Licks Page 3

  That didn’t keep me from soaking her in.

  Even from my distance, I could tell her arms were defined in her slim tank top, suggesting she worked out a lot. She’d always been athletic, but this was a body honed through years of exercise, work. Her hair skimmed her shoulders, shorter than I’d ever seen it, her face a bit more angular. She still exuded casual style. Effortless. Unpretentious. Drop-dead beautiful.

  Swallowing became an effort.

  As did hiding the desire one look from her inspired. It echoed through me, the vibrations like reverb blasting from my guitar. It wasn’t cool. I replayed how catching my brother in his boxers had sickened me, that smug grin on his face. How often I’d pictured him and Gwen in bed together, unable to stop. My lips compressed and my nostrils flared.

  That was better. That was how I was supposed to feel.

  Angry. Resentful.

  Gwen sat on the bleachers, gaze locked on me, piles of unaired dirty laundry between us. If I had to write a song for the haunted anguish in her eyes, I’d title it: “Shame’s Window.”

  Gwen

  My two best friends were trying to talk to me—Ainsley snapping her fingers in front of my face and checking for vitals, while Rachel asked what was wrong. I couldn’t focus on anything but the man talking to Owen and Jimmy.

  And I did mean man.

  August hadn’t noticed me yet, thank God, the small mercy allowing me to study him. Unlike the boy I’d grown up with, this August had shoulders a swimmer would covet and a jaw that could cut diamonds. The cords on his neck stood out. His thighs and calves belonged on a Greek statue. Glasses no longer shielded his hazel eyes, but I wasn’t close enough to test if the gold flecks in those stunners still reduced me to a soppy mess.

  That didn’t keep my body temperature from spiking to lava levels. Even more alarming was that he seemed to know Owen and Jimmy, the three men slapping backs and talking like old friends.

  Considering Rachel and Ainsley were the better halves of those two hunks, this could be world-ending bad.

  Rachel leaned forward and stared at my catatonic face. “Do we need to call a doctor?”

  “It’s him,” was all I managed.

  Ainsley, the always stylish fashionista, crossed her legs and smoothed her floral dress. “Him who?”

  “August,” I said.

  The sound of my friends sucking in shocked breaths should have been amusing, but amusement was no longer in my emotion arsenal. They knew August had been my first love, but the details of why we’d never hooked up had remained in my high-security vault. A Mission Impossible, booby-trapped vault.

  I should come clean and finally confess what I’d done, explain how I’d lost August for good, ruining his relationship with his brother in the process, but the words blockaded my throat.

  The girls were the closest thing I had to family, to sisters. They knew how estranged I’d been from my mother before cancer took her last month. They’d listened to me speculate endlessly about who my father might be, while cursing my mother for keeping the information secret. They were the most important people in my life. The idea of them learning my Worst Terrible Fuck-up gutted me.

  Ainsley ogled the love of my life. “Was he that hot when you knew him?”

  “He’s filled out,” I murmured.

  August’s back was to me now—a well-built, muscular back—but he glanced over his shoulder as though sensing me. His eyes widened in recognition, and that lava in my veins steamed and bubbled. When a shadow eclipsed his features and his body stiffened, that molten liquid hardened into ice.

  “I need to go.” Barely glancing at the girls, I rushed away from the soccer field, worried I’d puke on the grass or start bawling. I never cried. Ever. Not even at my mother’s funeral. And I hadn’t thrown up since my first CrossFit workout and the one hundred pull-ups that had bested me.

  Yet, here I was, ready to puke or bawl.

  Nine years should be long enough to get over my Worst Terrible Fuck-up (aka my WTF night, an appropriate acronym), but some guilt-ridden disasters were eternal.

  Hence my nausea. And my stinging eyes.

  I should have contacted August after what I’d done, offered some sort of explanation. I’d dialed his number so often the digits had practically been imprinted on my fingers. I’d even practiced what I’d say, every night, every morning, repeating my apology on a loop: I slept with your brother because I loved you and the idea of never having you had destroyed me. But shame had kept the words inside. Disgust with myself. Then too much time had passed.

