Only when its us, p.10
Only When It's Us, page 10
Her hair was combed out and wild. Thick, wavy tendrils coiled around each other that fell down her shoulders, faint wisps teasing along all that cleavage.
I can’t figure out what prompted her to do it, what could possibly make her dress herself up like that. That’s not Willa, not the Willa I know. Even though I was confused by her behavior, even though I missed those oversized sweatpants and her frizzy bun, I had a hard time not responding to the seductive appearance of her body, and she damn well knew it.
I might have come back with a vengeance the next time I was at her place. At first, when she was fretting over that soup, I had the irrational need to soothe her, to tell her I didn’t give a shit if dinner was a little scorched. But I resisted and stuck to my plan. I cornered her, leaned in, touched her until she was a lusty mess in my arms. I wasn’t planning on kissing her, not really. I planned to get so close, so very close, until our lips almost met—
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my thoughts. I drop the loaded-up barbell I’m lifting in our makeshift basement gym in the house, and swipe it open.
It’s a video from Becks. It’s hard to see at first, so I tilt it to avoid glare and increase my screen brightness. Dark shadows, strobe lights. It’s obviously a club, which isn’t surprising. That’s where Becks lives most nights. Two women dance, writhing against each other. One’s tall, legs for miles, a sheet of blonde hair drifting down her back. The other’s shorter, more compact, light striking the defined muscles of her thighs that trail down to strong calves and sky-high black stilettos. She wears a short red dress. Jesus, is that even a dress? Her hair’s wild, misbehaved curls, caramel brown under the lights.
Wait.
Before I can text him, Becks sends another message. Isn’t that Willa? She’s wrecked, man.
I swear mentally, sprint up the steps and take the fastest shower of my life. Where are you? I text him while I hop into jeans, madly running a hand through my wet hair.
He answers immediately, Club Folle.
Shit. That’s a nice one. I take a quick look at my beard and try to comb it a little. I should probably trim the thing at some point. No time now. Scrounging around in the closet, I find a wrinkle-free button-up and throw it on. Keys, phone, wallet, then I’m in the Explorer, flying down the 405 for Culver City. It’s not far but it feels eternal, driving to find her.
Willa hasn’t been herself the past few weeks, and I’m worried. I know she’s under a lot of pressure with grades and the team. I certainly don’t make her life easier. Working with her on our project, though, I’ve tried to lighten up, to present my issues with gentler language. I served her cookies and tea. I finally gave her the entire semester’s notes. I’ve tried not to be an absolute dick. I know I can be a bit rough around the edges, and I can see Willa has a lot on her plate. Besides the weirdly seductive, sabotaging one-upmanship we’ve been dabbling in the past two weeks, I’ve tried to be decent to her.
Was the whoopie cushion taking it too far? I mean, I owed her. She made me look like a horndog fool with those notecards, scrambling my brain with sensual touches so I couldn’t even recall the inventory shrinkage formula. No part of me was shrinking when she pulled that stunt.
And in retaliation, I embarrassed her in front of like…four hundred people.
Maybe not a reasonable response.
Before I can think about it any further, I pull up to the club, tossing the valet my keys, and jogging to the entrance. I’m waved in because this is Becks’s kingdom and if you’re in with Becks, you’re in at Club Folle.
Places like this are my worst nightmare. Immediately, sound smacks my ears and what’s normally a persistent tinny ring ratchets up to excruciatingly loud steel drums. I squint, trying to minimize the overwhelming impact of the strobe lights as I slip through the crowd. Thankfully, it’s easy to see. I’m taller than virtually everybody else.
I spot Rooney first, doing the kinds of moves my mom would ground my sisters for even trying. When she spins, there’s Willa, and now Rooney’s dancing looks like a Puritan shuffle by comparison.
Willa’s ass swings in mesmerizing circles, her powerful quads sustaining her body as she grinds to the floor, then she snaps up. Her hands are in the air, revealing defined shoulders and a peek of cleavage not dissimilar from the morning of the yellow shirt that shall live in infamy.
A loud sigh leaves me, swallowed up in the sounds of the club.
Rooney spins, then freezes as her eyes start at my feet and trail appreciatively up my body. When her gaze settles on my face and she recognizes me, her features shift from interest to wide-eyed fear.
