Savage: A Bad Boy Next Door Romance Page 4

  “Won’t,” I say. More words want to come out, but I can’t make them. I want to soften my voice for her. I want to stop being so cold to the only person who really gives a shit about me anymore, but every time I try I just close up.

  I felt this kind of emptiness getting bigger and more potent inside me for the past few years. It was always there, but somehow the fame fed it. Every fangirl, every paycheck, every average person's "dream come true" moment just made the emptiness bigger and bigger until it felt like everything I did was putting me closer and closer to the edge of losing it. Then my parents went and died on me. I'd spent my whole life convincing myself I was justified in being an asshole because of them, but without them around, I don't have any lies to hide behind.

  “I could cook you dinner tonight, if you want,” she says. “I’ve got some groceries in the car and I could make you something that’ll put some meat back on your bones. I think you’re losing a little mass out here, Chris. Your biceps—”

  I toss a small stick at her and she swats it away with a grin. “I’m serious though,” she says, expression more serious. “Let me make you dinner or something. I keep thinking about you here all by yourself and it turns my stomach, Chris. I know us being civil with each other is still pretty new, but it doesn’t have to be weird, I can—”

  “I already ate,” I say, standing and brushing off my pants. My stomach rumbles quietly like the fucking traitor it is.

  Lydia catches it, raising an eyebrow. “Your protein-starved stomach disagrees. “Chickennnn!” she says, making a voice I assume is supposed to be my stomach’s. “Fissshhh! Pleeease, I want protein!”

  I sigh, unable to help from smiling just a little. “If my stomach could talk, I don’t think it’d sound like the cookie monster.”

  “Well it is talking,” she says when it rumbles again. “And if that’s not what the cookie monster sounds like, then I need new ears.”

  “You should get home,” I say. I start walking toward the cabin.

  “Chris,” she says. “I’m going to keep trying, no matter how long it takes for you to realize you won’t scare me off. Okay?”

  I don’t turn to face her because it’ll only make it harder to shut her out. I grip the doorframe until I hear her shoes crunching across the grass as she makes her way back to her car.

  Inside, I grab myself a beer and strip out of my sweaty shirt, tossing it aside. I sink down on the couch and stare ahead at the cardboard box beside the fireplace. My mom's journals. There are a dozen of them, all hand-written and weather-worn. I still remember when I came out here to clean the place up after they died. I found the box in the attic gathering dust, and when I cracked open the first journal, I saw my mom's neat, flowing handwriting. It was the strangest fucking thing.

  She is dead, but there she was. I hated her. I hated her. I devoted my life to doing anything I could to spite my family, and in that single moment, I felt the weight of my mistake come crashing down around me like a mountain. They weren't perfect. They weren't even close. They pushed me to do and be things I wasn't, but what parents don't?

  Except it took them dying for me to see it because I’m a selfish asshole. I guess I always have been. They tried to tell me who to be, so I told them to fuck off both literally and figuratively. I left and set out to make myself into the exact opposite of what they wanted. I spent so many wasted years with my head down, mind buried in the pursuit of something so fucking petty that all I could feel with that journal in my hands was shame.

  Why had it taken me so long to see? Why did it take me losing so much before I realized?

  But it had. And they were dead. And the last thing I said to them was a hateful combination of creative cursing with a few turns of phrases designed to hurt. Because that’s what I do. I make people wish they never liked me, never trusted me, never met me. I let them come in, and then I show them why they should’ve just stayed away. It’s easier that way, I guess.

  That journal in my hands made me see myself how they would. Really see myself. I saw all the trappings of success and the way it had wrapped itself around me like a rotten glove. A body that you can only get with a professional nutritionist and personal trainers. Shoes that cost more than most people will spend in a lifetime on their wardrobes. A fucking ego the size of the mountain I am standing on. I saw myself for what a piece of shit I was, and I dropped the journal. I closed up the box and walked away.

