
right, but he is also very intuitive. Though the dysfunction of my father
living on the west coast and dealing with my moody stepfather are not even
comparable to what he has dealt with.

He picks his coffee back up. “What doesn’t kill you
makes you stronger, right?”

“Okay, Nietzsche.”

“Who?”

“Um, the German philosopher you just sort of
quoted.”

He shakes his head. “Must have heard it somewhere
and it stuck. I’m not in to that college shit. Life has given me enough
lessons. I’m a drummer then a mechanic. Probably wouldn’t have even got that
skill, but since I’m good at figuring things out, a high school teacher pushed
me”—he shrugs—“made me apply for a scholarship and go to tech school.”

His tone is very nonchalant, but I read through the
lines and find a mix of pride and humiliation. Obviously, between the skill set
of music and mechanics, Gabe is quite intelligent, but I’m guessing that
someone has repeatedly told him that he isn’t. I don’t even want to imagine the
plethora of names his father has called him over the years. My heart aches for
him as a boy, but as he lifts his chin and almost dares me to comment, I
realize this man does
not
want my
pity. And in a way, I know how he feels. Though my not
wanting
pity isn’t about pride; it’s about me not deserving it.

I crumple my fry bag, trying to appear indifferent.
“Lots of people are successful without college. It just depends on what you
want to do, I guess. I want to help people, be a counselor, so to college I
went.”

He watches me as if judging my words, while the tilt
of his chin remains prideful.

And suddenly, outside a fast food restaurant, under
his perusal, I finally notice—on a conscious level—Gabe from a female
perspective. His fierce pride, especially after his history, is the spark that
leads me to become aware of him physically.

Practically every single—some not single—female at
our college has gushed about one of the band members, Gabe included. I’m not a
blind idiot—though sometimes I am just a plain old idiot. Like a connoisseur of
art, I understand the female admiration. Each band member is attractive in
their own way. Romeo with his dark good looks. While blond Justin looks like a
tatted up model. Then there’s Sam with his blue eyes and curly dark hair. But
pretty male faces do not make my heart, or other body parts, flutter. My
mother’s beautiful. The sculptures in the university’s art gallery are
beautiful. A 57’ Gibson
-B
acoustic
guitar is beautiful. Beauty has never made me all google eyed and wistful.

Until now.

Harsh masculine beauty hits me hard. Winged brows
over russet coffee colored eyes. A flared but defined nose. Full sexy lips.
Cheek bones that slash across each side of his face. Sun streaked, brown hair extending
past a hard jaw line lined with his nearly ever-present, sexy scruff. He is a
tsunami of male brilliance that rolls over me in wave after wave. I’m a
sunbaked, parched island shocked at the sudden drench.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach—I never understood
the reference until now—while words build in my conscious, trying to form
lyrics to his beauty. Longing pounds in my chest—thump, want, thump—and desire
curls my fingers around the edge of the bench. I feel dizzy, like I’m about to
fall backwards off the bench and into another world. My grasp strengthens until
my fingernails cut into the wood. I don’t want to fall.

His gaze turns speculative as I attempt to control
the blast of longing hitting me. “Your cousin’s death really messed you up, huh?”

The question breaks the spell that my sudden
awareness of him spun.

I instantly let go of the bench. “Yeah, it did,” I
agree, as grief and guilt twist and tear throughout me, their thorny vines
cutting and slicing. As usual, I run from the old wound that never ceases to
feel freshly open if faced. “I need to get going.” I jump up and quickly smash
all our trash in the burger bag. “I have homework to do.” Both statements are
honest. At least separately.

“Sorry,” he says, standing, running a hand through his
hair, and wearing a contrite expression. “I’m guessing you don’t like to talk
about it.”

I pause in the middle of pushing the bag in the
trash. A sad laugh escapes me. “That would be an understatement.” I step away
from the trash bin, reaching for my purse on the table. “Really, I have to get
going.” I don’t wait for a response, just march to my car.

