I want her to throw punches, hurl her bitter words at me, get fucking mad.
And she does raise her hand to me, she does, but it’s not a strike. There’s nothing violent in the way her hand elevates, and her fingers reach out, applying a soft pressure to my forearm. A gentle caress. Careful and delicate.
I rip my arm away. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m just—”
“I don’t like to be touched.”
She swallows, her eyelashes fanning across her cheekbones as she blinks up at me. “You don’t like it, or you’re not used to it?”
How about this: the one person in the world who was supposed to care for me, love me, protect me… abused the fuck out of me. Instead of hugs, I got hot cigarette butts to my skin, covering me in hideous scars. Instead of cuddles, I got a leather belt across my face. Instead of kisses, I got broken bones. And when I wasn’t being beaten down until I went numb, I was neglected. Locked inside a dark closet with only my imaginary friend to keep me company.
I feared touch.
But all I say is, “Both.”
Melody reaches out again, to prove some kind of moot point, so I snatch her wrist before she makes contact. Her breath catches, her fingers relaxing in my grip.
“Stop,” I tell her, my tone low and bordering on threatening. “You’re like a lost puppy, looking for a bone. But you’re barking up the wrong tree, sunshine, because I’m not your friend, and I’m sure as hell not your next fuck. So, whatever hand you’re trying to play, I suggest you fold now. You’re in the wrong game.”
She’s quiet for a while, making me all too aware of the way her wrist feels tucked inside my palm. Again. She’s always trying to touch me somehow—playful, hostile, kind. She’s trying to get close and eradicate my walls. But I’ve been building these walls for a long, long time, and they were built to last.
Maybe that’s why I’m so good at my job—at building things. I’ve had a lot of fucking practice.
Melody doesn’t pull away from me, or fire back like I want her to. I’m begging for her wrath, but she only gives me warmth. “You said I look at you like I’m trying to fix you,” she says softly, her eyes scanning my face, searching for a crack. A hole. A way in. “You look at me like you’re trying to break me.”
My scowl meets her soft gaze as I release her arm, but she doesn’t step back, and neither do I. It’s like we’re both standing at the brink of a battlefront, but I’m the only one ready to fight.
“I’m done breaking, Parker,” she finishes, letting out a breath that sounds like surrender. “It’s time to rebuild.”
A grumble escapes me. “You can’t build something from nothing.”
“No one has nothing.”
“That’s a bullshit, privileged answer.”
She surprises me by reaching for my own wrist and tugging it to her chest, and I’m too startled by her boldness to pull away at first.
Then I’m too curious.
Her heartbeat thumps beneath my palm as she presses it to her breastbone, making her point. It feels warm, like her skin. Like the color of her eyes.
Like the way the sunlight plays with her hair in a way that is gravely captivating.
It’s evident insanity has possessed me once again because I make zero fucking effort to move away or tell her to back the hell off. I just stand there like a fool, my hand a centimeter away from groping her tit, while we stare at each other in the suicide support parking lot.
Why am I not moving?
Why is her heartrate quickening?
Why is my dick getting hard?
Fucking hell.
I think the only thing that pisses me off more right now is the fact that she pulls back first. A look comes over her, something almost panicked, and she flees, fumbling for her car door and leaving me rattled.
“I hope you like the cupcakes,” she mutters, her voice unsteady, her eyes avoiding mine. “They’re chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting and a caramel drizzle.”
Pretty sure my dick gets harder.
Melody spares me a final glance, her cheeks flushed pink, then escapes into her Camry. “See you next week.”
The slam of her car door makes me flinch, but I still just stand there as she reverses and pulls out of the parking lot with squealing tires. I don’t even have time to process that fuckery when a familiar voice has me spinning around in place.
“You like her.”
Amelia hovers beside her own car, all creepy-like, probably getting ready to go haunt something, and I hold back an eye-roll. “I like her as much as I like Ms. Katherine’s hairy forehead mole that resembles the state of Rhode Island.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” she snickers, her teeth almost looking yellow against her snow white skin. Then she sighs, leaning back against the trunk. “You must really like that mole.”
“Don’t you have something better to do? Occult rituals? Blood sacrifices?”
“Way to stereotype. I actually enjoy crocheting and listening to Fleetwood Mac.”
“Cool. Go do that. Send my love to Pumpkin Spice.”
“Nutmeg,” she corrects.
I raise my hand in a “fuck off” kind of a wave and whirl around, heading towards my truck.
“You know, Parker… you don’t have to be here.”
My eyes roll up again when her voice meets my back. “There’s someone who wants me to be here.”
“Yeah,” Amelia replies softly. “But I don’t think that someone is who you think it is.”
Her response has me turning around, my eyebrows raised in question.
She finishes with, “Hint: it’s the same person who is keeping you from jumping off that bridge or swallowing a whole bottle of Valium. Think about it.” Amelia sends me her own wave—one far more amiable—and disappears into her car.
It doesn’t take long for me to think about it, and while all I want to do is contest that theory because I like to believe that I don’t give a fuck about anything, she kind of has a point.
Well played, Emo Chick.
Owen.
I’m working on the third floor reno at the Jameson property the next day, covered head to toe in sweat and sawdust, when I hear a little voice from behind me.
“Hey, Parker.”
I twist around from my place on the newly installed Brazilian walnut flooring and see Owen shuffling in the doorway, his hands tucked into denim shorts. “Hey.”
“You’ve been here a lot this week.”
“I have a lot of work to do.”
The little boy with auburn bangs inches forward, making footprints in the sawdust. “The floor looks nice.”
Falling back on my haunches, I shrug. “It’s okay. Not really my style.”
“Yeah. These are the kind of floors I’ll get yelled at for scratching with my race cars. I build them, you know.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, want to see?”
Normally, I’d say no. Normally, I wouldn’t give a crap about model cars or random kids I meet at jobs… but I’m compelled to say yes, so I do. “Sure.”
Owen leads me to his bedroom, the same room I discovered him crying in my first day here. The bed is made up, decorated in a red and blue race car pattern, and the bordering along his navy walls matches the theme. I try to think back to my own childhood room, my real childhood room, before she stole everything away from me, but the images are so hazy now. All I remember is a sports lamp beside my bed. It had a baseball, bat, football, and a soccer ball attached to a green base, and sometimes my father would switch the lightbulb out to make it shine different colors. It would be orange during October and green in December.