  Every minute I spent away from that box helped the feeling of worthlessness subside. Until a few beers had me close to my usual self. Close. But I still couldn't leave. Those fucking journals were pulling at me and I knew I wasn't going to leave the cabin until I managed to read them. I told myself tomorrow. Then two days. Then three.

  Then they were writing articles about how I had turned recluse and how I was turning my back on my fans.

  Fans. I grunt, standing to grab myself a beer. I’m not even halfway to the fridge when there’s an angry knocking at my door. I throw a hand up as if to say, what now?

  “Fuck off!” I yell over the commotion, but the knocking doesn’t stop.

  I go to the door and yank it open, wearing a scowl I hope will send the message loud and clear that I want to be left alone.

  I shake my head when I see who it is. Psycho fan. “Not sure if you could hear me while you were trying to break my damn door down, but I said fuck off.”

  She thrusts a stack of papers at me with a strange expression on her face. Almost like she’s angry. “You threw this in the trash?”

  My eyes wander down to the top page. “Give me that,” I say, snatching it from her. “What are you, a fucking raccoon? You go through people’s trash and then bring it back to them?”

  She puts her fists on her hips, still glaring at me like she’s the one who has a right to be pissed. “I bumped into your trashcan after you threw me out the other night. This practically fell into my lap.”

  “And instead of leaving it there like a normal person you took it home and… what? Read it?” My stomach clenches in a cold ball at the thought of someone reading this. I’m keeping my composure on the outside, but there’s a reason I threw this away. A reason I never wanted anyone to see it.

  “I read every word,” she says. “And you’re an asshole for throwing it in the trash.” She punctuates her words by actually shoving me. It feels like a puppy is trying to push me over, but she screws up her face and slams her palms into my chest.

  I distractedly peel her hands away, still looking at it. “You read it…” I say slowly, still digesting the information as much as I can.

  “Yes,” she says. “I. Read. It. And I brought it back to you because you’re going to finish it.”

  I look up at her, raising an eyebrow as I see her for what might be the first time. It’s not dark out and she isn’t bleeding from a dozen cuts with enough leaves in her hair to pass for a tree. It’s not just the physical side of her I’m really getting a glimpse of. She has backbone, which is rare to begin with, and even more rare when it’s strong enough to hold up in front of me.

  She's pretty enough that at the right time and in the right place I might've taken a shot at her a few months ago, back when I was only thinking about sex, money, and making sure I left a path of scorched earth wherever I went. She's got small breasts, but they fit her feminine frame. Her brown hair is naturally wavy and thick as hell, making her small heart-shaped face seem like some kind of delicate prize hidden in a thicket. She has these greenish-brown eyes that skirt the line between seductive and innocent in a way that is admittedly sexy.

  I could laugh at myself if it wasn’t all so pathetic. Six months out here and I’m romanticizing this woman just because she’s at my doorstep. I need to get a grip.

  I decide to slam the door in her face and twist the lock to keep her outside, where she can’t bother me.

  I toss the half-finished manuscript back in the trash. Again. I’m about to grab myself the beer I was getting before she interrupted me when—
>
  Tap, tap, tap.

  She’s scowling at me from outside my kitchen window like some kind of maniac. I pull the blinds down and flip them closed, blowing out a breath of frustration. I’m popping the cap off my beer when I remember I never locked the side door. At the same moment, I hear the door open.

  “Really?” she asks loudly.

  “By law, I could shoot you now,” I say. My voice sounds bored, but in all honesty, her persistence is at least a little amusing, and I decide I won’t kick her out again.

  "Great. I hope you're as good a shot as you are at keeping a house clean," she says, kicking my dirty shirt out of her way with her toe, "I think I'll be okay."

  I take a drink of my beer, observing her. She's small, but she has the kind of energy only small things can have—like a chihuahua or something. If nothing else, she is starting to capture my interest because she doesn't seem to give a shit about who I am to the rest of the world. That, and she liked my romance book.