“Oh shit.” She says it emphatically, with a bright blue strobe light shining on her face, otherwise, I’d have no idea what she just said.
Willa’s oblivious, bouncing her butt against Rooney’s thigh, making Rooney bounce in rhythm with Willa’s movement. Rooney stares at me in horror as she sways. I step around her and crouch until Willa and I are eye level.
Willa’s eyes are shut, her plump bottom lip pinned between her teeth. Sweat beads her neck and chest. Rooney manages to bump her enough that Willa opens her eyes and immediately locks them with mine. They narrow coyly as she checks me out. As realization dawns, they widen, and she stands up. “Ryder!”
Standing turns to swaying. Before Willa can fall and concuss herself, I sweep her into my arms, carrying her toward the back exit I pegged the moment I entered. Shoving open the door, I set her down carefully in the night air, and press her up against the brick wall. Bracing my hands over her head, I face her, making sure she doesn’t collapse as I try to calm my anxious anger.
She’s plastered, in a napkin of a dress. There are shitty men in this club, creeps who would gladly take advantage of her vulnerability. What if I hadn’t gotten here? What if someone had used and hurt her?
Willa’s panting, her eyes wide. Slowly, they travel down my body. Her head tips to the side, in that way she has when she’s thinking something through.
Drawing her head back up, her eyes look different tonight. A color I can’t quite describe. Then it comes to me. Molten lava.
“You look weird without the flannel.” She hiccups. “Very un-lumberjack-y.”
Her hands slip along my chest, setting a fire beneath my skin, heat surging through my veins. I push them off instinctively and step back.
Willa’s shocked, by the look of her widening eyes which begin to shift. I watch their transformation as her jaw hardens, her molten lava eyes narrow and turn volcanic. She’s pissed at me, but maybe not lethally pissed. She’s still sure to tip her face in full light and speak clearly enough for me to read her lips. “What are you doing here, Ryder?”
I pull out my phone, wiggling it at her. She shakes her head. “I don’t have it.”
An angry huff of air leaves me. If she doesn’t have her phone, we can’t talk.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re ever not angry, Sasquatch.”
I balk, my eyes searching hers. What can I say? How can I explain all the twisted, knotted things I feel and think about her, especially when we can’t even communicate?
“Do you hate me?” Her eyes are wet with unshed tears.
When I was in elementary school, my older siblings were big fans of a brutal comic series that I had no business sticking my nose in. I remember snooping through it, turning the page to a gruesome full-length spread in which the villain had just been slit from nose to navel. I had nightmares for days and couldn’t unsee it for weeks. I feel like that villain and the boy who saw him, all at once. Viciously gutted, scarred by that look in her eyes.
Some kind of pained noise leaves me, and Willa’s head snaps back. I clasp her jaw, turning her face so she watches my mouth say the words silently. She has to understand this. Willa, no. I could never hate you. Never.
Her eyes squint. “I can’t, Ryder. I can’t read lips like you.” She hiccups again. “I can’t…” Her speech slurs, and now I’m the one who can’t understand. I smack a hand over the wall, frustration building that I can’t talk to her or hear what she needs to say.
I pull out my phone and open the notepad. Go home? I write.
She squints, her tongue stuck out as if she’s relying on that for better concentration.
Nodding, Willa tries to type yes, I’m guessing, but it ends up being urd. When I glance up, I see her color fading and recognize the warning just in time. Spinning out of the way, I clear her hair from her face as Willa bends and vomits, emptying her stomach.
She hacks and sputters, and I can imagine she’s crying even if I can’t hear it. Refastening my grip on her hair, I dig in my jeans for a hankie. Yes, a hankie. Cloth over Kleenex gives Mother Nature a hug. I wipe her mouth when her body finally stops spasming, and help her stand upright.
Willa’s bleary-eyed, her lips trembling. Then her eyes roll back in her head, and she drops in my arms.
“Ryder,” she mumbles. I hear it faintly because I brought her home with me and shoved that hearing aid on my not-so-fucked-up ear right away. Certain sounds are too loud. Others, too quiet. I could hear a flea sneeze and the sound of my own hair growing, but I still have to crane my ear to catch her weak voice. The hearing aid’s frustrating and inadequate, yes, but it lets me hear Willa, just a little better, and I’m grateful.
