The Boy I Grew Up With Read online

  I didn’t ask for details.

  “What?”

  “Huh?” I glanced at him.

  “What’s going on? You’re sighing more than normal.” His eyes darkened. “You’re pissed I snuck out the other night?”

  I raised my eyebrows. He knew I was. That was a stupid question.

  He smiled. “Can I tell you what it was about?”

  I shook my head against the pillow. “Please no. I don’t want to get pissed at you all over again.”

  He laughed softly. “Fair enough, but I think you’d understand if I told you.”

  I gave him a look.

  He laughed again, reaching for me, curving his arm around my waist. He pulled me against him.

  “This is nice. I’ve missed you. Fuck. I’ve missed you.”

  I opened the door the last time at his place. I’d pushed it open, talking about the “issues” and now he was continuing. We weren’t going right to the sex. We were doing the talking, the touching, the cuddling, the moments that made us yearn for each other. We were doing the whole “best friendship” thing.

  And of course, just as I thought that, his foot started tapping. I stifled a grin.

  Or not. Maybe we were going another way.

  The edge was leaving him because he was with me, but he wasn’t relaxing. An image of a caged and restless tiger came to mind. Beautiful to look at, but he needed to run, rumble, or hunt.

  His eyes took on a lustful glint. His hunting was going to be me.

  I readied myself.

  He snaked his other hand between us. His thumb traced the inside of my palm, and my body started to warm.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  Some of my own restlessness pushed forward. I spoke before I realized I was talking.

  He laughed. “Pretty sure you know.” He shifted to his back, his hand pulling out from behind me. He moved our palms to my stomach and let go to edge beneath my shorts. His fingers spread wide, and he waited.

  Goddamn.

  This guy.

  I looked at him, really looked at him.

  Full lips. A strong jaw. High and chiseled cheekbones. Eyes that promised so many dark and lustful pleasures.

  I throbbed between my legs. My breaths grew shallow. My body had warmed, needing him, but something beneath that wasn’t letting me ignore it. Not anymore. It’d been with me all night.

  It wasn’t going to be overlooked anymore.

  Channing and I always fought over his crew involvement. I’d stepped away when his dad went to prison, so he could focus on raising Bren. But there was another reason we broke up last year.

  It was the one thing that made me jealous of Samantha.

  Maybe that was why I texted him back.

  Maybe I just wanted…

  No. I couldn’t go there. Not yet.

  Still, I grabbed his hand and pulled it out of my pants. I rolled off the bed to my feet in one movement, and my hands found my hips.

  I panted slightly as I met his gaze.

  “What are you doing?” He sat up, his white shirt fitting so perfectly and deliciously. I pulled my gaze away.

  “I—” I didn’t know.

  God, it hurt. My entire chest was trying to implode inside of me.

  “Heather.”

  He moved to the edge of the bed. Rubbing a hand over his face, he then raked it through his hair.

  “We’ve been in and out of each other’s beds a lot lately,” I rasped out.

  Was I actually going here? Really? Me, who hated talking about the real issues? Me, who hated feeling?

  Shit. I was.

  A wall slammed over his eyes. His face became masked. “Yeah.”

  It happened so quickly. Years of baggage did that.

  “Do you think we should talk about why we broke up this last time?”

  My voice was a whisper. I couldn’t help myself. I was pissing my pants here.

  A flicker of emotion exploded in his gaze, but he turned away. His head went down. I knew I’d hurt him. I was hurting too. I felt a knot in my throat, thinking about it.

  “We break up for different reasons all the time,” he murmured. “We both know why we broke up this last time.”

  Yep. Here we were.

  The ground was moving underneath me. I wanted it to stop, and I could make it stop. I could drop the conversation, go to him, touch him, kiss him, pull him down over me, and it would be done. We might not bring it up for days, weeks, even months.

  We could go that route. We were experts at avoiding the real issues.

  But…

  It.

  She wasn’t an it.

