Strum Your Heart Out (11 page)

He sucks on my lower lip. He digs his hands into my hair, holding my mouth against his. All I can do is react. Press my fingers into his skin. Part my lips to make way for his tongue. Shift my hips against his.

I don't breathe until he releases the kiss.

His eyes find mine. He runs his thumb against my cheek. "Kara."

I swallow hard. Talking just might ruin this. So I close my eyes and I slide my hands into Drew's hair and I kiss him.

His lips are soft and they taste like chocolate and sugar. He doesn't hesitate. He kisses back, hands on my hips, tongue in my mouth.

Every part of my body is awake and alive and every part of it wants Drew. I arch my back to press my chest into his.

No waiting. He grabs my t-shirt and pulls it over my head. He drags his fingertips down my arm and shoulders and traces the outline of my bra.

That flutter spreads through my stomach and chest and thighs until every part of me is buzzing with electricity.

Drew is touching me.

Drew is kissing me.

Drew is mine. For the next few minutes at least.

He unhooks my bra. I moan into his mouth. Drew is going to take off my bra. Drew is going to see me topless.

It's like I'm a desperate high school student again. The only thing I want is Drew feeling me up. Every second he's not touching me is horrible agony.

He breaks our kiss. His fingers hook around my bra straps. He drags the left strap down until my breast spills out. My sex clenches. I swallow hard.

Then the right.

His eyes go wide. Pupils dilate. "Fuck." He lets out a breathy sigh. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted to see you like this."

He cups my breast and I'm warm all over. Hell, I'm on fire.

My eyes flutter closed. I arch my back to push my chest into his hands. "How badly?"

Drew rubs his thumb over my nipple. "I go out of my fucking mind thinking about you." His voice gets low and heavy. He rubs me harder. "But you're so much better than I imagined."

Heat spreads through me. "You haven't..."

One hand goes to my hips and holds them in place. He presses his crotch against mine, so I can feel his erection straining against his jeans. Drew is hard because of me. I swear I must be dreaming.

I pinch my forearm and pull my eyes open. He's staring at me with this look on his face that says he's desperate to touch me.

Not dreaming.

So much better than dreaming.

"I have. Since forever," he growls. "You dress like you're trying to kill me."

I bring my lips back to his and speak in between kisses. "You flirt like you're trying to kill me."

"I am." He rubs me harder.

I hook my arm around his neck. "How long have you wanted me?"

"Since I can remember." He kisses a trail down my neck and chest.

"Why didn't you try anything?"

"Didn't want to fuck this up."

His mouth closes over my nipple and he sucks hard, the way he sucked on my thumb. Heat spreads through me. Pleasure builds between my legs. I can barely think anything except
Drew
. He's wanted me since he can remember.

He wants me.

He's hard because of me.

My untouchable rock star best friend is hard because of me.

He moves to my other nipple. One of his hands goes to the inside of my knee and traces a line up, up, up.

I press my legs together and shift away from him. God, I want Drew's hands on me, but it's not worth the risk of ruining this completely.

His hands go my hips and he kisses his way back up my chest and neck. His lips meet mine and his tongue plunges into my mouth.

I let out a low moan and grab the counter to stay upright. I reach for his shirt and pull it over his head. He lifts his arms to help me. And then his hands are on my hips. They trail down the outside of my thighs. He plays with the hem of my skirt, getting closer and closer to my inner thighs.

It feels so good. I'm warm everywhere and I'm so desperate for his touch, but I can't let him see those scars.

"Drew." I shift back and press my legs together.

His eyes find mine. "Oh, shit. I forgot."

I smooth my skirt over my thighs. "It's nothing personal."

He takes a step back. His demeanor changes, so it's tense and awkward. "So, what... we can keep going as long as I don't touch you?"

I swallow hard. "Please."

He takes another step back. His eyes turn down, like he's confused by his own reaction. "I can't, Kara. I have to touch you. I've been going out of my fucking mind thinking about touching you."