Once Gabe gives me directions to his house, the ride
is quiet with the blare of rock music. Luckily for me, Gabe seems to sense my
mood. Though I suppose it isn’t too hard to perceive how I just shut down—the
only way I can deal with the past. Once I faced my wrong, accepted it, and
decided to make amends, I had to move on or the guilt would have destroyed me,
and most times I fear it still could.

I pull in front of Gabe’s house, my mind in tumult.

He breaks the silence by saying, “Piece of shit,
huh?”

Confused, I look at him then the house. Small with a
sagging porch, peeling white paint, and cracked windows, the house is old. The
weeds and overgrown bushes in the yard don’t help improve the broken down
appearance of the house. Obviously, it screams poverty, and apparently this is
some kind of test.
How horrified will she
be?
I’m not in the mood for his test.

I shake my head a bit. “It’s just a house. It’s not
like it’s a sneak peek into your talent or soul or something.”

He stares at me for a long moment, as if trying to
gage the authenticity of my words. “Well, I’m almost out of this shithole,” he
says, tugging the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

Caught in the perfection of his face for a quick
second, I quickly snap forward. “No problem. Thanks for…lunch, and for sharing
with Jeff.”

And with that, he is out of the car. I shift into
drive and let out the breath I’d been holding in. Between my weird reaction to
him and his bringing up Rachel, I feel like I’ve been through the wringer.

Too
bad
I don’t have a ton
of homework instead of just a six page paper to write.

I love homework.

It keeps me busy.

And sane.

And until now, oblivious to the word lust.

Chapter 11

~April~

Fridays. No work. No
classes. No group therapy. Nothing to eat the time away. I’ve cleaned my living
room and kitchen top to bottom, and they both needed it. Finished my reading for
the next week and completed the rough draft of my final paper for Clinical
Psychology which isn’t even due until December. Re-read some parts of my old
psychology textbooks. Enjoyed two hours of crap TV. It appears the only thing
to do is go to bed. At nine-forty at night.

My ten measly credits are killing me.

With boredom.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I fill
and set the coffee maker. On my way to the bedroom, a knock at the door almost
has me tripping and running into the wall. Who would come to my house on a
Friday night?

I groan, realizing who is most likely on the other
side of the door.

Besides my weird, sudden attraction to his
looks—which was the pinnacle of superficial since he annoys me most of the
time—I’m aware he makes me feel too much, remember too much, and be like the
old me far too much.

He pounds harder.

I don’t want to be the old me. I need to be the now
me.

His pounding becomes too loud to ignore.

I march across the room and whip the door open.

Yep. There stands Gabe in
all his
grunge looking glory. If it were the nineties, Gavin
Rossendale
of Bush would have lost a few—a ton—of female fans.

I wish I was physic, but no, I’m being tormented. By
a hot looking jackass in loose jeans, long hair, a hoodie, and strangely a jean
jacket. Who wears those anymore?

Before I can chastise him and his loud banging, he
asks, “Pajamas? At ten at night? On a Friday?”

I cross my arms over my tank top and braless chest.
“I’m tired.”

“From what?”

“From none of your business.” I don’t want to admit
the tortuous boredom that plagued me all day. That admittance may have me
pitying myself.

His brows rise.

“Why are you here?”

“It’s raining.”

“What?” At first, as usual, I don’t put two and two
together, but of course, the list. “It rains a lot.”

“Yeah, but it’s going to get cold soon.”

“It’s late September. We have at least three more
possible weeks of mild weather,” I retort.

“Don’t want to tell Jeff you did another two?”

My jaw clenches. I
hate
group therapy. “Fine. Let me get a jacket or something.”

A grin curls his full lips. “Nothing wrong with what
you’re wearing. In fact, it’s perfect for a little dancing in the rain.”

I glare at him. White tank in the rain. Yeah, right.

“Give me a minute.” Instead of inviting him in, I shut
the door in his face. That’s what he gets for making such comments. And for his
hot, seductive grin.