  I was done. I don’t know why, but I was tired of ignoring her.

  I was tired of ignoring how my insides had been ripping over every morning since. “I lost her too, you know?”

  I was tired of ignoring how I’d never be the same since her.

  “I know.” He looked back, turning only halfway, his face still masked.

  I closed my eyes.

  I sat beside him, an inch of space between us. In some ways, this signified our relationship. We were both there, but not together. We were on our own, not connected and not touching.

  I needed to stop thinking about this.

  It just hurt. That was all.

  “We both lost our daughter,” I said, my throat raw.

  He sucked in his breath, straightening up. “I know.” He reached for my hand, his arm going under me as he lifted me onto his lap. His head rested against my shoulder, and he kissed me. He held me tight, and his entire body let loose a deep sigh.

  I felt him relax around me.

  There. She’d been brought up. She wasn’t something we were ignoring.

  It hurt, but it felt…necessary.

  It felt…better.

  But my throat was burning, and though my chest felt lighter, I wasn’t ready for the next step: talking.

  I just sat. He just held me. And after a while, the air in the room seemed to ease.

  His arms loosened.

  The tension in me lifted slightly, and I could feel him underneath me. Every inch of him. I could feel his gaze on me. He’d come in here with a need to claim me, and that was still there, but it had shifted. It had morphed into a different need. I knew this, because I was feeling it too.

  Unable to stop myself, I moved so I could comb my fingers through his hair.

  His eyes closed, savoring my touch until I swung my legs around to straddle him. I leaned over. His eyes opened, and there was so much love swimming there. He saw how much I needed him. God help me, I needed him.

  I felt his hand sliding up the back of my legs, and he pressed into me. My chest was at his neck, his hands were at my hips now, spanning my waist, and he nodded.

  I moaned as his hand moved up my back, under my tank top, and the other hand lowered my sleeping shorts just enough. He cupped me, and as our gazes held, a finger slipped inside.

  I gasped, melting farther into him. His arm tightened around my waist. He held me, looking up and holding my gaze captive as his finger stroked me. A second joined it, and I grabbed his shoulders.

  It felt so damned good, always so damned good—because this was what we were good at—and he kept sliding them in and out, going farther and farther in. I clutched him now. My fingers curled, my nails sinking into his skin, and I bit my lip.

  I started to close my eyes, wanting to surrender completely to the storm he could give my body, but he said, “Don’t!”

  His eyes blazed at me, and I nodded.

  He wanted to see me come. He wanted to see my pupils dilate, and I hated and loved when he did this.

  He made me vulnerable in the rawest state I could be in—completely exposed as he watched me.

  A third finger moved in, and I lay against him, still sitting up.

  Face to face. Nose to nose. His eyes kept flicking to my lips, but he wouldn’t kiss me. If he did, my eyes would close, and he couldn’t watch me. He couldn’t see the hol
d he had over my body, inside and out, and because of that, I grazed my lips over his.

  He moaned, but pulled back.

  “Not fair,” he ground out, his fingers surging high and pausing.

  I felt them close to my stomach, and I gasped, but held still.

  God.

  Please.

  They were almost where she had been.

  He moved them around, then pulled them out, only to thrust in again.

  “Chan,” I moaned, my head falling back, my eyes closing again.

  “Heather,” he growled, gripping the back of my neck, making me watch him.

  Oh—oh—oooh.

  I felt the climax rising, building slowly. Channing grinned, slowing down, and I groaned.

  I hit his shoulder with a fist. “You dick.”

  He was drawing this out.

  He chuckled, but he gave in, moving to kiss my shoulder.

  I started to ride his hand. I couldn’t help myself any longer. I had to release, and my breasts began to brush his chest. With a growl, Channing ripped my shirt off. He tossed it to the side and cupped one of my breasts. His thumb tweaked my nipple, sending sensations all through me.