The oven
beeps
. The preheat is done. What perfect timing. Drew's eyes are on the floor. It's like he's suddenly lost all interest in me.

I take a deep breath and push myself off the counter. "I understand." I reach for my top, but it's too mortifying standing here half-naked and mid rejection. I turn and make my way for the stairs.

"Kara."

"I'll see you later."

"At least tell me why."

I run up the stairs like I didn't hear him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I try devoting my energy to peer editing an essay. Most days, I can spend hours fixing grammar and offering constructive comments. Today, everything about my classmate's writing stands out as wrong. I tear apart her argument with angry red comments. It's all filler. It's all pointless. It's all a distraction from her total lack of a thesis.

When I finish, my head is aching and my neck is sore. I power down my computer and resolve to bullshit my way through the rest of my homework in the morning. The bed is this wonderful supportive foam—it must have cost Drew a fortune. It beckons me, so I flip the lights off and belly flop onto my comforter.

The solitude is soothing. No way anyone can pick apart my expression. Or stare at me with this confused look in his eyes asking for an explanation with his inhale, and rejecting the whole thing outright with his exhale.

It's not his fault.

He was always clear. He was joking, but he was clear. I find my phone and pore over my text messages in search of evidence. The muscles in my chest, neck, and back tense. He's so demanding and playful and arrogant and sweet at the same time. I want to scream and cry and laugh at the same time.

There. Only a week ago, but that feels like an eternity.

Kara: Fuck you.

Drew: Not with your silly rules about how I can't rub you until you scream.

I play with the hem of my skirt the way Drew did. I drag my fingers over my thighs the way Drew did. Over my quads and up my inner thighs. Up, up, up, until they trail over my first set of scars.

If he'd felt them...

These stupid things change everything. I managed to keep them from my ex-boyfriend by insisting on fucking in the dark and keeping my skirt on. I had to take the lead, to take care of the condom, to move things forward before he even tried to touch me.

To tell him I came even if I didn't.

We were together a year and I managed to deter all his advances. Then, one night, we were drinking. I was relaxed and fucking him wasn't getting me there. I thought it might be okay. He was so excited until he saw them. Until he touched them. His eyes went dark and his dick went soft. He stared at me like I was this awful damaged freak.

One minute I was irresistible. The next I was broken.

He dumped me the morning after. That usual
it's not you, it's me
bullshit.

Then it was like I didn't exist. Like he'd never said he loved me. Like he'd never even met me.

That can't happen with Drew.

I can't be the damaged, unlovable girl. Not to him.

***

There's a soft knock on my door. I throw the comforter over my head and will the sound to go away. I can't explain this and I can't bear to take another second of the awful look in Drew's eyes.

There are footsteps in the hallway. He's leaving. Another door, must be the one to his bedroom, opens and closes.

It's like he's playing some weird grown up version of ding dong ditch.

I climb out of bed and check the hallway. It's empty except for a plate on the ground—the pasta he was making for dinner. It's still steaming and it smells like garlic and lemon.

It smells like heaven.

There's a napkin-wrapped fork lying next to it. I bring both into my room and set them on my desk. My chest pangs. This was supposed to be a celebration dinner. This was supposed to be ours.

My bad mood can't overpower my appetite. I unwrap the fork. It tumbles onto my desk with a clang.

There's something written on the napkin in a black marker. Drew keeps the damn thing in his pants in case he's asked to sign something.

His handwriting is neat and emotionless.
The cake is cooling on the counter.
That's it.

It's not like I expected a love letter, and it's good that he managed to take the cake out of the oven in time, but I don't need this message. I certainly don't need the taste of sugar and chocolate in my mouth.

I stab a piece of penne with my fork and take a bite. The pasta is amazing—fresh vegetables and shrimp in some white wine sauce way beyond my cooking skills—and I'm positively starving. I try to take my time to savor every bite, but I finish quickly.

Music turns on in Drew's room. He's occupied. Good.