  Nine years, to be precise.

  Nine years of remorseful silence.

  Now he was in town.

  August was supposed to be on tour, not that I’d memorized his tour schedule. I didn’t know every word to every one of his songs, either. I didn’t own two T-shirts with his face plastered on them or have a poster of him pasted inside my closet door like a lovesick teenager. Nope.

  I barely knew August Cruz existed.

  Chewing my cheek raw, I drove to my mother’s as I’d planned. Seeing August wouldn’t derail my day, my week, my life. Definitely not. Nothing had changed, including how I’d torn out his heart. If the songs on his first album were any indication, he probably owned a Gwen voodoo doll he disemboweled daily. The titles sure were cheery:

  “The Destroyer.”

  “Love is Hate.”

  “Dressed in Lies.”

  “I Don’t Need You.”

  “Torching History.”

  My personal favorite: “Girl with the Black Heart.”

  Those stabby lyrics had punctured my heart on repeat. They affected me to this day. God, I was pathetic, unable to let that idiotic night go.

  I parked and marched toward my mother’s home, but couldn’t keep from glancing at the neighbor’s bungalow. That particular habit was as grating as my workout playlist filled with August’s songs. His family no longer lived there, but I always paused next to the lemon-yellow house. The current owners didn’t tend their lawn, dandelions ruling most of the grass. August wasn’t there to tame it. To tame me. To sneak into my room and sing me to sleep.

  If I didn’t stop obsessing, I’d have to lobotomize myself.

  I forced myself inside and exhaled. Silence. Blessed, blessed, silence. It enveloped me, calmed the uglies nicking at my dark places. A normal woman would be bereft in here, sad to see the quilt draped over the reclining chair that hadn’t reclined in months, the unused cherry dining table, the lack of pictures on the taupe walls. But my tear ducts were as empty as the vacant bungalow.

  And empty was A-okay.

  I mentally stuffed thoughts of August into a dynamite stick, blew it to smithereens, then stomped up my mother’s stairs.

  Boxes lined the hallway, most rooms bare but for the larger items to be appraised. All was neatly sorted, tagged, stacked. Forty-five years of Mary Hamilton eating Raisin Bran, working as a receptionist, watching Murder She Wrote reruns, while either ignoring me or criticizing my clothes or grades or music, all tucked inside brown cardboard.

  Life reduced to bundled boxes.

  It was a reminder living was more important than collecting. The organization of it had fed my recent restlessness.

  Her bedroom was a different story.

  Where the office, bathroom, and guest room were stripped bare and catalogued, these beige walls barely contained a tsunami of disorder. I’d upturned every dresser drawer, had flipped her mattress. I’d searched her books for hidden compartments, had even cut away sections of her taupe rug, sure she’d hidden some piece of her past before she’d died.

  A memento. A diary. Any clue to who my father was.

  No such luck.

  But if I lost my adoption agency gig, I could photograph the wreckage and place a Craigslist ad: Goon for Hire.

  My exhaustive search had been fruitless. I’d all but given up. Today was supposed to be about stemming this damage, packing it away, cleaning up. But I’d promised myself I’d find my fath
er this year. Before my birthday.

  Before tomorrow.

  I stared blankly ahead until a vague pounding registered. The sound grew in decibel and frequency. I was so zoned out, it took a stupid amount of time to realize someone was at my front door. I dodged the upstairs boxes, side-to-side, like I was racing through an obstacle course, hurried down the stairs, and yanked open the door.

  “There’s something going on with you, and I’m not leaving until you tell me what.” Rachel, with her freckled skin, big brown eyes, and J.Crew ensemble, attempted severity by crossing her arms. Bambi would have better luck moonlighting as Godzilla.

  I matched her wide stance. “Look at you, being all bossy.”

  “I’m going for no-nonsense.”

  “Try harder next time.”

  Her attention dragged to the house next door. She studied it as though it might instantaneously combust. Exactly how I felt. I wasn’t sure if Rachel’s bad cop routine was hurting or helping. “Come on in, Sherlock.”

