Page 11

11

Calista

“W hat the fuck is wrong with you?!” I’m mortified —and that’s putting it lightly. My chest aches, and even if I wanted to stay, I feel so sick that I wouldn’t be able to finish my food.

“Cal, please,” my mother scoffs, wiping her lips with a napkin before turning to me. Her eyebrows are pinched, exaggerating her disapproving look. “Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not defending anyone. You are being an asshole. If you were so worried about him being here why did you agree to him coming?”

She sighs. “I didn’t. Your father pressed about this dinner, and I haven’t been able to spend time with him recently.”

Shaking my head, I snort a laugh. “So you used this moment to show your true colors. Did you forget that not long ago, I had to peel you off our couch because you were too high to get up and go to the bathroom by yourself?”

When her head turns to look through the archway that leads to the front door, I let out a laugh that isn’t built with humor. I knew she hadn’t told Eamon. She’d begged me never to bring it up, and said in her own time she would tell him; it’s been ten years .

“You are still holding that over my head when it has been nearly twelve years?” She sounds hurt, as if her actions hadn’t left permanent consequences. I want to tell her I’ve been carrying this suffocating grudge against her for much longer—ever since Dad died.

I turn to leave but she stretches across the table and grabs my wrist. “Cal, wait.” Pulling roughly, I separate us and go toward the door, my body fighting the heat that’s building across every inch of my skin. This feeling, I’m far too familiar with it.

“You’re turning red, sweetheart, please don’t.”

“Let me go!” I scream and smack her hand as she tries to stop me for a second time.

“Why are you getting so upset about this?” When I glance over my shoulder at her, I notice something new written across her face. It’s as if she’s finally contemplating why I’m upset about how she treated Ronan.

“I-I’m not. I don’t care how you treated him.” I’m such a filthy liar. “I’m angry because you’ve forgotten your place. So let me remind you: just because you weren’t caught for what you did doesn’t make you any less of a criminal, Mother.”

Her chin trembles at my words, and I feel a prickling sensation in my hands, as if needles are stabbing them. My vision blurs in and out, and my head fills with the buzzing of swarming bees. I’m starting to have a panic attack, but I can’t let it happen here.

“I’ve apologized, Calista. I got my life together—”

“That I helped you get when I should have been enjoying cheer, moving to another state to go to college, traveling the world. Instead, I had to make sure you went to your treatments.” I press my finger against her shoulder, gritting my teeth in anger and hate. “Make sure you didn’t fall back into drugs.” I can see my hand shaking just as I push her back. “Sometimes… time isn’t enough for retribution.”

I spin away from her, grab my purse, and rush out of the house, the cool air washing over me like a breath of fresh freedom.

Ronan’s motorcycle isn’t parked out front, but I spot Eamon standing at the end of the walkway, his hands in his pockets and his head tilted back to the sky. I brush past him without a word, not in the mood for conversation, and head straight to my car.

“Sorry, Cal.”

My hands shake so badly that I can barely click the key fob to unlock my Mustang.

“Don’t let this keep you from coming for dinner again. I’ll talk with your mother.” Eamon is a good man, and I hate to say it, but my mother doesn’t deserve him.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice choppy. I need to get away from here—now. My heart won’t settle, and I’m worried I might collapse here.

Throwing myself into the car, I press the start button and peel off down the street.

This isn’t smart.

My arms tingle, and I don’t even feel my foot on the gas. All I want to do is close my eyes, fight the tightening in my chest, and find a way to catch my breath.

“This ain’t a place for a kid.”

A lump forms right in my throat, and I can’t swallow. How can she judge Ronan like that when she allowed those things to happen to me?

I blow through a yellow light as the streetlights illuminate the darkness inside my car. My mind can’t focus on where I’m going; all I can think about is going back. To the houses, the drugs, the faces, and the pain. She was careless with her body and her child.

Somehow, I manage to stay aware of my surroundings, and I’m grateful for it because suddenly a motorcycle pulls out in front of me at a green light. I slam on my brakes, my tires screeching, and I swear I can smell burning rubber.

Squeezing the steering wheel, I take a breath that feels like sharp knives pricking at my lungs.