  For all my belief that the time out here is changing me, I guess I still warm up with a little ego-stroking, like always. The difference is she’s stroking the part of my ego I care about, not droning on about how good my shit bestseller was.

  She waits impatiently under my scrutiny, arms crossed and eyes blazing with… something. Annoyance? Anger? Maybe a touch of barely controlled lust…

  “What is it going to take to make you go away?” I ask.

  “Finish it,” she says.

  I lean over to grip the trashcan by the rim, holding it up so she can see where the manuscript is.

  She reaches to pull it free, but I hold my arm up high and all five foot nothing of her can’t do anything but swat uselessly at the air, trying to reach it.

  She steps back, sucking in a breath like a little kid who is about to throw a full-blown tantrum. I raise my eyebrows, bracing myself, but she blows out the breath and somehow forces herself to relax.

  “Listen,” she says carefully. “We met at a kind of weird time in my life. I realize how I must seem.”

  “Do you?” I ask.

  “I seem crazy. But a few nights ago, that was just a bad combination of boxed wine and misunderstandings and—”

  “Wait,” I say. “Boxed wine?”

  “I like the flavor better,” she says.

  “You’re a shitty liar.”

  “And you have shitty manners.”

  I shrug. “Manners are for trying to make people comfortable. Trying to impress. You think I want to do either of those right now?”

  “I just…” she says, deflating a little as she walks to my couch and sits on the armrest. “I’ve never read anything like that,” she says, pointing to the trashcan.

  I glance at the side of the trashcan. “It’s called a warning label,” I say. “Don’t worry, no one else reads them either.”

  It’s difficult not to flinch back from the dirty look she gives me. “The manuscript.”

  I sigh, dropping the trashcan to the floor and leaving the manuscript inside.

  “Did you read the email I wrote you?” she asks. “The one I wrote T.S. Barnes, I mean.”

  “I read it,” I say, trying not to let any emotion enter my voice. Yeah, I read it a few times, okay? Yeah, it made me feel good. But it pissed me off that some random fan complimenting my dumb romance book would make me feel good, so I gave you a curt response and hoped you’d fuck off like the rest of them.

  “The voice I said I felt in your book that came and went… Well in that,” she says, pointing to the trashcan. “The voice… The emotion…” she shakes her head. “I swear by everything I’ve ever believed, if you finish that book, it will take the world by storm.”

  “And you think that’s what I want?” I ask. Anger bites at me, swirling hot and rough inside my stomach.

  Her eyebrows pull together as if she never even considered I might not want to write another world-famous book, even if I could. “You could write it as T.S. Barnes. Stay anonymous.”

  “How long do you think that could last before someone finds out it is me?”

  “So you threw it away because you don’t want the attention?”

  “I threw it away because I couldn’t finish it. I can’t finish it.”

  “Why?”

  I set the beer down roughly and motion to the front door. “Okay. Question time is over. Out.”

  “No,” she says like I just asked her to do a handstand. “You’re too short on time to talk to me? You’ve got more beers in the fridge that need your attention? More walls to stare at in here? Or maybe you want to half-write some more books and then print them out just so you can throw them in the trash? You realize it’s still on your computer, right? Even if you trash the manuscript.”

  “I deleted it,” I say, teeth gritted. I did, too. I printed the copy to read-through like I always do when I’m halfway through a book. I realized I was never going to finish the story, though, because I realized it wasn’t just a story. It was…

  I clench my fists at my side, closing off my thoughts because I don’t want to deal with it—any of it.

  She just stands there waiting, like she can get me to explain my life story to her through sheer stubbornness. My mouth opens and for a strange moment, I think I’m actually about to start talking, to start unwrapping the bandage so she can see the bloody wound festering in my mind, but I snap my mouth closed and point again. “Fuck. Off.”

  For the first time since she came, I see her act falter. The unrelenting, fearless face she wears slips, giving me a glimpse of the woman beneath who is standing in front of a guy she’s probably terrified of.

