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“What’s the problem?” His tone’s got this weirdness to it.
Hoping to read his expression, I turn to look at him. “What do you mean?” Really, I should be getting out of here, not engaging in a conversation with him.
“You, the pulling away, the blow job.”
I tilt my head, questioning. “And?” Is he complaining he got a blow job? I know it can’t be anything else. I mean, how would he know?
“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asks.
A chill flows over me, through me, completely encompassing me. It’s overwhelming. “Tell you?”Shit. Shit. Shit.That can’t be a coincidence. Does he know? How could he? “Nothing.”
He raises a brow, a sardonic look on his face. One I’m not used to. “Nothing?”
I take a step. Trip, fall, collapse, dropping to my knees on the concrete. The flesh on my knees stings. My jeans must have ripped. I don’t even get a chance to dwell on that because I keep falling.
“Fuck.” I catch the rest of my fall with my palms, which doesn’t do much good because now, like my knees, they too, are skinned.
He knows.
Fuck.
I shift into a sitting position, pull my legs close to my body, cover my face with hands. I never should have come back. I should have stayed in Austin, studied, partied, something, anything but this.
I rub my face, but the stinging sensation makes me stop. My hands, the abrasions, they’re stinging like they’re on fire. And then there’s the blood I bet I’m streaking on my face.
He hates me. Here I am, the taste of him in my mouth, the taste of me in his, and he hates me. Wait. He can’t know. He can’t possibly know.
“Hang on,” I say. “If you knew about...” And I’m not even sure what he knew, but he must know something...
I shove at his chest. He doesn’t budge.
My mouth is opening and closing, while I’m trying to go through scenarios in my head. “If you knew, then why this? Why do what we did?”
He frowns, and his lips part to say something, except he’s interrupted by a set of headlights in the dusk. They shine right on us.
I squint to see who it is.
11
CONFESSIONS AND HEADLIGHTS
JOSH
She's the only woman for me. She's been that since the first time. Hell, since before the first time. Since the first kiss. Nope. Before that, even. I know what she went through, being with me. I know how her mamma ran me down every chance she had, how she told her every day that she could do better than the trash that she chose to surround herself with. And I knew damned well who the trash was that her mother was referring to. Cass went through hell to be with me. And then she went through hell to protect me. She doesn't know I know about that last part. I may never tell her. Maybe she doesn't need to know that I know.
I study her, that beautiful body which contains the iridescent soul that is inexplicably tied to my own. We do things I've dreamed of while jacking off in the bowels of my father's shrimp boat. Years later now, all I could do was stroke myself, coming to the memory of her. And now, here we are. I can taste her, smell her, feel her. All of her, and it's just like it ever was. Nope, it's better. Way better because now I know what I lost. Truly know.
We touch, taste, yearn, and finally, when I'm just ready to claim that which I've been dreaming of for the last three years, she pulls back. She shuts down emotionally and shakes her head.
I ask her what's up, and the shutters that have gone down over her emotions rise, but just enough for me to see that she's still hiding, but now she's diverting.
She says something about turnabout being fair play and proceeds to suck me off. Don't get me wrong. I'm human. Hell, I'm not going to say no to that. But yet, deep inside, there's a part of me that wonders what went through her mind. What pulled her so far from me, if only on the inside. Seconds later, or maybe centuries later, I explode and release my passion into her mouth.
She slips her panties on, then her jeans. It's clear that something is on her mind.
“What's the problem?” I ask her, though she's weirding me out.
She acts like I might be crazy by asking, “What do you mean?”