  She followed me into the living room and surveyed the organized mess. “Wow. Looks like you’re almost done.”

  “Just my mother’s room left.” Which I wasn’t about to show her. “I’d offer you a seat, but it might get dicey.” We eyed the boxes barricading the couch and dining chairs.

  She dropped her purse, plopped herself on the hardwood floor, and patted the space in front of her. “This will do fine.”

  I remained standing. “What if I’m not ready to open the vault?”

  She straightened her posture. “Then I’ll chain myself to the sofa and stage a sit-in until you crack.”

  “You’ll miss Jimmy.”

  “He’ll visit.”

  “I won’t provide wine.”

  “I’m due for a detox.”

  I glared at her, and she smiled back. The woman was battle ready.

  Normally I hated to lose, even in a battle of wills. With no siblings growing up, a “no electronics in your room” rule, an early curfew, and a mother who had vacillated between depressed and antagonistic, I’d kept busy by competing against myself.

  I’d play solitaire on my bedroom floor, over and over, refusing to sleep until I’d win a round. When August would smoke me in backgammon, I’d throw a temper tantrum and force him into another game. I’d run sprints at ungodly morning hours, determined to make my high school track team and win our meets. Blisters had been my badge of honor.

  These days I was relentless in CrossFit, bettering my endurance, my strength, my speed, all to beat myself.

  I could shore up my defenses now, win this battle of stubbornness against Rachel, and keep the details of my WTF in my secured vault, but the shock of seeing August this morning had weakened my stronghold. Maybe caving to Rachel would help me rebuild it.

  “Thing is,” I said, settling in cross-legged, facing her, “I kind of fucked up in college.”

  She gathered my hands in hers. “Tell Auntie Rachel everything.”

  Her already large eyes widened as I admitted my shame: pushing August away our last year of high school, the birthday texts, telling him I’d been jealous of him and his girlfriend, the “promise ring” misunderstanding, sleeping with his brother. Him walking in afterward.

  “You should have seen his face,” I went on, my voice thinning under the weight of that awful memory. “He looked at me like I’d murdered his family. I mean, disgust doesn’t even begin to cover it. Then August and Finch got into it, shoving and yelling. Saying crazy stuff about me, like August and Finch had had an agreement about me or something. I don’t know. It all happened so fast and I was in shock. But the part where August broke Finch’s nose with a right hook and told me I was dead to him is crystal clear.”

  The confession tasted as sour as it sounded, and that burning returned to my eyes. I bit my tongue to steady my emotions.

  Rachel didn’t release my trembling hands. She squeezed them tighter. “Did you talk with him after that night? Apologize and explain things?”

  I shook my head. More shame swamped me.

  “No wonder you’re upset. First your mother, then seeing him—any rational person would run for cover.”

  “This has nothing to do with my mother,” I said quickly. “I told you, I’m not sad about her.” This worsening emptiness couldn’t be because of Mary Hamilton. You couldn’t mourn someone you didn’t love, or even like.

  Rachel pursed her lips as though she didn’t believe me. An understandable reaction. When she’d lost her father years back, the tragedy had gutted her. It still did. But he had never treated her like she was a mosquito he couldn’t shake. An irritation. A problem to squash.

  My mother couldn’t glance at me without curling her lip. She’d refused to tell me who my father was. She’d hated the man, that much had been clear, and I’d obviously been a reminder of him. She’d been estranged from her parents, too, robbing me of grandparents—although those two subscribed to a special brand of wacky. She hadn’t even spoken to her sister in over a decade. Mary Hamilton wasn’t built to foster relationships.

  No. I hadn’t mourned my mother’s passing. Right or wrong, good or bad, relief had come with that eventuality. Except it meant I’d never discover my father’s identity.

  I’d also lose the challenge I’d set for myself last year.

  Three hundred and sixty-four days ago, I’d sat in a bar with Ainsley and Rachel, and the three of us had agreed to make life-altering wishes. Resolutions to change our lives by our next shared birthday.

