Shredded - Wolff Tracy - Страница 15

I start to look away—the last thing his ego needs is for me to watch him like I’m spellbound—but I can’t. There’s something in his face, in his eyes, that keeps my gaze locked to his. It’s familiar, like I’ve seen it a million times before, and at first I think it must be the charmer in him. All smooth and smiling and I-know-you-want-me.

Remi was like that, and I figure that must be it, that there must be something of my old boyfriend in him. Except … except then he blinks, and the mask I didn’t even know he wore starts to slide back into place. Then I realize it wasn’t Remi that look reminded me of. It’s myself. It’s what I see every morning when I look in the mirror before I put my makeup on. Before I put my mask on and try to convince the world—and myself—that I really am okay.

This time when I tremble it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the knowledge that deep inside, Z is as shredded as I am. The charm and cockiness aren’t just products of being too hot and too talented. They’re camouflage for something else. Something dark and dangerous and desperate.

Part of me wonders what it is, while the other part just wants to let it be. Let him be.

Still, my hand comes up of its own volition, presses against the ice-cold window. Z doesn’t see it, thank God. He’s already turning away, taking the long way around the SUV to the driver’s door. When he finally climbs in, that look of vulnerability is long gone. In its place is the Z I’m coming to know and tolerate, all oozing sexuality and wise-ass comments. Surreptitiously, I tuck my hand back into my lap.

I should be relieved he’s back to normal. After all, this Z is so much easier to deal with. So much easier to dump a drink on and just forget about.

Or at least he should be.

Except as he drives, his strong, long-fingered hands expertly handling the SUV on the icy roads, I can’t help but remember that moment in the ice cream parlor when I realized something was wrong.

Or those few minutes in the park when he teamed up with me, working so hard to protect me when it would have been much easier for him to have just left me behind.

Or how he stopped when he saw me at the bus stop and all but forced me into his car.

He could have left me. Could have driven right by and pretended not to see me. I never would have known. No one would have. But he didn’t. He stopped for me. Insisted that I get in the car. And now he’s going out of his way to make sure that I get home safely.

Again, I’m reminded of Remi. Only this time, the reminder is an empty, aching wound inside me, one that strips me raw and leaves me bleeding. Collateral damage to the wreck that was his life for far too long.

We’re silent for most of the drive, which is good and bad. I could use my sparring partner back. Right now I’d love something—someone—to sharpen my claws on. But as Z oh so graciously pointed out, my retorts aren’t exactly up to snuff at the moment. I guess that happens when it feels like your whole life is about to implode for a second time.

An old Nirvana song comes on the radio, “All Apologies,” and Z reaches over, starts to turn it off.

“No.” I put a hand on his arm, stop him. “Don’t.”

His face is grim as he glances up at me. “You like this song?”

“Yeah.”

He nods, swallows, then sits back as Kurt Cobain’s rough, emotion-filled voice fills the car.

It’s not true. I don’t like this song. I used to, a long time ago. I used to listen to it again and again and again, just to hear the subtle shifts and nuances in Cobain’s voice. But now … now I listen to it for an entirely different reason. I listen to it because it hurts. I listen to it because I hate it. I listen to it because, in my twisted, warped mind, it’s a penance I have to pay, a debt I’ll never get on the other side of.

Everything is my fault. I close my eyes for a moment, listen to Cobain sing about blame, sing about shame. Tears press behind my eyes, but I will them away. Crying is for pussies, for wimps, and I can’t afford to be one of them. Besides, tears don’t change anything. If they did … if they did, I really would cry a river. Maybe even an ocean or two.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, hoping Z is so caught up in driving the winding roads up to the lodge that he doesn’t notice my little meltdown. But a quick glance at him as we pass under a streetlamp shows his jaw clenched tight enough to break teeth and his hands locked in a death grip on the steering wheel.

His stiff thumb taps out the melody and his left leg bounces, not to the slow, melodious beat, but to something else. Something in his head that only he can hear.

I snap my arm out, turn off the radio with one emphatic push. It’s one thing to torture myself, but to torture Z, too—or to watch him torture himself—is another thing altogether.

“Changed your mind?” he asks, shooting me a surprised glance.

“Yeah. Nirvana’s fine in New Orleans, where it’s warm and sunny most of the time. But here, where it’s dank and gray and cold, they are way too fucking depressing.”

He laughs, as I mean him to, and we’re close enough that I can sense the subtle relaxing of his muscles, though it takes a minute. Good. I wouldn’t wish what I feel on anyone.

“So,” I say a little while later as the silence stretches taut as a violin string between us. “What idiot stunt were you trying that landed you in the clinic’s urgent care today?”

“What makes you think I was doing something idiotic?”

“I’m sorry, have you met yourself?”

He chuffs out a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know exactly what it means. From what I understand, snowboarders are total adrenaline junkies to begin with. And you, you’re the worst of the bunch. Everybody says so.”

“Do they?”

“They do.”

“And how would you know? Have you been asking about me?”

“What? No way!”

“Uh-huh.” He grins. “I think the lady doth protest too much.”

“The lady doth not protest at all. And cut the cheesy Shakespeare quotes. Just because my mom’s a moron who named me Ophelia—”

“I like your name. It suits you.”

“Seriously?” I stare at him incredulously. “Telling me that the name of one of Shakespeare’s most abused, craziest characters suits me is so not the way to get into my pants.”

“There you go again, thinking everything’s about sex.”

“And there you go again, pretending it isn’t.”

“No offense, Ophelia, but you seem awfully obsessed with the idea that I want to bed you.”

“Bed me?” I scoff. “Are we actually in the fifteen hundreds?”

“Would you prefer I say I want to fuck you?”

His words slam into me with the force of a wrecking ball, and suddenly I’m hot. Really hot, despite the chill in the air and the frost creeping around the edges of the windshield. It’s been so long since I’ve been with someone, so long since I’ve been held and touched and kissed. It’s why I lost it at the park earlier, when I was on top of him, and why I’m close to losing it again right now.

For a minute I can all but picture it. Z’s mouth on my skin, his hands on my thighs, his body pressed against mine. His indigo eyes staring into mine as he slides slowly into me.

I shift in my seat, try to control breathing that has suddenly gone shallow and disjointed. Because I can’t not do it, I glance at Z out of the corner of my eye. I can tell by the look on his face and the tension in his body—so different from the stiffness of earlier—that he’s noticed my reaction. Shit.

I wait for him to say something, to press his advantage. But he doesn’t. Instead he clears his throat and says, “I was trying out an inverted 1440.” His voice is huskier than it was, thicker, which only makes me hotter. As does the knowledge that he’s trying to bring the temperature in here back down to normal by circling the subject back around to snowboarding.