  I wanted to come. I wanted it so bad, and I reached down, holding his wrist in place so I could ride him the way I wanted to. I wanted to have control, but a soft chuckle caressed me as he moved up, his lips finding mine before he said, “No, no.”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  Letting go of my breast, his other hand went to my waist, and he gripped me close, standing in the same motion.

  I squeaked, my arms going around his neck, and my legs wrapping around his waist. He walked me back, holding me against the wall, and then his mouth found mine. But this time, there was nothing soft about it. No teasing graze, no slight nip. This time, his lips opened over mine in a hard kiss, a brutal kiss, and one I succumbed to gladly.

  I shifted higher against him, as if we really were having sex, and it wasn’t just his fingers in me. Holy shit, I wanted that—so fucking bad.

  “Channing!”

  He laughed again, pulling back so he could watch me. He had a dark and primal look on his face, one I knew always lurked under the surface, and he stroked me harder. He wasn’t holding back anymore.

  My release was coming.

  My legs clenched around him, and I leaned my head back, helpless and only wanting what was coming—and then I exploded. My body shuddered in his hold.

  He didn’t give me time to acclimate to the sensations coursing through me. Shoving his pants down and mine, he pushed inside me, and I groaned.

  And I stopped thinking about her.

  14

  Heather

  Fifth grade

  “Who are you trick-or-treating with?”

  We were preparing to leave the house when my dad asked that question. I had his green robe on with a dozen stuffed cats either glued, taped, or shoved into the pockets, and my hair was in three giant rollers on top of my head. I had explained the whole premise of the costume three times to my dad, and every time, he ended up looking down at his lap with his shoulders shaking.

  I wrinkled my nose. “That stupid Channing Monroe.”

  “I thought you two were friends.” He stifled more laughter, locking the door behind us.

  I got it. It was hilarious.

  Insert eye roll here, please.

  I huffed out, “We are, but…still.”

  I was just sore. Tate had gone trick-or-treating with her friends in Fallen Crest, because that’s where she lived now. I felt like a loser. She hadn’t even asked me to go with them.

  “Tell me again about the idea for your costume,” he said as he crossed the porch.

  “We were supposed to pick costumes for each other that show what we’re going to be when we’re old—like, twenty-five.”

  “Old.” We separated to go to our car doors. He coughed as I climbed in. “Yes. Twenty-five is old.”

  “It’s almost ancient, Dad.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway.” I climbed in, rearranging some of the cats so my seatbelt wouldn’t crush them. He started the car, and I continued, “He picked mine. He thinks I’m gonna be a cat lady.”

  “And what did you pick for Channing?”

  “That one was a little hard because I had three choices. He’s either going to be a rock star, a criminal, or a serial killer. He gets in so much trouble, it has to be one of those three.”

  “Of course.” Again with the lip smashing. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. “So, which did you pick?”

  “The obvious one.”

  “Which is?”

  “Serial killer.” Duh.

  When we pulled up to Channing’s house, I saw him and was out of the car in a flash. “You’re supposed to be a killer guy!”

  He stood up from the front step and smirked. His hair was slicked back, and as he raked his fingers through it, chain bracelets slid down his arm. He wore a ripped muscle shirt with a leather vest over it, and leather pants on the bottom. Three long chain necklaces hung down his chest, one with a cross at the end.

  He cocked his head back, his thumb hooked into the waistband of his pants. “Come on. You really think I’m going to be a serial killer?” He waved a hand over himself. “I’ll be a rock star, hands down.”

  “You cheated!” I growled, reaching for one of my cats. Ripping it from the duct tape, I chucked it at him. “I’m not going trick-or-treating with you now.”

  The window rolled down on my dad’s car. “Things okay?”

  “Yeah!” Channing yelled, scooting around me so he was first to the car. His hand found mine behind his back, and he squeezed it. “We’re still in negotiations over my costume, but we’ll be fine, Mr. Jax. My mom will call you when we’re done tonight.”

