Page 19 of The Consequence of You (Heathley Academy #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ASHER

C allie walks away from the limo and up the steps to her house.

I watch her go, unable to take my eyes off her.

I’m not sure when my feelings towards her changed, but they have.

For the longest time, she was the girl I was addicted to pissing off, but somehow, she’s become the woman I’m simply addicted to.

It’s unexpected and unfamiliar, but I’m not afraid of anything. I’m certainly not afraid of exploring it further. I enjoy sex, I always have, but sex with Callie Messina is unreal, and I want more of it.

I’m an entitled asshole and I always get what I want.

She refused to let me walk her to her door, so I insist my driver wait while I watch her go in. Finding my phone on the floor of the limo, I shoot her a text asking when she wants to do it again.

She types in the key code and her front door slides open, but before she enters the house, I see her read the message I just sent her.

She turns around and flips me the middle finger before the door slides closed after her.

Undeterred, I quickly type out another message.

Tonight was amazing. We will be doing it again.

She’s holding back. Clearly, she was 100% into what we just did, but her reluctance to dive into an enemies with benefits type arrangement is hardly surprising.

She didn’t run away like last time, though, so I’ll take that as a small win.

Pressing the intercom button, I let the driver know I’m ready to return home. Three dots appear on my phone screen and then disappear multiple times.

She doesn’t know what to reply. Maybe she doesn’t know whether I’m being sincere or not. I’m not going to become a different person for her, but if I need to prove I’m done with the immature shit between us, then I will. Something tells me it’ll be worth it.

Half an hour later I’m in bed. I badly need to shower but I don’t want to wash away her scent.

Some fucked up part of me wants to make what we did tonight last as long as possible.

The panties I stole from her are stowed away in my bottom drawer.

I’ve not reached the low of taking them out to sniff them again, but that’s not to say I’m not tempted.

I can’t remember the last time I came as fast as I did tonight. Usually, it takes me a while to get off, but our bickering was like foreplay, and the instant I sank into her, it was impossible to hold off.

At first, I wondered if the attraction was just wanting what I couldn’t have. I thought maybe that feeling would go away once we fucked and got the sexual tension out of our system, but it’s the opposite.

I want more.

My dick springs to life under my blanket as I relive tonight in my mind.

I could go again right now if she was here.

Next time, I want her on her knees. I’d get her to suck me off and right at the last second, I’d pull out and come all over her perfect skin again.

I’d massage it in, covering her in my seed.

I imagine splashes of my white ejaculate coating her dark, silky hair, and precum weeps from the end of my cock.

Collecting it with my thumb, I use it to lubricate my hand as I fist my dick to the thought of all the possible ways I could take her.

Fuck it.

I reach into my drawer and grab her panties. Wrapping the scrap of fabric around my hand, I fuck myself to images of the closed off princess, who might finally be letting someone in.

CALLIE

Lying in bed, I grip my phone in my hand, Asher’s text messages unanswered.

I’m so used to the bickering between us, I find it hard to believe they’re genuine.

They’re far more likely to be his usual sarcasm.

As much as I’d love to block him and tell him I never want to see him again, I can’t do it.

There is no denying how good he made me feel, and I’m slowly coming to the realisation that decent sex can happen outside of a meaningful relationship.

I’d lied to my parents about my ex-boyfriend, Nico because I had real feelings for him. But with Asher it’s an entirely different thing. I’ll never have to worry about falling for him. It’ll only ever be uncomplicated sex, and maybe that’s exactly what I need.

The more I think about it, the more I realise Asher is the ideal person for me to do this with.

He seems to have toned down his rudeness, and he’s almost tolerable now.

And he certainly knows his way around the female body.

My only experience is with my ex, Nico, and while it was great with him, as much as it pains me to admit, it was mind-blowing with Asher.

From what I can tell, I did an okay job of making him feel good too.

My phone vibrates in my hand, but instead of another message from Asher, I’m surprised to see my brother’s name flash up on the screen. I open his message.

Luca: I just wanted to let you know I’ve booked my flight. See you in two weeks.

It pings again with a link to his flight details and just like that, all thoughts of Asher are quickly forgotten.

My chest aches as I try not to worry about Luca coming home. I need to talk to him properly. Like with Mr Charles at the nursing home, I should have done it years ago.

Putting my phone away, I try to get some sleep.

After almost an hour of tossing and turning, I accept it’s not happening, so I sit up and flick on my bedside light. I could go downstairs and use Rossi’s exercise equipment or watch a movie, but I know neither of them will help me sleep.

Luca is coming home whether I like it or not, and I need to start dealing with some of the things I’ve been avoiding for years.

Taking a deep breath, I slide my bottom drawer open.

Shoving a few random certificates and drawings, and a couple of keepsakes I collected over the years out of the way, I uncover a stack of letters held together with an elastic band.

My ex-boyfriend Nico’s neat black handwriting is scrawled across the front of each one.

I pull the elastic band off and spread the dozens of letters across my bedspread.

A few have been opened but the vast majority are still sealed.

When he first started sending them, I would open each one.

Reading and re-reading them over and over, crying over losing him and losing my mum.

Pages of writing, begging me to see him. Begging me to talk to him.

After a while, I stopped reading them. Instead, whenever one came in the post, I would shove it in my bottom drawer, assuming the content was similar to all the others.

At first Nico wrote daily. Then monthly, then after the first year passed, less often, but he never gave up. Despite me ignoring every single attempt he made to get in touch. Every phone call. Every text. Every letter.

He never attempted to come to the house, although I had seen him at church once.

I stopped going after that; seeing him was painful.

It was a constant reminder of my sins. It was cruel of me to cut him off so abruptly, but I thought it would be the best way.

We had no future after the accident; it was done. It was part of my punishment .

Why should I be happy when my family were not? Our relationship would be forever tainted by that night.

Searching through the letters, I find the one with the most recent postage date. It’s from the beginning of January this year. Just a few days after the third anniversary of Mama's death.

Flipping it over, I slowly tear it open.

I’m surprised to find it’s a card and not a letter.

On the front is a picture of a simple bunch of white lilies.

They were my mother’s favourite flower. My breath hitches as my fingers stroke the embossed image.

Cautiously I open the card, stealing myself. Inside there’s a short message.

Callie,

I am thinking of you and your family today, and always. I miss you and I will continue to wait until the day you are ready to talk.

Yours always,

Nico x

Underneath is his phone number. Despite deleting it from my phone years ago, I still recognise the familiar sequence of numbers. It will probably be etched on my brain forever.

Dropping the card on the bed, I methodically open the rest of the envelopes. There are variations in the words, and I don’t need to read them all to know the sentiment of each message is the same. Despite my unwavering cold shoulder, he kept trying.

Fuck, I am a cold-hearted bitch. So lost in my grief, I never stopped to think about his feelings.

The earlier letters are long, pages and pages of him telling me how sorry he was about my mother.

Begging to meet and talk. Begging, I let him support me.

Hoping I would forgive him for his part in what happened.

The thing is, I never once believed there was anything to forgive. I was the one who lied to my mother that night. The blame lay solely with me. But in not replying, he probably spent the last few years thinking I blamed him.

I can’t let that go on for a second longer.

Before I can second guess myself, I reach for my phone and type out a message telling him I want to meet, and press send.

His reply is immediate, asking if I’m free tomorrow evening. I’d already planned to go to an exhibition at a local art gallery the following evening, so we arrange to meet there.