  Meeting the girls the night we’d all turned twenty-one had been my saving grace, the three of us coincidentally wasted in the same bar seven years ago. After my WTF, April 12th had become a black hole of a day. Since meeting the girls, it had turned from an approaching death sentence to a celebration.

  Every year we drank and laughed and had fun, but last year had been more meaningful, the wish to learn my father’s identity a huge one for me. I was sure I’d make it happen.

  Then my mother died.

  “No,” I said again, more vehemently, “I’m not sad she’s gone. I’m pissed at her for screwing me up, but not sad.”

  “You’re not screwed up. You’re the strongest person I know.” She released my hands and squeezed my bicep teasingly. “And the craziest, but in a good way.”

  “Jumping out of airplanes isn’t crazy.”

  “It’s certifiable. As is rock climbing without a rope. And bungee jumping. And surfing insane waves.”

  She had a point. But after my WTF night and hitting the Grand Canyon of rock bottoms, I’d vowed to stop living my life afraid. Scare myself. Make life my bitch. Those had become my mottos. Aside from being stupid good fun, adrenaline was the only outlet that drowned the unpleasant voices in my head. Which meant I should have marched over to August Cruz earlier and apologized. That would have shot my heart rate through the roof.

  If I’d finally confessed the extent of my feelings toward him nine years ago, my heart would probably have burst through my chest.

  Texting back then that I’d been jealous of Kayla hadn’t been the same as saying I loved you so much in high school it hurt to breathe. I wasn’t about to lay that crushing truth at his feet now, not when one look at him stirred those dormant feelings to life. He did, however, deserve a grovel fest complete with bended knee.

  Yet I’d run away.

  I picked at my stubby nails. “Maybe I should drive back. Drag August out of the game and beg his forgiveness.”

  “Might be awkward timing,” she said drily.

  “Is there good timing for this sort of thing?”

  “I’d go for something less public.”

  I dropped my head forward. After dealing with my mother’s illness and death, I figured I was due for some good karma. I’d considered dating again, hoped my luck would turn around and I’d meet a non-asshole. Instead, August Cruz had been thrust back into my life. The opposite of an asshole, but he’d never see me as anything but a traitor.

  This wasn’t ho
w I’d expected my twenty-seventh year to end. Not by a landslide. Especially after how it had started. “Ainsley told me you guys fulfilled your birthday wishes this year,” I said. “Which I’m thrilled about—you both seem so happy. But I was stupid enough to wish for the impossible.”

  “To meet your dad?” Compassion filled her voice.

  I nodded, touched she knew me well enough to figure it out. We’d written our wishes down last year, hadn’t shared them aloud. We’d needed accountability, assurance we’d work toward our goals. Then I’d tucked the folded papers in my purse to be opened at our next birthday, which was tomorrow.

  “Not fulfilling mine’s been eating at me,” I said. “Worse with tomorrow’s deadline—which I know is silly. There’s no timeline on something like this. But I thought setting the date would make it happen, that I’d at least learn my father’s name. So I think that’s messing with my mind, and seeing August didn’t help. He used to help with reconnaissance work, childish investigative stuff with the two of us sleuthing to find my dad. It all just kinda sucks.”

  She tucked my hair behind my ear. “It sucks big fat donkey cock.”

  I snorted at her uncharacteristic dirty humor. “Way to channel your inner Ainsley.” A girl who got her rocks off embarrassing others with inappropriate jokes.

  “Anything to make you smile.” A job well done. Her tone sobered. “I’m glad you told me what happened with August. I get it if you want some alone time to wallow, but Jimmy and I are meeting Ainsley and Owen for early drinks tonight, before we head to different events we have. A little ‘day before birthday’ celebration. You should—”

  Knocking cut her off, another intruder. So much for my blessed silence.

  Groaning, I pushed to my feet and headed for the door. If someone was selling Girl Scout Cookies, I’d buy the whole lot and drown my stress in cookie goodness. But it wasn’t a Girl Scout. It was a sweaty August.