I creep downstairs and wash my plate in the sink. The cake is sitting on the counter, already cool. I cut a tiny sliver to check if it's done. It's perfect; not too soft or too hard or too dry. And it tastes like chocolate and sugar.

Like Drew's lips tasted.

All those muscles in my neck tense again. It was barely an hour ago. We were on the counter. If I hadn't stopped him, if I didn't have these stupid scars...

I fix a cup of tea, English breakfast to keep me awake while I tackle my reading. Caffeine is supposed to help with concentration. It should help me focus on work and not on how good Drew's lips tasted.

They were so soft.

And he was so hard.

The kettle's whistle snaps me out of my daydream. I fill my cup with hot water, cut a slice of cake, and trudge upstairs.

Drew's door is open a tiny sliver. There are no sounds coming out of it except angry heavy metal.

My stomach twists. He's hurting all alone and I'm hurting all alone. I need to explain it's not his fault, that I still want him badly enough to scream, that he's still my best friend, whatever happens.

But I can't bring myself to knock.

I step into my room, slam the door shut, and drown myself in Rage Against the Machine and cake.

***

My morning drags. Instead of going home between school and work, I change in my car, arrive half an hour early, and eat lunch at my desk.

I have an email from my mom. A question about spring break. She'd missed me over the holidays, when I stayed in LA for winter quarter. It was the only way to make my double major work, and it meant I wasn't there to make Christmas dinner or put up the tree or call Grandma. It meant there was nothing in the house but crushing silence.

I shake my head. It's not that I doubt my mother loves me. She does, in her way, but she doesn't see me. Not really. She doesn't have a clue how much I hate finance, how little I want to work at her company, how hard it was being the one who kept everything together after Dad died.

I do my best to concentrate on today's work. It's very basic finance stuff, 201 at most. A slightly more advanced version of this will be my life if I take a job at my mom's company.

By six, the office is empty and the sun is setting. And no doubt Drew is at home, eating dinner on the couch with that same disappointed look in his eyes.

I check the Sinful Serenade Twitter for a clue. There's a new picture of Drew posing with a fan. They're outside in the sun. She's wearing a sports bra and tiny little shorts. Her thighs are scar free, and they're tan and toned to boot.

He has his arm around her shoulder. No flirting. Just a friendly guy fulfilling his duties as a celebrity.

There are no other hints on Twitter. In all likelihood, Drew is at home.

After another hour of work, I change in the bathroom, drive to the gym, and run until my legs are aching.

***

It's the same thing for two weeks. I leave for school early, kill time at my internship, and take the latest cardio dance class the gym offers. If that isn't late enough, I run until I'm too tired to think. I arrive home no earlier than ten.

There is no contact between us except for the Post-it notes Drew leaves on the counter. It's always something about what he made for dinner and then there is a Post-it note marked "Kara" on some neat piece of Tupperware.

I eat the food he cooked for me in my room and I try to avoid wondering what it means that he's still making me dinner.

***

On screen, guns blaze. Except for the loud movie, it's been a mercifully quiet morning. Nothing but screen and cereal.

Meg finishes her can of green tea and gets up to toss it in the trash. Her gaze darts to the curling staircase. "We missed two brunches in a row."

"I know."

She plops back on the couch. "I shouldn't have let you get away with that after that party."

"But I'm glad you did."

She reaches into the paper bag sitting on the table, pulls out a bottle of black tea, and hands it to me. "Are you though?" She looks me in the eye. "You dragged me out of bed every Sunday after Rosie died."

"You were despondent." I twist the cap. "Your sister overdosed. You needed emotional support. This is nothing... I was busy with homework."

She pops open a can of green tea. "Right."

I take a swig of my drink. Perfect excuse not to respond. Meg isn't as perceptive as Drew is, and she hasn't known me as long as he has, but she does see through me.

She follows suit. Her attention returns to the action on screen.

"I'm out of my element here," she says. "I'm so used to you being the one dragging shit out of me. How do you do that? It's annoying at first, but I always appreciate it." She sits up straight and looks me in the eyes. "You're going to tell me what's going on with Drew."