Rooney and Becks were having a good time when I left, meaning they were both shit-faced. Becks does this on a nightly basis, so somehow, even when he’s annihilated he’s still conversant and remembers everything. Rooney, on the other hand, clearly doesn’t drink often, and will probably want to be taken out back and shot tomorrow, for the headache she’s going to have.
I told Becks I was taking Willa home because I was nervous to leave her alone in case she got sick again. Then I made him promise either to bring Rooney here if she took the same turn as Willa, or simply see her safely to her place once she was okay to leave. He promised me and I trust him implicitly. Becks might be an absolute slob, but he’s a good man, and he’s Rooney’s lab mate and friend. He’s got her back.
Willa’s singing to herself, something about lakes of stew and candy mountains, as I kick shut the door to my room and lay her on my bed.
“Ah yes.” She hiccups. “The room of evergreen seduction.”
A small laugh leaves me that isn’t entirely silent.
Willa called this the room of evergreen seduction, and I’m dying to know why, but she still can’t find her phone and there’s no way to talk. Frustration surges inside me, beating inside my lungs and volleying up my throat. When I’m with Willa, I want to have a voice to ask her questions when she says cryptic shit like that, and honestly, Willa says a lot of cryptic shit, especially when she’s mumbling and doesn’t think I’m listening.
Which I’ll need to fess up to at some point.
I remember what I did at the club, and pull out my phone, then type in the notepad, Evergreen seduction?
She squints as she reads, then she flops back onto my bed. “Yes.”
That’s all I get. Yes.
I roll my eyes. Willa flails in my bed until she’s wrapped up in my comforter like a burrito. Watching her, I unbutton my shirt which smells faintly of vomit and sweaty bodies. I throw it in the laundry, then turn toward the dresser to pull out a T-shirt when I catch a strangled noise coming from the bed.
Two dark eyes peek over the comforter.
As I drag the V-neck undershirt over my head and torso, I sign, What?
Slowly, she tugs at the blanket so her face is free. “Ryder, Keeper of Notes. Asshole lumberjack of Los Angeles County, you have a fantastic upper body.”
A laugh leaves me. An actual laugh. I feel it bubble out of my belly, soar through my throat and reverberate in the air.
Willa sits up, throwing back the blankets. “You just laughed! I just made you laugh!”
My heart pounds with nerves. My skin crawls with dread. I’m waiting for the inevitable. For her to say I sound weird or terrible.
But she just throws her hands up and crows, “Wooohoooo!”
I cover both of my ears instinctively before the hearing aid squeaks feedback. Willa climbs out of the bed, tripping over her feet until she runs smack into my torso and wraps her arms around me. Muffled sound lands somewhere between my pecs before Willa seems to remember to unsmoosh her face. Setting her chin on my sternum, she peers up at me. “I made you laugh, Lumberjack.”
I try not to smile but fail, grinning ear to useless ear as I nod.
Slowly, her fingers trail up my chest, leaving a wake of sparks simmering beneath my skin. Her fingers skate up my throat and drift through my beard. They rest over my lips, parting my facial hair as she squints at my mouth. “This squirrel-tail is a problem.”
My eyebrows lift. My beard’s not that scraggly.
…Is it?
“I can’t see your mouth. And I’m suspicious that it’s a pretty mouth. Like one of those mouths that a man with eyelashes like yours has no business having.”
She sways slightly in my arms, her eyes drifting shut as she mumbles, “I wish you would talk to me, Ry.”
I know she’s drunk and unfiltered, but her words land like a physical blow. My hands go to her waist, to steady myself as much to right her wavering posture. My grip tightens as the sound of my nickname on her warm, husky voice hits my bones and echoes.