Digging inside a dresser drawer, I tell myself to
get it together. This is just another check on the list. This is just a way to
get Jeff to give a positive report to Dr. Medina. This is just two strangers
swaying in the rain for a few minutes.

That is all.

Done with my inner pep talk to keep me from being an
idiot, I drag an old flannel—the only one left of the ten or more I used to
wear—out of the drawer, tug it on, and slip on a pair of flip-flops. When I
yank open the door, he’s leaning on the frame, looking out over the parking
lot. I almost run into him.

He catches me by the waist. “Slow down. We’ll get to
the dancing soon enough.”

“Ha, ha,” I say, moving out of his grasp. “Where
were you planning on doing this?”

He tilts his chin, his glance speculative. “I’m
thinking the basketball court would be romantic.”

Um, no, but that is good. “Very,” I agree, and start
moving toward the stairs.

“Is that flannel from an ex?” he asks, following me
down the stairs.

Ha, my ex list is rather short. “No. It’s mine.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Like you bought it?”

“I did.”

“To wear?”

“No, to practice doing laundry,” I say in the most
sarcastic tone possible then add, “Yes to wear.”

“Like to bed?”

“Like in an ode to grunge rock.”

“
You’re
into grunge rock? Like Nirvana and Pearl Jam shit?”

I step off the last stair and into the dark night
full of misty rain. “Yeah, like STP and Alice in Chains and Screaming Trees, but
more like I used to be, and it’s not crap.”

He chuckles, a light muffle trapped in the rain, as
he catches up to me on the sidewalk. “Always full of surprises aren’t you?”

“Me surprising?” I push back damp strands of hair
already sticking to my face. “I’m supposed to be sleeping right now, not
getting pneumonia.”

As we turn the corner, he leans near my ear. “I’ve
been told I’m worth it.”

My side-glance at him is flat. “So you usually give
girls an illness?”

This time the rain can’t muffle his loud laughter.
“Oh, I give them something, but it doesn’t make them sick. It leaves
them…satisfied,” he says in a tone over dripping with sexuality.

I’m aware he’s laying it on thick, trying to make me
uncomfortable, and I refuse to appear as uncomfortable as his teasing is making
me. “Oh, really?” I put a finger on my wet chin. “Usually bragging stems from
some sort of inadequacy.”

“It isn’t bragging when it’s pure fact.”

“Says who?”

“I could give you some phone numbers if you’d like
to conduct some interviews.”

“No thanks,” I snottily say as we cross over a
length of wet grass.

The basketball court is dark with only porch lights
illuminating it and out in the open where a breeze mixes with the mist. At the
center, I turn to him. “All right let’s get this over with.”

His brows rise. “Why am I getting the impression
you’re not excited about this?”

“Oh, I
dunno
? Maybe
because I’m already sopping wet.”

He chuckles s at that.

It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s being
perverted. I wipe the water from my forehead. “Oh, shut up and start dancing.”

He hunches over, messing around with something
tucked in his inside left pocket. When he stands and holds out a hand, music, a
soft acoustic guitar strum, mixes with the pitter pat of rain on the cement.
Suddenly, a guitar slide, then sharp notes ring out in the dark. It takes me a
few seconds to recognize the tune.

A laugh escapes me. I’ve heard the song many times.
My father loves the Rolling Stones. I used to be more of a Beatles girl. And we
have argued for hours about which band is better more than once.

Hand still out, Gabe patiently waits.

“Come on. Wild Horses?” I put my hand in his warm
one. At least it’s the acoustic version.
 

He yanks me closer until my hips bump his thighs.

The contact has my breath catching as Mick Jagger’s
voice joins the rain.

A soft, closed mouthed smile forms on his lovely
lips. “Rock’s not known for slow dancing.”

Stop
thinking about his lips.
“Can’t listen or dance to anything
but rock, huh?”

