Creeping Beautiful, Book 1 Page 8

  “I’m here.”

  “I need you.”

  “I… I can’t get away right now.”

  “You’re not on call. Your fucking message said so. I. Need. You. Now.”

  “It’s a four-hour flight. And it’s already pretty late to make it there tonight.”

  “Three and a half. And take your fucking jet.”

  “Three and three quarters,” Indie calls out. She does not miss anything, does she? And why this surprises me, I don’t know. Because I’m the one who trained her to be that way.

  “She sounds fine.”

  “She’s not fine. She’s pissed off at Adam because she thinks he—”

  “He took Nate! He has him, Donovan. I know it. And I’m sick of this shit! It ends now. He can’t get away with this again. Do you hear me?”

  “I’m on my way.” The call drops.

  I turn back to Indie. “He’s on his way.”

  “Good.”

  “You knew he was in LA.”

  “What?”

  “Earlier you said you went to his house. His old house. But you knew he was in LA. So you went to some old house in LA?”

  “Oh.” She thinks about this for a moment. “I guess I did. I… must’ve forgotten.”

  I don’t push her any further. There’s no point. Donovan is on his way.

  “Are you tired?” I study the look on her face. It’s one of confusion. She’s thinking about my comment. “Do you wanna sleep, Indie? Donovan won’t be here for a while.”

  “Will you sleep with me?”

  I shake my head but don’t state the rejection outright.

  “Why not?”

  “Just… it’s not appropriate. We’ve been over this a million times.”

  She gets up from the couch and walks towards me with a sly smirk on her face. I back up instinctively, but bump into the table. And there’s no easy way to get away from her without it looking obvious. So I stay there and wait until she’s right in front of me, her head tilted up to mine, her fingers playing with the fabric of my t-shirt until she’s got it bunched up in her fists just under my arms.

  “Do I make you nervous?”

  I nod. “Yeah.” Then I take both her hands and remove her grip from my shirt. “And you know why. So knock it off.”

  She smiles at me, then turns and walks back to the couch to grab another piece of pizza. “Your excuses don’t hold water anymore, McKay.”

  “They’re not excuses.”

  “You don’t love me, then?”

  “You know I love you.”

  “Just… not like that.”

  “Indie…” I close my eyes and rub my hand over them.

  “What? You’ve been selling me this same line of bullshit since I was seventeen.”

  “Because you were seventeen. And I was…”

  “You’re not my father. And you’re not my brother, either.”

  “It’s just not right.”

  “Who cares? If we love each other.”

  That’s not even what I mean. But I can’t explain that to her. At least… not until Donovan gets here.

  I got over the age difference between us a long time ago. And I do love her. I would like nothing more than to take her to bed and hold her all fucking night long.

  Just… not when she’s like this.

  It’s not right.

  And the whole thing between us—all of us. It’s very fucking complicated. Adam wants one thing, I want another, and Donovan? Well, I have no clue what that guy wants. But somehow I doubt it’s anything like what Adam wants, and that’s the only part of this that matters.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “No. Don’t be silly. I don’t want you to go.”

  “Why, though? Why do you want me here? If you’re not going to let me touch you.”

  “Because… I missed you. I’m glad you’re here. I really am. But I think you should talk to Donovan before we…”

  “We fuck?”

  “No.” And then I just have to laugh. God. Why is this girl so hard?

  “Before we what? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Before we… reconnect. You know? It’s been four years. I thought you were dead. I have spent the last four fucking years wondering where you were, what you were doing, and if you needed help. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m pissed at you. Like… a lot. Super. Fucking. Angry with you. You just walk out? Never come back? What the actual fuck, Indie?”

  She pulls her knees up to her chest. Gives herself another hug.

  And now I regret my outburst. Because she didn’t really do that. Not consciously. So it’s not her fault. And even though I did think she was dead, and I have been beating myself up for four fucking years because I didn’t realize how close she was to the edge, I was not, nor have I ever been, angry with her.