Fear creeps up my spine. I feel its exact journey, icy fingers climbing each vertebra until it clutches my throat. It’s getting harder and harder to lie to myself when Willa Sutter’s around. To tell myself my heart doesn’t trip when I look at her, that need doesn’t torture my body. That I don’t daydream about sliding my hands under those baggy hoodies she always wears, feeling the silky skin along her ribs, the soft handful of her tits. That I never wonder what it would be like to drive down the road, holding hands affectionately while still lobbing jabs and busting bullshit. That I don’t fantasize about how we’d play the radio and I’d be able to talk and hear over it. Willa would slide her hand up my thigh, and I’d have to pull over and kiss her until that mouth finally stopped running at me long enough for me to give it all the attention it deserved.
Willa as my nemesis is safe. As my antagonizing quasi-friend, a manageable risk. Or so I thought. But now I see that anything more than that, and nothing remotely manageable comes of it. Nothing at all.
I’m brought from my thoughts as her hair whispers over my skin. Those untamed tendrils are the same rich brown as her eyes, streaked crimson and gold from hours spent daily in the California sun. They tickle my arms and chest as Willa sways in my grasp, her eyes drifting shut as she smiles.
Carefully, I hold her to me and give myself this one moment that I can only hope she won’t remember, even though it’s one I never want to forget. I press my nose to her hair, a long, deep breath as I commit her gentle scent to memory—orange zest and sunscreen at the ocean, the pure softness of roses. One soft kiss to her temple—
Shit.
I pull back. It might be the barest touch of my lips to her forehead, but I’m kissing my drunk project partner, and I don’t have her consent.
“Shut up your head,” she mutters. “I want you just fine, now kiss me again.”
Crazy mind reader. Her lips sear the skin exposed above my shirt, where she presses a soft, wet kiss.
Willa’s hands link around my neck, as if to kick out fear’s grip and stake her claim. Her fingers slide along my scalp, making some kind of desperate groan rumble out of me. Willa shoves herself even tighter to my front, and we stumble until we bump against the wall. My hand dips down to her waist as she hitches her leg around my hip. I wrap my hand around iron-solid thigh and try to take a steady breath.
Her gasp is a soft burst across my neck. Her nails sink harder into my scalp as she presses on tiptoe, those bee-stung lips begging to be kissed.
“Ryder,” she says. “I demand to be kissed.”
A quiet laugh leaves me. Gently, I clasp her jaw and my thumb traces her mouth. If I do this, who knows what will happen, what kind of damage control this would require tomorrow? She’s half-asleep, half-drunk. If and when I kiss Willa Sutter, I want her to remember it.
I press my lips to her temple again and feel a heavy sigh leave her. Her mouth slides, wet and hot along my collarbone. I suck in a breath, leaning my cheek against her wild hair, my fingers sinking into its chaos. Her tongue swirls at the hollow of my throat. My lips sweep the shell of her ear.
Willa and I aren’t even kissing, not on the lips, but we’re moving, rolling against each other, and that I know has to stop. What we’re doing right now only leads to one thing. One thing that absolutely cannot happen right now.
When I pull away, Willa does too, her features tightening. “Why did you stop?”
I tug at my hair. My hand falls and I shake my head. Fatigue from the day makes my thoughts increasingly fuzzy. I don’t even know what I’d try to sign to her, what words I’d write in my notepad.
“You don’t want to anymore?” she asks faintly.
Her eyes are getting heavier, and I think this time, there won’t be any waking her. Before Willa can argue anymore, before she can demand a kiss or ask for one step further, her eyes fall shut and she drops, a dead weight in my arms.
“Sleep,” she says.
Nodding, I scoop her up. For once, Willa Sutter and I agree on something.
10
Willa
Playlist: “Surround Me,” LÉON
“Oh, God.” Blinking hurts. Thinking hurts. I shift and bump into something solid and immovable. Whatever it is, it smells like sex in an evergreen forest. Cedar. Pine. Spruce. I’m warm, with one tree limb draped around me, another poking my butt. Wait—
Startling, I spin inside the tree limb that I realize is an arm. It’s so damn heavy, it might as well be timber. Ryder’s out cold, his mouth open softly in sleep. There are smudges under his eyes which I’m sure have everything to do with the fact that he went driving to some ritzy club Rooney and Becks picked, at God knows what hour of the night. That plan backfired a little bit. I know loud environments are nightmarish for his hearing. I didn’t mean to lure Ryder there. Becks was just supposed to send a picture of me being obnoxiously sexy. In the name of retribution, and all.
