Crushed
Page 68
He rolls away from me.
“Michael?”
Nothing.
I reach out a hand to touch his arm, and he jerks away, exploding out of bed, unconcerned about his nakedness.
He snatches his boxers off the ground and angrily steps into them. Then he moves around to my side of the bed, yanks the picture from my fingers, and shoves it back in the drawer before rummaging around and chucking a ChapStick at me.
I pick it up. It’s plain. No fun flavor. Black wrapping that just says ChapStick. Guess he’s right. It really isn’t a beauty product.
I pull off the cap and put some on, not because I really need it, but because it gives me an excuse not to look at him.
I knew the guy wasn’t exactly an open book, and I wasn’t asking for his emotional diary or anything, but the fact that we could just share, well … rather phenomenal sex, and then he can’t even tell me about a picture in his nightstand?
“Did they die?” I ask bluntly.
“What?” he snaps, moving toward the kitchen.
“The people in the photo. Are they dead?”
“No, they’re not dead, Chloe,” he snaps, pulling down two glasses and filling them with tap water.
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” I snap back, when he returns and hands me one of the waters. I take it, but then set it on the nightstand untouched. “You practically exploded when I asked about them.”
“Because it’s not your goddamn business!” His face is pissed. “Haven’t I given you enough? I told you that Tim Patterson was my father, for Chrissake! You know how many people knew about that? Three. Me, my mom, and the man who raised me.”
I scoot across the bed away from him, taking the sheet with me. I tug and tug until it comes free of the mattress and then stand, wrapping it around me. No way is he getting another look at the goodies now.
Then I stand up straight and glare at him across the bed. “That’s not how friendship works. There’s not some sort of magical quota on the exchange of information. You tell each other things. It’s what friends do.”
And I think we’ve firmly crossed the line into friends.
I don’t say that last part, though. He’s already skittish as it is.
He shakes his head. “You ask for too much, Chloe.”
I hold the sheet with one hand, and run the other through my tangled hair, but it’s hopeless. I stop before my fingers get lost in the curls. “I didn’t mean to snoop, Michael. It’s just … you told me to go into your nightstand, and the picture was there. If it was some deep, dark secret, you should have stuck it under the mattress like a proper weirdo.”
For a second I think he might smile, but his lips flatten out, his eyes dead.
This is freaking ridiculous. I point at him. “I’m sort of assuming whatever happened with those two good-looking blond creatures is what’s turned you into a closed-off asshole, and I’m sorry about that.”
I blow out a breath and reconsider.
“Actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. Because you’re in control of your own life, Michael. You get to decide how you respond to whatever that is,” I say, making a circular hand gesture in the direction of the nightstand.
“What are you talking about?” He looks pissed.
“I mean that whatever life dealt you, you’re miserable about it because you’re choosing to be miserable.”
He says nothing, and I begin shuffling around in the sheet, trying to figure out where my panties went.
I find them, and bend down to retrieve them. Then my bra. I stand. “Turn around.”
He gives me a really? look, but complies, and I get dressed in record time.
“I’ll call a cab,” I say quietly.
He turns back around. “Does Cedar Grove have cabs?”
Good point. It doesn’t have many and it takes them forever to get to you.
“I’ll call my sister for a ride. No, wait. Shit,” I mutter. “She’s going out with girlfriends tonight. She’ll probably be wasted.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No, thanks,” I mutter, heading toward my purse and pulling out my phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“A friend.”
“I thought most of your friends live in Dallas or didn’t come home for the summer?”
I give him a sunny smile. “And you know how you know that, Michael? Because I told you. Because I tell you about my life. It’s what people who care about each other do.”
He throws his hands up in the air and makes an exasperated noise.
I start to type a text message.
“Who are you texting?” he snaps.
“Devon.”
He’s in front of me in three seconds, the phone ripped out of my hand. “No fucking way.”
I extend my hand and lift an eyebrow. “Phone.”
He glares. “I’m driving you home.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to crawl out of my bed to go slinking off to the one you really want to be with. No guy would tolerate that bullshit.”
I wiggle my fingers for my phone. “You’re acting like a Neanderthal.”
“You are not calling my brother.” His voice leaves no room for argument.
“Your half brother is always there when I need him—”
“No, he’s not, Chloe!”
My head snaps back in surprise, but he leans in on me. “Devon’s a good guy, but he does not feel the same way about you as you do about him. Get that through your head, because it’s getting pathetic.”
