Girl Lost Page 8

  His voice is low, gravelly, “Yes. Fuck yes, I am. I don’t want any man near you—I hate Micah for being your brother. I want you with me, always.”

  His voice is so fierce, wild. It’s a savagery that is at odds with the soft circle of his arms, the gentle press of his fingers on my back.

  That is all tenderness and fragile care.

  His eyes are hot when I look up, and my breath catches in my throat. I make a tiny noise, and heat flares in his eyes, his grip on my hips tightening. And then his lips brush over mine.

  As first kisses go, it’s not a good one. It’s hesitant and off center, and he pulls back immediately, his eyes wild with panic. I reach up, running my fingers down the curve of his jaw, and he trembles. He looks so lost.

  That’s what breaks me. That he looks nervous and out of his element. I have seen Peter angry and determined, elated and wild.

  I have never seen him lost. And it pushes me to my knees, framing his face with my hands. I push his hat back and do what I’ve wanted to since I first saw him in class—I run my fingers through the silk red curls, loving the way they spring around my fingers. I stroke through his hair until his eyes calm and drift closed.

  “What’s wrong?” I murmur, shifting in his lap until I am straddling him. He hisses as I settle back onto him, my legs wrapping around his hips.

  “I don’t want to fuck this up,” he says shakily. “I’ve waited so long for this. For you. I can’t stand the idea that I might screw up something and push you away.”

  Something about his words tickle me as wrong, but I shrug it aside as I lean down and catch his mouth with mine.

  There is a moment of hesitation, and I dig my nails lightly into his scalp.

  And he comes alive. His lips part on a groan, a noise that is so fucking hot I can’t stand it. His grip on me tightens, almost bruisingly so. I love it. I nip at his lip softly, and he makes another noise that makes me wish we were somewhere private, with a lot less clothing. His tongue flicks out, slipping alongside mine, a soft stroke that drives me wild.

  He kisses without skill, without any of the finesse other boys have shown. But he kisses with a raw passion, his lips hard on mine. There is something desperate about the way he holds me to him, the way his lips move against mine.

  He kisses me like he’s waited years for this one moment, like he can’t quite believe it’s real.

  Chapter 11

  I shift, rolling onto my back. We left the others behind last night—they had laughed, teasing shouts filling the forest as the Boy snatched my hand and pulled me through the deep darkness. The island had been quiet—peaceful in a way that it wasn’t during the daylight. But filled with a tension that had me on edge, even as the Boy flirted and charmed.

  We chased fireflies until I was aching with exhaustion, and then he took me to a tiny glade next to the river. If I were a bit more fanciful, I would think he had conjured it from nothing, it was so perfect.

  We fell asleep there, his arms wrapped around me, cradling me to him, and for the first time since that terrible morning, I felt safe. We watched fireflies dancing above and the shimmer of stars, and I asked, “Why are your stars different?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I wake alone now, and all of the peace from last night vanishes—I am alone, and I have no idea how to go home.

  Except this isn’t home. The boy wants me to stay. And I want to. The idea of vanishing into the heart of this island and never going home, running free with the others and dropping exhausted into the grass every night—the idea is intoxicating.

  But there is home, and home has Micah. Is it fair, to do that to him? To vanish and let him think I am dead?

  “Gwendy?” His voice is rough and questioning. I twist, crossing my legs under me to sit like him. “You were sad. Why?”

  I take a deep breath and stare at him, memorizing the puzzled smile and the way the light shifts off his hair, turning the red a burnished copper. The slanted, exotic eyes, watching me expectantly.

  I let my breath out and say the words I’ve been needing to say for weeks.

  “I have to go home.”

  Peter’s room is in his frat house, on the second floor, messy, and crowded with the frat brothers that linger like a pack of hungry wolves at his feet.

  It’s empty now. I don’t really remember how I ended up here—we were kissing on the Cliff, the wind picking up around us until he pressed against me and whispered the question.

  And then we were here. Peter spoke to the other guys briefly before they vanished, leaving with quick glances at me, leaning against his desk.