  Dad moved his head to the side, a better angle to see me. “Heather?”

  “Yeah, Dad?” Channing was almost killing my hand.

  “Are you okay?”

  I gritted my teeth and used both of my hands to crush his. When he howled in protest, I smiled sweetly at my dad. “I’ll be fine.”

  Channing was the devil—I should’ve made him dress like that—but I didn’t have any backup trick-or-treating plans. Rock star would have to do.

  As soon as my dad left the driveway, I shoved Channing away. “You’re a moron.”

  “Come on, Heather.”

  I paused at his tone. It wasn’t cocky like normal. He seemed embarrassed.

  “I don’t want to dress like a criminal or a killer. A rock star is much cooler.” He looked away.

  I picked at my robe. “What do you think this is? You think I’m Alanis Morissette here? I’m in a freaking robe with cats taped all over. Cat lady does not equal cool, but I played by the rules. I’m not a cheater.”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s funny. You’re not going to be a cat lady.”

  That made me feel better, but I was still sore. It had been his idea to pick each other’s costumes.

  “Okay. Okay.” He held his hands up, walking toward me. “How about we go trick-or-treating like this, and I’ll give you some of my stash?”

  Well… That held promise. “Give me a third of your candy, and it’s a deal.”

  “What?” His eyes rounded. “No way.”

  “Half your stash.”

  He narrowed his eyes, his head tilting to the side.

  “The longer you wait, the higher I go…” I chided softly.

  “A third.” His held his hand out. “Final deal.”

  “Half or no deal.”

  “Heather!” he whined, then groaned as his head fell back. “Fine. I’ll give you half.”

  I shook his hand. “We got a plan of action to hit these houses?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, come on.” I put my hands on my hips—or on one of the cat heads. “We need back-up costumes so we can hit the houses twice.”

  He mulled that over a moment, sticking his botto
m lip out until suddenly he snapped forward. “Hold on.”

  He ran inside, the screen door slamming behind him. A moment later, I heard him running back.

  His mother yelled from inside, “What are you doing with my new sheets, Channing?!”

  He burst through, throwing the screen door open like it was made of air. Dropping the sheets at my feet, he produced a black marker and scissors and yelled back, “Nothing, Mom!” He turned to me. “Run!”

  Three hours later, we’d hit all of Roussou twice and were walking down the tracks back to Channing’s house. Our bags were huge. The double costumes had worked. Plus, our second pass had hit the houses late, and most people wanted to get rid of their candy. Roussou wasn’t getting the customers it used to get, which was awesome!

  “Stop right there, you two.”

  A low growl came from behind us.

  We turned to find two guys there, one in a reaper costume and the other in prison garb. In a way, they were the serial killer and criminal I’d picked for Channing. Talk about cosmic coincidence.

  Both wore masks, and the bigger one growled, “Give us the candy, you losers.”

  Losers?

  Fu—nk this sh—at.

  Yeah. Funk this shat.

  My dad was on me about the swearing, but seriously. He wasn’t here.

  FUCK THIS SHIT! I yelled too. “Ahhhh!”

  Both guys took a step back.

  Channing was watching me, frowning. “Don’t get all crazy.”

  I howled at all of them. “I bargained hard for that candy. They’re not taking it.”

  The serial killer and criminal shared a look, but neither said a word. Their shoulders rolled back and the taller one raised his head. He coughed. “I mean it. Give us the candy.”

  All right. Game on, FUCKER!

  I was all about the swearing now. In my head.

  I braced my feet and dropped my bag. I was in the ghost sheet so I reached down and pulled out the robe.

  “Wha—” The shorter one frowned. “What are you doing?”

  I ripped off two of the cats. “I’m going to pelt you with them, you asshole!”

  “Don’t call me asshole!”

  “ASSHOLE!”

  “Man,” he whined, looking at his friend. “Nor—” He shut up suddenly, blasting his lips together and shooting us a look.