I recognize him instantly—it’s Ronan sitting on the bike. The leather jacket he wears has a white stripe down the arms, the silver pin on his cuff catching the streetlight. He raises his hand and points off to the side where a Walmart is located.

He juts his head and points aggressively again. Now I understand—he wants me to pull in. I obey absentmindedly, and by the time I blink again, I find myself parked with the engine still running.

A soft tap on my window sends a rush of embarrassment over me. I can’t tell if it’s from what my mother said or from driving while I’m clearly in the midst of a panic attack.

He taps again, harder this time, and I shakily press the button to roll down the window.

“Get out, Calista.”

I swallow hard and close my eyes, wishing I could cry. I want to release the pressure building in my temples and let every bit of anguish pour out, but it just won’t come. It never does.

After a moment, I finally do as he commands and open the door. My legs feel numb, and I hesitate—not because I don’t want to obey, but because I’m unsure if I can even hold myself up.

“Put your hands in your lap,” he says, leaning forward. I lift my gaze to meet his, noticing one hand resting on the top of the car while the other pushes the door open wide. “Do not move them, do you hear me?”

I’m unsure of why he is asking that of me, but I just nod.

“Use your words.” His sharp tone startles me.

“Y-Yes, I understand.”

He sighs, and I quickly get my answer. His hand moves under my knees while the other supports my back, physically lifting me out of the car.

As he commanded, I shove my hands between my thighs, afraid of what I might do if I feel a wave of fear. I don’t want to accidentally grab onto him.

I’m cradled in his arms as if I weigh nothing, and as I lean into his body, I can’t help but feel that I fit perfectly right here. It’s a stupid notion, but it isn’t something I can fight. My heart thunders in my chest and I hold my breath because of it.

Ronan says nothing as he circles the car, leaning down to open the passenger door with one hand while keeping me steady with his leg. Once the door is kicked open, he kneels and shifts me back inside.

He doesn’t ask me to buckle my seat belt. Instead, he does it for me. I have to move my hands for him to place the strap across my lap, and I raise them as if I’m being held at gunpoint.

Why can’t I touch you…

Once it clicks, he doesn’t pat my leg or say anything; he simply leans back out of the vehicle and closes the door. I watch him walk to his bike, parked beside my car, before returning to the driver’s seat.

I fiddle with the hem of my dress at my thighs, pulling it down and taking soft breaths to calm myself.

“Ro—”

“How dumb can you be, Cal?” He turns to look at me, his expression completely devoid of feeling. There’s no anger, no happiness—just a man so detached from the world that he might as well be on another planet. This isn’t the same Ronan that stared at me while we discussed my need to fix things. Then, I could see a man with layers, one that I wanted to peel back. This one here, right now, is a statue.

“I… I didn’t know how bad it would get.”

“You could have gotten yourself killed, you know that?”

Not someone , but me. I could’ve gotten myself killed.

I nod and ask, “How did you know what was happening?” He tuts and puts the car into reverse. “W-Wait your bike.”

“It’ll survive.” I can tell he’s trying to sound neutral, but his anger is starting to bubble just beneath the surface. “Jesus, do you not understand what—”

“I’m sorry for what my mom said.” I cut him off while leaning as far away from him as possible, feeling the cool window against my temple.

“I don’t give a fuck what she said, answer me. Do you understand what you did was stupid?”

“Yes. I’ve not had one in so long, I didn’t know it would inebriate me like that… I swear.”

He huffs but doesn’t say anything. Silence rings loudly in the small space between us. The streetlights become less frequent as we find ourselves on the highway, and the darkness in the car has me feeling more confident.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

No sound comes from him, not a huff or grunt, just silence.

“How did you know what was happening? I thought you had left…”

The leather squeaks under his grip. “I waited just around the corner for you to leave. I planned to follow your ass back to the cabin. Then I saw you speed off and nearly run a red light.” He pauses, and when I look at him, the red glow from the dash illuminates his face, making my heart catch in my throat. The clench of his jaw sharpens his features, and I know I shouldn’t, but the urge to touch him is overwhelming—to feel the roughness of his five o’clock shadow under my fingers.