  “You could just—”

  “Out,” I say, putting my hand on her back and leading her out the front door.

  The look on her face when she turns around before I close the door on her makes my chest tighten. Wounded. It’s not the first time I’ve burned a bridge, not the first time I’ve pushed someone good away, and it won’t be the last.

  I lean my forehead against the door and listen to the faint sound of her footsteps retreating.

  “Wait,” I say quietly.

  Her footsteps stop.

  I turn to face her. “I appreciated the email.” Getting the words out is like squeezing water from concrete, but I manage them, even if they come out chopped and stiff.

  She bites her lip, letting the ghost of a smile touch her face. It lights her up in a way I haven't seen yet, and I'm worried I'm going to want to see it again. She looks good happy. Really good. Not just in a way that makes me want to fuck her like some groupie, but in a way that makes me imagine if I ever manage to get a girl like her to stick around, maybe some of that happiness will rub off on me eventually.

  “You did?” she asks, taking a step closer.

  I hold out my hand. “I didn’t rescind my ‘fuck off’,” I say with a half-grin. “I just said I liked your email.”

  There’s a hopeful glint in her eyes. “Well, thank you for liking it,” she says. “I meant what I said in the email. I still do.” She gives me a sad little smile before leaving

  I lean against the wall and sigh. “I know you meant it,” I mutter. “That’s why it’s going to be so fucking hard to get you off my mind.”

  5

  Lindsey

  One advantage of living on a mountain is not having to shop for groceries at the usual big name stores. Just a few miles away from the base of the mountain, there’s a road that winds through the valley between our mountain and another to the west. There are enough shops and stores along the road to service the few thousand people who live on the mountains around here. With the exception of the Starbucks, there are no brand name stores. Everything is named after so-and-so’s grandfather or great-great-grandmother.

  Amelia and I are in Mac’s grocery to get enough basics to make it through another week. “Have you thought any more about Evo? The beauty school?” Amelia asks, as if I could’ve forgotten after she told me the price tag.

  “We’ll just h
ave to see,” I say. I’m not giving her my full attention, and I feel guilty for it, but I can’t stop thinking about my two run-ins with Chris Savage last week. It's been a few days since he smashed my dignity to pieces and tossed me out, but it feels like the sting of his dismissal only gets worse with every passing day.

  It’s the weirdest thing with him, though. I remember having a burrito once that was so spicy I couldn’t taste anything but the heat. When I complained about it to Brooke, she told me to use sweet chili sauce to take the edge off. All it took was a little sweet, and I was able to taste all the flavors. That restaurant ended up being one of my favorite burrito places. Chris reminds me of that. He’s shown me just enough potential from the poet that he can be on the page, and the brief flashes of charm and kindness he has shown in person, but I still can’t see him through all the anger and meanness he wears like a shield.

  His personality brings a side out of me I don't usually see, too. I've never been one to be overly assertive with strangers, even if I have had to step into more of mother's role with Amelia. My natural inclination is to avoid conflict and seek the path of least resistance. But that manuscript… I wasn't kidding when I said it'd take the world by storm. Hell, he could release it as-is and he'd have millions of people clamoring for part two.

  “Lindseeey,” Amelia singsongs. She gently flicks my ear with a grin. “You’re thinking about a boy. I know that look.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m definitely not thinking about a boy.” There’s nothing boyish about Chris. Arrogant jerk, yes. Rude as hell, yes. Boy? No, unfortunately not. It’d be easier to hate him if he was what I always imagined an author to look like. Maybe a frail guy with a belly who wears turtlenecks and circular glasses that he refers to as “spectacles”. If a guy like that treated me the way Chris does, it’d be easier. Although apparently even a guy like Chris can’t get away with treating me like dirt. He may have softened my view of him just a touch by telling me he liked my email, but he still has a lot of ground to make up if he ever expects me to like him Not that I think he particularly cares what I think anyway. It’s not the man that has me still thinking about what happened constantly, it’s the books.