“It’s only rock and roll but I like it,” he says
with a grin.

I shake my head at him using a Stones song title,
yet before I can retort, he starts swaying.

We shuffle and move together in some strange
circular pattern, reminding me of middle school dances. My hands on his
shoulders. His on my waist. Our feet scraping on the cement. Yet unlike middle
schoolers, we sway and step with a precision that is in perfect rhythm to the
song.

The rain, along with the wind, picks up.

I try to remain irritated with the rain, with the
chill, with the pervading wetness. I try to stay outside of the moment. I try
not to think of why Rachel would find dancing in cold, wet rain romantic. Yet,
the coolness of the rain doesn’t touch me. Instead, Gabe’s body warms me with
each sway when my
chest or thigh
or hip comes in
contact with him. Even when inches apart, the space between us is a raging
fire. The space around us is a muffled bubble filled with rain and music and
the sway of our bodies.

And I get why she would crave this.

It is strangely romantic. The music mixed with the
pitter patter of the rain. The feeling that the need to dance against one
another overrides the ugly weather. The sense of being alone in the cocoon of
the rain. All of these things elevate the experience.

Halfway through the song, I forget about keeping my
wits. I just enjoy. His shoulders under my palms. His fingers digging into my
waist. His breath on my forehead. The perfect rhythm we make.

And I fall into the unthinkable.

I imagine for this flash in time that this is real.
That we want to dance together out in the rain. That he wants me to press
closer. That he wants me to lay my head on his shoulder.

And imagination becomes reality as I do each of
those things.

And just feel.

Him.

The song nears the end as we sway glued to one another.
My head turns. My cheek scrapes the wet fabric of his jean jacket. My nose
catches the soapy scent of him, tips closer. Draws in and holds soap and rain
and man in.

And even the smell of him warms me.

The music ends but we continue to hold each other.
We move. We pretend this is real.

And I’m not me.

I’m a sponge soaking in his warmth, his smell, the
sensation of him under my hands. Floating on a rain cloud of sensation, I can’t
get enough. Yearning for more, desperate for more, I lean forward pressing my
lips to the skin where his collarbones meet. I drag my lips across his skin,
adding the taste of him to the sensations overwhelming me, adding the tang of
cool rain on warm skin.

And he tastes more wonderful than I could have ever
imagined.

He stops swaying in an instant.

I suddenly wake up, yank out of his grasp, and stare
at him with wide eyes. My hand covers my aggressive mouth but I gasp, “Oh, no,”
from behind my palm. Even in the rain and shadows, I can see his lips curling
in disdain. Somewhere between the rain and body heat and my imagination, I
forgot about Gabe’s dislike of me.

 
“I’m sorry,”
I say from behind my hand. “I don’t…” I take a step back. “I don’t know what
came over me. I…” Those lovely lips curl into an all-out sneer. “I’m sorry,” I
whisper one last time, backing up before racing to my apartment.

With shaking hands, I unlock the door. Inside, I
lean on the nearest wall, drawing in huge gulps of air. I’m embarrassed,
shocked, and mad at myself all at once.

What
is wrong with me? Why would I do such a thing? Loneliness? Boredom?
Desperation?

Like
I’m drunk again, I stumble over to the couch.

Okay, okay, okay hitting on Gabe—twice—is not the
end of the world.

I just touched his lips and kissed his neck—eek!
Yet, it’s not
like
I tackled and dry humped him. At
least not yet.
 

After several more deep breaths, I admit to myself
that I am attracted to Gabe—maybe because I can be honest with him, maybe
because he’s stunningly attractive, maybe…it doesn’t matter why, but when it
comes to men, I’ve always been reserved, now
and
back when I was normal.

I rub my temples. It has to be a mix of loneliness
and boredom, driving me to act insane. I need to get over this and move on.
Pushing myself off the couch and heading to the shower, I decide I need more of
a social life.

Or else I may end up tearing off Gabe’s clothes.

Or something worse.