“Michael?”
Nothing.
I reach out a hand to touch his arm, and he jerks away, exploding out of bed, unconcerned about his nakedness.
He snatches his boxers off the ground and angrily steps into them. Then he moves around to my side of the bed, yanks the picture from my fingers, and shoves it back in the drawer before rummaging around and chucking a ChapStick at me.
I pick it up. It’s plain. No fun flavor. Black wrapping that just says ChapStick. Guess he’s right. It really isn’t a beauty product.
I pull off the cap and put some on, not because I really need it, but because it gives me an excuse not to look at him.
I knew the guy wasn’t exactly an open book, and I wasn’t asking for his emotional diary or anything, but the fact that we could just share, well … rather phenomenal sex, and then he can’t even tell me about a picture in his nightstand?
“Did they die?” I ask bluntly.
“What?” he snaps, moving toward the kitchen.
“The people in the photo. Are they dead?”
“No, they’re not dead, Chloe,” he snaps, pulling down two glasses and filling them with tap water.
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” I snap back, when he returns and hands me one of the waters. I take it, but then set it on the nightstand untouched. “You practically exploded when I asked about them.”
“Because it’s not your goddamn business!” His face is pissed. “Haven’t I given you enough? I told you that Tim Patterson was my father, for Chrissake! You know how many people knew about that? Three. Me, my mom, and the man who raised me.”
I scoot across the bed away from him, taking the sheet with me. I tug and tug until it comes free of the mattress and then stand, wrapping it around me. No way is he getting another look at the goodies now.
Then I stand up straight and glare at him across the bed. “That’s not how friendship works. There’s not some sort of magical quota on the exchange of information. You tell each other things. It’s what friends do.”
And I think we’ve firmly crossed the line into friends.
I don’t say that last part, though. He’s already skittish as it is.
He shakes his head. “You ask for too much, Chloe.”
I hold the sheet with one hand, and run the other through my tangled hair, but it’s hopeless. I stop before my fingers get lost in the curls. “I didn’t mean to snoop, Michael. It’s just … you told me to go into your nightstand, and the picture was there. If it was some deep, dark secret, you should have stuck it under the mattress like a proper weirdo.”
For a second I think he might smile, but his lips flatten out, his eyes dead.
This is freaking ridiculous. I point at him. “I’m sort of assuming whatever happened with those two good-looking blond creatures is what’s turned you into a closed-off asshole, and I’m sorry about that.”
I blow out a breath and reconsider.
“Actually, you know what? I’m not sorry. Because you’re in control of your own life, Michael. You get to decide how you respond to whatever that is,” I say, making a circular hand gesture in the direction of the nightstand.
“What are you talking about?” He looks pissed.
“I mean that whatever life dealt you, you’re miserable about it because you’re choosing to be miserable.”
He says nothing, and I begin shuffling around in the sheet, trying to figure out where my panties went.
I find them, and bend down to retrieve them. Then my bra. I stand. “Turn around.”
He gives me a really? look, but complies, and I get dressed in record time.
“I’ll call a cab,” I say quietly.
He turns back around. “Does Cedar Grove have cabs?”
Good point. It doesn’t have many and it takes them forever to get to you.
“I’ll call my sister for a ride. No, wait. Shit,” I mutter. “She’s going out with girlfriends tonight. She’ll probably be wasted.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No, thanks,” I mutter, heading toward my purse and pulling out my phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“A friend.”
“I thought most of your friends live in Dallas or didn’t come home for the summer?”
I give him a sunny smile. “And you know how you know that, Michael? Because I told you. Because I tell you about my life. It’s what people who care about each other do.”
He throws his hands up in the air and makes an exasperated noise.
I start to type a text message.
“Who are you texting?” he snaps.
“Devon.”
He’s in front of me in three seconds, the phone ripped out of my hand. “No fucking way.”
I extend my hand and lift an eyebrow. “Phone.”
He glares. “I’m driving you home.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to crawl out of my bed to go slinking off to the one you really want to be with. No guy would tolerate that bullshit.”
I wiggle my fingers for my phone. “You’re acting like a Neanderthal.”
“You are not calling my brother.” His voice leaves no room for argument.
“Your half brother is always there when I need him—”
“No, he’s not, Chloe!”
My head snaps back in surprise, but he leans in on me. “Devon’s a good guy, but he does not feel the same way about you as you do about him. Get that through your head, because it’s getting pathetic.”