  I look at him, curled against me. Sleeping, he looks like a little boy, a heartbreaking rendition of my Boy.

  A Boy that has never tolerated me touching anyone else. So why can I lie here, without any whispers, without any unexplainable violence?

  I banish the thought, because I would rather stay happy and because in Peter’s bed, his body warm against mine, there is no place for the Boy.

  I brush a lock of hair back, and he groans, twisting to bury his head deep in the pillow. “Why are you awake?” he mumbles, his voice hoarse with sleep.

  “Because I have this hot guy next to me and I kinda wanna kiss him again?” I ask, biting my lip to keep my smile from spinning out of control.

  Peter looks up at that, and there is nothing but mischief in his smirk as he leans into me. “I can work with that logic.”

  I laugh, but the noise dies as his lips brush mine. Once. Twice. Soft as butterfly kisses as he teases at my lips. Until I’m arching, my body searching for his. I growl.

  He laughs and then kisses me. A heavy press of his lips, the flick of his tongue along the seam of mine, and the silky stroke of his tongue, exploring me in sexy, soft strokes. I whimper and dig my fingernails into his back. He breaks away to hiss, and I nip at his neck, arched above me.

  “Fuck, Gwen,” he groans as I lick my way down his throat, lingering at his pulse point. It jumps wildly beneath my tongue as I lick at it, and I laugh, a low noise.

  Peter shifts, and I gasp, arching against him as he settles his weight against me. I can feel his erection through the thin cotton of his sleep pants.

  I want him.

  It’s the truth I’ve been avoiding since I arrived at Northern, and now that I’ve acknowledged it, I don’t want to stop. I don’t want anything to intrude on the here and now. Peter and me. No past. No memories.

  Just. This. Moment.

  Life will intrude. Soon. But for now, as he covers me, his lips on mine, nipping at my neck, his fingers inching my shirt up, I bask in the moment.

  Peter is sitting on the edge of the bed when I emerge from his shower, my hair dripping on my blue dress.

  I smell like boy—Peter is woefully lacking in the shampoo options.

  “What are you doing today?” I ask, suddenly feeling awkward.

  He shrugs, standing and approaching me. His fingers twist in my hair, and I shiver at the hungry look in his eyes.

  “Spend the day with me,” he murmurs, pulling on a lock of hair before letting it go.

  “Doing what?”

  He shrugs. “I dunno. We’ll figure it out.”

  I glance at my phone, and for the first time, I register the four missed calls from Micah, and one from Grayson.

  Reality comes crashing down. I look at him, and I don’t want to kill that happiness. I want to run away from the looming responsibilities.

  Isn’t that what got me into so much trouble to start with?

  “I can’t spend the day,” I say. Worry and rejection flicker in his gaze, and I lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “But we can do breakfast.”

  His eyes narrow on me. “Pancakes.”

  “At Martha’s?” I counter, and Peter’s eyes light up.

  I tap a quick message to my brother as Peter shoves his feet into some shoes.

  Me: I’ll meet you for lunch. I need a little bit of time to cool off.

  Micah: U
had all night. We’re worried.

  Me: Then go bitch with Aunt J. You’re good at that.

  He doesn’t respond to that, and I slip my phone into my purse as Peter opens the door on the day.

  Martha's is packed. It feels like every student at Northern and their parents have descended on the little café. The air is thick with perfume and bacon and fried butter, and my stomach rumbles.

  "We can sit at the counter?" Peter says into my ear.

  We could, but I shake my head. His arms are around my waist, holding me to him. I see a few people watching us, and it occurs to me that they look familiar—Lane's friends.

  Lane. I need to talk to him. Because Micah was right about that, if nothing else—he thinks we are dating, and I allowed him to. Even encouraged the idea.

  But he isn't Peter, and I can't imagine anyone else waking up next to me.