Then there is the slut in me that wants to follow the command written over his eyebrow and feel it somewhere else.

“I drove up beside you and tried to wave you down, but you were gone. I’ve seen panic attacks, I knew what was happening. You got lucky that you hit green light after green light, and there weren’t many people on the road because it’s dinner time. Fuck, Cal…” He shakes his head in disappointment, and it hits me like a punch to the chest. I don’t want him to feel that way about me, and it's strange to admit it. The last thing I deserve is for him to feel anything other than hatred for the things I’ve done.

Looking away from him, I stare at my hands that still are slightly trembling. I’m silent because I don’t want to make excuses. I’ve not had one since I was eighteen and have been so good about not getting worked up.

Suddenly, I hear a click, followed by a rush of warmth as he turns on the heater. When I glance over at him, he’s focused on my hands or my legs—I can’t quite tell which.

“I’m sorry.” I should thank him, but it feels better to apologize. It isn’t even just for what happened tonight, but so much more.

He growls. “Don’t.”

Swallowing, I rub my hands down my thighs.

“What helps?” His question catches me off guard. “With the attacks.”

I already feel much better, though the only sensations coursing through me now are cramps and restlessness. I’m not going to share that with him, though; I want him to help me.

“Talking.”

“Then talk.” He changes lanes and shifts the seat back slightly. This car wasn’t designed for someone his size. He’s cramped in here, and I feel even worse than I did just moments ago.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I can tell by the throaty groan he lets out that he doesn’t want to, but he curtly replies, “Sure.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

The slow turn of his head to me, and the look of surprise, has my heart doing stupid leaps. I can’t feel this rush of need for him, it’s wrong for so many reasons.

Though, maybe it’s why I want to run right for it, because it’s forbidden.

He hesitates to answer me, but it’s like he remembers what I need and says, “Maroon. Yours?”

“Teal. But more on the blue side than green.”

“So, turquoise.”

“No, teal.”

His brows pinch before he refocuses on the road completely. “Is Eamon your only sibling?”

“Yes. Do you have any siblings?” he fires back quickly.

I don’t need a fast conversation, just one to keep me from focusing on what put me into my panic attack in the first place. But I guess I’ll take this over silence.

“Just my stepbrother.” I pause, half-expecting him to ask a question that’s clearly on his mind, but he stays silent. So I press on. “Do you like animals?”

“Birds and dogs, yes.”

“Would you get one?”

His light laugh makes the butterflies in my stomach take flight—yikes, that was cute. I’m so much better now, but damn, I also feel more like a piece of shit than ever before.

“I’ll never get a pet, if that’s your question.”

I frown. “Why?”

He wets his bottom lip before sighing. “Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, and getting attached to anything—or anyone —is the last thing I’m looking to do.”

A heavy weight presses down on my heart.

“Parole is for those deemed worthy of help. Those who aren’t offered that gift are just expected to screw up and end up right back in.”

“You don’t…” I pause, realizing I’m about to make the same mistake my mother did, suggesting there’s another way. That he can get help to avoid going back. But that wouldn’t be right, he said it himself: some things don’t need fixing. “That makes sense.”

Maybe it’s the fact that he included “anyone” in that statement that makes me want to press further. As usual, it’s a selfish instinct.

“How long do you think the renovations will take?” I’m glad he steers the conversation in a different direction. He has slightly relaxed with the shift, and now one of his arms rests against the center console, his hand dangling down near the cupholders.

“Likely close to two months. I’ll save the master bedroom for last, it just needs new paint and better furniture.”

I watch as he lifts his left leg, and my gaze instinctively drags to his lap. It’s almost illegal how good he looks, and my earlier comment about the Goodwill clothes feels like it’s biting me in the ass. He wears those dark blue jeans like they were tailor-made for him, and I can’t help but notice the outline of something I definitely shouldn’t be desiring.

“The mattress is shit, make sure that it’s changed.” He looks in my direction as he changes lanes, catching me peeking where I shouldn’t be. “Queen or bigger.”

Jerking my head away, I look out the window and push against the door. “As you wish, Daddy .” I say it more condescending than I do when he has forced me to do so.

