once-over, and the look on his face mixed with the fuck-if-I-care attitude emanating off of him … I was lost to lust and not long after falling in love.
We were a predictable disaster: a mixture of spontaneity, recklessness, and youthful, carefree nature. The problem is, with Dante love was never easy. Our relationship came with tempers, constant unpredictability, and the attitude that attracted me eventually turned me off when the fuck-if-I-care was directed my way. He sabotaged us with his disregard for every staple that is needed for a successful relationship. And yet I loved him despite the emotional chaos he unleashed in my heart.
But love isn’t always enough. Especially when the one you love up and leaves without another word and disappears for months.
Hell yes, I loved Dante, but he taught me that when it comes to men, there are only three moods to be had: fuck you, fuck off, and fuck me. Thank goodness the
fuck me
part was pretty damn good or else the positive memories would be few and far between.
Fuck Dante.
Fuck Beckett.
I snort out a laugh because that’s exactly the problem—my body wants to do just that. And now, of course, I’m thinking of fucking, so my mind can’t help but wander to Becks and his adept demonstration last night. I adjust my hips as a sweet ache settles there at the memory of his hands on me, mouth on mine, cock buried in me. And the way he looked at me while waking up, the iota of hurt in his voice earlier on the phone.
I groan and throw an arm over my eyes as I try to block out the image of him, tan skin against white sheets, hardmuscle against soft bedding. It’s useless. I don’t want any strings. None. So why the hell do I feel like he’s already woven them through my thoughts, binding us together somehow?
He’s a keeper. No doubt there. Too bad I’m looking for the disposable version. A Mr. Right Now. But the man won’t leave my mind. I lick my lips, taste Dante there but find myself wishing it was Becks.
This is so not fucking cool. My head had better start giving my body a damn road map and directions on how to get to the same place, and that place is nowhere connected to Beckett Daniels.
My onetime lap around the track with Becks is over.
Fuck.
Time to grab the wheel with both hands again and get control.
Chapter 7
I pushed myself too damn hard this morning. Ran too far at too accelerated a pace, and now my muscles are screaming with fatigue. But I was able to run out the emotion, put it at bay so that I can get through the initial sucker punch to the gut when I walk into the house.
The California sun is warm, beating through my windshield as I shift my sore muscles and stand from the car. I look down the street for a moment, take in the trees lining it and the dogs barking. The sounds of moms calling to their children and life being lived. I try to focus on that, try to block out the thoughts of elevated white blood cell counts and tumor markers. I force myself to remember Lex so brave and strong, saying, “Fuck cancer.” Her fighting like hell to beat, then to prolong, then to steal a few more moments, a few more breaths.
My fingers grip tightly to the top of the car door. Tears burn my eyes, and memories flicker to the unwelcome thoughts I wish I didn’t have. Ones I wish no one would ever have. Ragged gasps and morphine drips. Hushed promises and silent pleas for more time, for less pain. For a miracle.
The memories are still so raw, her touch still so tangibleafter just six months but so vague at the same time. Holding her hand, watching her slip away, telling her I loved her, promising her Maddie will grow up with her spirit a constant reminder. That it would be my mission in life for her daughter to know her, remember her, live a full life for her. Saying good-bye to her one final time as peace settled over her.
I suck in a deep breath, drowning in the grief when I should be dealing with it, moving on. But every time I come here, it hits me with
We were a predictable disaster: a mixture of spontaneity, recklessness, and youthful, carefree nature. The problem is, with Dante love was never easy. Our relationship came with tempers, constant unpredictability, and the attitude that attracted me eventually turned me off when the fuck-if-I-care was directed my way. He sabotaged us with his disregard for every staple that is needed for a successful relationship. And yet I loved him despite the emotional chaos he unleashed in my heart.
But love isn’t always enough. Especially when the one you love up and leaves without another word and disappears for months.
Hell yes, I loved Dante, but he taught me that when it comes to men, there are only three moods to be had: fuck you, fuck off, and fuck me. Thank goodness the
fuck me
part was pretty damn good or else the positive memories would be few and far between.
Fuck Dante.
Fuck Beckett.
I snort out a laugh because that’s exactly the problem—my body wants to do just that. And now, of course, I’m thinking of fucking, so my mind can’t help but wander to Becks and his adept demonstration last night. I adjust my hips as a sweet ache settles there at the memory of his hands on me, mouth on mine, cock buried in me. And the way he looked at me while waking up, the iota of hurt in his voice earlier on the phone.
I groan and throw an arm over my eyes as I try to block out the image of him, tan skin against white sheets, hardmuscle against soft bedding. It’s useless. I don’t want any strings. None. So why the hell do I feel like he’s already woven them through my thoughts, binding us together somehow?
He’s a keeper. No doubt there. Too bad I’m looking for the disposable version. A Mr. Right Now. But the man won’t leave my mind. I lick my lips, taste Dante there but find myself wishing it was Becks.
This is so not fucking cool. My head had better start giving my body a damn road map and directions on how to get to the same place, and that place is nowhere connected to Beckett Daniels.
My onetime lap around the track with Becks is over.
Fuck.
Time to grab the wheel with both hands again and get control.
Chapter 7
I pushed myself too damn hard this morning. Ran too far at too accelerated a pace, and now my muscles are screaming with fatigue. But I was able to run out the emotion, put it at bay so that I can get through the initial sucker punch to the gut when I walk into the house.
The California sun is warm, beating through my windshield as I shift my sore muscles and stand from the car. I look down the street for a moment, take in the trees lining it and the dogs barking. The sounds of moms calling to their children and life being lived. I try to focus on that, try to block out the thoughts of elevated white blood cell counts and tumor markers. I force myself to remember Lex so brave and strong, saying, “Fuck cancer.” Her fighting like hell to beat, then to prolong, then to steal a few more moments, a few more breaths.
My fingers grip tightly to the top of the car door. Tears burn my eyes, and memories flicker to the unwelcome thoughts I wish I didn’t have. Ones I wish no one would ever have. Ragged gasps and morphine drips. Hushed promises and silent pleas for more time, for less pain. For a miracle.
The memories are still so raw, her touch still so tangibleafter just six months but so vague at the same time. Holding her hand, watching her slip away, telling her I loved her, promising her Maddie will grow up with her spirit a constant reminder. That it would be my mission in life for her daughter to know her, remember her, live a full life for her. Saying good-bye to her one final time as peace settled over her.
I suck in a deep breath, drowning in the grief when I should be dealing with it, moving on. But every time I come here, it hits me with
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