  I bite my lip, and Peter, attuned to my mood even without seeing my face, brushes his lips across my hair. I relax into him. He's humming, a soft noise in my ear that is faintly familiar. I can't place it, though. The waitress barks out Peter's name, and he releases me long enough to take my hand as we follow her to the booth.

  The surface is sticky with the residue of syrup, and she looks torn between annoyance and outright anger, but she could be a raging bitch and it wouldn't bother me at the moment.

  "We'd like a large chocolate shake," Peter says, straight faced.

  The waitress hesitates a heartbeat then shrugs and turns away.

  I slide a glance at him, and he grins, tapping the melody on the tabletop.

  "So what are you going to do after this?" I ask, playing nervously with a packet of sugar.

  "The guys are having a party tonight. Might hit that."

  "Your parents didn't come out?" I say, a less than subtle fishing expedition.

  His eyes darken just a little. "No. I don't see them."

  I hesitate, and then, "Why?"

  "I don't want to," he says. "What about you? You were with family yesterday."

  "My aunt and Grayson."

  "Who is he?"

  I don't answer. I like Peter, a lot. But he makes me nervous, and I am not comfortable telling him that I'm a certifiable lunatic.

  It's not good first date material.

  Wait. Is this a date? I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His fingers are still wrapped around mine, his thumb rubbing against the curve of my palm.

  I shiver and his eyes drift to me, dark and hungry.

  Hungry.

  "What do you want to eat?" I ask, my voice a tiny bit breathless.

  He smirks and then pushes the menu aside as our waitress approaches.

  She puts a huge milkshake down in front of us, and steps back. Peter flashes a smile, and says, casually, "We'd like a double stack of chocolate chip pancakes with some whipped cream. A slice of your cherry pie. A piece of your Dutch chocolate cake. Two sides of bacon and hash browns, and some scrambled eggs with cheese."

  The waitress' face blanks, and I choke my laugh down.

  When she retreats, I giggle. "You’re insane, aren't you?"

  "What?" he asks, his voice teasing.

  "Breakfast and desert?"

  "Pixie girl, it's the only way to start the morning."

  We talk about everything and nothing—classes and the weather, rowing and the merits of chocolate in liquid form. He's animated and relaxed and never quite lets go of me—even when he's eating, he's touching me, a foot hooked around my ankle, a hand on my thigh. It drives me a little crazy, but there is no way in hell I'd tell him to back off.

  I like him touching me. It feels right. The tension and unbalanced feeling I've been fighting has faded. I haven't felt this light in so long I can't remember.

  "Are you going to run away from me?" he asks, startling me. His eyes are focused on the plate of half eaten chocolate.

  "What?"

  His gaze flicks up. "You spent the past two months avoiding me and denying anything is possible between us. And now, after a bad dinner with your aunt, you’re here. Are you going to bolt after you've thought about us some?"

  "Is there an us?" I ask, my voice thin.

  "Yes," he hisses, his voice so vehement I shudder. There is so much in his voice that I can't deal with. But there is absolutely no doubt about what he wants.

  Me.

  I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. "I don't know what we're doing, Peter," I whisper. He starts to say something, and I push on, "But I want to give it a shot. I don't know what I'm doing—I don't have a lot of experience with this. I can't tell you I won't spook and be difficult. To be super honest, I probably will. But I'm tired of pushing you away."

  His lips twitch into a smile, and he nods. “I can deal with difficult, if you don’t push me away.”

  Chapter 12

  I head back to my dorm after our breakfast. I think Peter knows I’m freaking out a little, because he doesn’t say anything about my retreat. But I do have to meet my brother and Aunt J. As much as I don’t want to deal with them and their demands, I know they care and I know ignoring the situation won’t actually resolve it.

  Grayson was never good at teaching avoidance as a coping mechanism, much to my annoyance.

  “Gwen Barrie!”

  I freeze. My damn dorm hall is still far enough away that I can’t pretend I didn’t hear him. I make a face and twist to Lane. He’s jogging up to me, his eyes bright and his face a little flushed. He’s still in workout clothes.

  “Did you have an early practice?” I ask, nodding at him.