“Don’t!” His sharp, singular word, has me jumping. When he grips my chin and tears my gaze to him, I watch as he hesitates to look away from the road. After a second, he finds my eyes and stares straight into my soul. “Watch yourself, baby girl, that little attitude of yours will get you punished.”

I nod, not even needing him to ask if I understand.

He releases me, and I breathe out a heavy sigh. Big Bertha, here I come.

Ronan

The following morning, I wake up to the sound of contractors bustling around the house. I can’t help but wonder if my question about the timeline prompted her to bring in extra workers to speed things up. It’s hard to believe she’d do that, she doesn’t seem particularly eager to leave.

I wish I could say I am, but damn her for keeping me from thinking logically.

Do I have the desire to fuck that slice of innocence? I sure do, and at this point, I’d just do it to satisfy myself. Every damn night I have a hard-on because she refuses to wear anything but short-shorts and a tank top. She’s testing me, I just fucking know she is.

Last night, catching her looking at my cock covered by my jeans had me nearly incapable of not pulling the car over, pulling it out, and shoving it down her throat. Then she called me daddy, fucking Christ , the filthy thoughts that went through my head.

The frustrating part is that I can’t drink alcohol to get her out of my head—not as frequently as I did during the first couple of weeks here. I’d love to blame it on the way it gives me the wrong kind of high I’m seeking. Lately, the alcohol hits me differently, probably because I haven’t consumed it this consistently in fifteen years. It leaves me with a persistent headache, and the “drunk” feeling I get is more like death knocking at my door trying to say hello.

But that would just be an excuse. The real reason I’ve stopped is my concern for Cal. The way she came home that night has me on edge, and I can’t shake the fear that it might happen again. If I’m drunk and she feels the need to call me, I won’t be able to help her…

I groan loudly. All I want to do is fuck her, not exude any hero-tendencies. I’m anything but that, especially when it comes to her.

I’ve been staring out of the garage when the door opens behind me. Speaking of the fallen angel herself. As if she expects me to engage with her, Calista points at her phone and dashes right out, heading straight into the thicket.

My eyebrow raises in surprise as I watch her go. Must be too loud in here for her, or maybe she’s on a top-secret phone call. Part of me wonders if she has a boyfriend she hasn’t mentioned. The odds seem slim, though—I can’t imagine her mother wouldn’t have casually asked how he was doing or where he was right now.

I think I’m beyond caring at this point. I’m intrigued about what her pussy tastes like and if she makes sweet, innocent noises when she comes.

Grabbing my cock and adjusting myself, I take a few steps out of the garage and let the soft breeze hit me. I should probably rub one out before I accidentally do something we both regret.

A loud ‘kree’ pulls my attention upward, just as a hawk flies overhead. It’s repetitive, and I imagine some would find it annoying, but oddly enough, not me. It lands onto one of the many blue spruce trees. As though it can sense me staring, it looks down at me.

I hum softly and tuck my hands into my pants. I’m not entirely sure how long I stand here having a staring contest with a bird, but when feet crunching on gravel catches my ears, I blink rapidly and turn my gaze downward.

Cal is approaching slowly, and her eyes are trained upward right where I was looking.

“A Ferruginous Hawk,” she offers.

I don’t return my gaze to it, just keep my attention on her. I’m not entirely sure why I’m so in tune to this… girl, but clearly something has upset her. It isn’t just that her cheeks are red and lips are swollen, no it’s deeper than that. Sort of like an energy I can feel.

“Everything okay?” I have no idea why I even ask.

“It will be.” She hugs her phone to her chest. “You like hawks?”

Clearing my throat, I finally look back at the animal still perched in the tree. “Birds remind me of freedom.”

“Oh…”

I chuckle softly and turn to head back inside, wanting to avoid diving too deep into that statement. The last thing I want is for her to start looking for ways to “fix” me.

“Wait, I’ll go inside. You can stay out here.” I halt and turn to face her, and the sadness she tries to mask with a smile overwhelms me with emotions I didn’t know I had. Why do I feel this sudden urge to comfort her?

Damn her.

Without saying anything, I give her my back and head into the house.