  He glances down, and his cheeks color. “Yeah. Sorry, I look like shit.”

  “Its fine, Lane,” I say. “I’m actually on my way to get ready to meet my aunt.”

  His gaze slides over me, taking in the slightly wrinkled sweater and pants from the day before. His gaze narrows a little. “Where you coming from?”

  Well. That sure as hell didn’t take long. I shift a little and take a deep breath. I force my gaze up to meet his and say, calmly, "I had breakfast with Peter."

  His eyebrows shoot up, and I see anger in his gaze before he shuts it down. "The stalker? Why?"

  I frown. "He isn't a stalker."

  "Gwen. I can't see you without catching sight of him lurking behind you. You've told him to fuck off and he won't. That's pretty much the definition of a stalker," Lane says.

  "I don't have time for this," I mutter, turning back to the dorm. He falls in next to me, his fingers brushing against my hand before I jerk away.

  Wrong.

  "I can't hold your hand, Gwen?" he asks, his voice thick with disbelief.

  I shrug and flash a smile. "I'm just not in the mood. I'm late."

  "To meet Peter?"

  Even a deaf person would hear the venom in his tone. I stop abruptly. "No, Lane. To meet my Aunt and brother. And Grayson—not that it would matter if I was going to see Peter. That's my choice."

  He stares at me, and I can't see the laughing, carefree boy I've spent so much time with recently. No. This man is furious and dangerous—an instinct tells me to get the hell away from him. I don't owe him a damn thing, and explaining myself to him is dangerous when he's this furious.

  "You know, it does matter. I don't want my girlfriend around that psycho."

  He's not getting it, what I'm trying to say.

  So I spell it out.

  "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not your girlfriend."

  His eyes go wide, and my stomach drops. I don't want to do this. I didn't want to from the start. I shake my head and sigh. "Look, I'm sorry."

  "That fucking fast. Did you sleep with him last night? You spent the night with him, right?"

  I flush, and he shakes his head, a disgusted twist to his lips. "He's not safe for you."

  "But you aren't right for me," I whisper.

  He goes still, and I want to run from this stupid conversation, I want to hide from the world in the comfort of my room. Instead, I force myself to continue. "Yo
u're a good guy, Lane. I really like you. And I don't like anyone. But you were good to me, and you treated me like I was normal. I needed that. I appreciate what you did—taking a chance on a girl you didn't know. But I'm not what you think I am. I'm crazy and unpredictable, and I have the bad habit of going off the deep end without warning. You don't want the baggage that comes with being involved with me."

  "Isn't that my choice to make?"

  I make a face. "No. They say shit like that in the movies, and in a perfect world, it might be. But this isn't a movie and it isn't a perfect world. In this reality? I know what I need and what I want, and I have to do what's best for me, even if sucks for you. I know it’s not fair and it's ten different kinds of wrong. I'm sorry."

  He stares at me, his eyes wide and disbelieving. I could keep trying to explain it, but it's not going to do anything. So I turn away from him and finally, finally slip into my dorm room.

  Aunt J is sitting alone in the lobby of her hotel. I hesitate, not sure I really want to deal with my aunt in a one-on-one situation, but her head tilts toward me and her lips twitch into a challenging smile. I sigh a little and make my way over to her, dropping into the chair across from her.

  "Did you send Grayson back to the city?" I ask. It’s the question that is most pressing and demanding of an answer.

  "No," she says, "you would be completely unreasonable if I did."

  I lean back in my chair and study my aunt. She was too young, when Daddy died, to inherit two teenagers. She's still too young.

  Especially when one of us is as challenging as I am.

  "Do you think Micah would have been ok, if I had died with Daddy and Mama?" I ask abruptly.

  Aunt J shrugs. "Micah was a good kid—and he's turned into a flawless young man. But no. Losing your parents shattered him—it was your fragility that kept him together. If he hadn't had you? I think he'd have been a mess. He would have spiraled completely out of control if he had been left alone.

  "You've thought about this," I say, startled.