  In my mind there is nothing about India Anna Accorsi I would change.

  And that’s a problem.

  I should want all the things about her to be different.

  And I don’t.

  I love her just the way she is.

  And that’s… wrong.

  “I’m sorry.”

  God. I hate this. I fuckin’ hate it. “You don’t need to say sorry, OK? Everything is fine.”

  Or it will be. When Donovan gets here.

  “So where’s Adam? You really don’t talk to him?”

  “I do. Every once in a while.”

  “He doesn’t live at Old Home anymore.”

  I picture our old house on the river and a stab of regret and sadness fills me up. “You went out there?” I try to imagine her back in that house. Or even just walking around the grounds. What was she thinking?

  “I did. But it was all locked up and I didn’t feel like breaking in. When was the last time you went out there?”

  I haven’t been out to the old house since… well, since shit went sideways and Indie took off. But this is definitely an off-limits subject with Donovan still at least four or five hours away.

  Because everything went wrong that day. Everything. And when it was all said and done, I came here to my shop and I don’t think I left for a month.

  I don’t even think I ate for a week. And then, when I did, I just called for delivery.

  I played that day over and over in my head for years. That’s not even an exaggeration, either. I was broken after that. Never the same.

  And yeah, Indie was too. We all were.

  But I just felt like… like I failed her. And I get it. There was no way to prepare her for a day like that, but I could’ve handled it better.

  I was the one who fucked up that day. Not Adam. Not Donovan. Not even Indie. None of it was her fault. We were supposed to protect her. Keep her safe. And she was not safe that day.

  “I miss it though.”

  I look over at Indie, sitting there on the couch, hugging herself. “Me too.”

  “My favorite room was the atrium. Didn’t you just love the atrium, McKay?”

  I smile at her. “I did. Especially when you had birds in there.”

  We both laugh.

  “God, that drove Adam crazy, didn’t it?”

  I nod at her.

  “It wasn’t my fault. They just flew in the door.”

  “Right.” I laugh again.

  “Seriously. I’m not like some bird whisperer.”

  “Indie. Come on. You’re trying to tell me that a great blue heron just flew in the front door?”

  “Maybe not that one. But he liked the pond.”

  He liked the pond. God, I love her.

  “If Adam didn’t want wetland birds inside his stupid house, he shouldn’t have a stupid pond in his foyer atrium.”

  “I’m pretty sure they call that a water feature. Rich people like that kind of shit indoors.”

  She snort-laughs. “Same thing. Anyway. You loved the birds too.”

  I just look at her. I love it when she smiles. And it’s been so lon
g. I mean, I have pictured this day in my mind for four years and it never happened like this. I thought there would be tears. Lots of crying. From all of us. But mostly her.

  I didn’t picture her smiling and laughing. Not after everything that happened that day.

  But that’s the gift of trauma-induced amnesia, right?

  All those bad things just get wiped clean and you’re left with nothing but the good ones.

  All the days that ended just fine.

  The house and the birds.

  The marsh and the river.

  The boy next door.

  That’s all she remembers now.

  And there’s a part of me that wants to keep her like this.

  Innocent, and happy, and unaware of what really happened on her twentieth birthday.

  But I really do love her. I love her way too much. I want her way too much. And if we ever have a real chance at becoming what we always knew we were meant to be… then she needs to know.

  She has to remember.

  And then she will leave us again.

  I will lose her.

  She will run away and this time she might not ever come back.

  She gets up from the couch, crosses the room, and stands in front of me. I look up at her and wait.

  “Can I sit with you, McKay?”

  I know what the right answer is. The same answer it’s always been—except for that one time on her twentieth birthday.

  But I say, “Sure,” anyway.

  Because I don’t want to lose her again. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

  She settles in my lap, one arm around my neck, her legs sideways over my thighs, her head tucked under my chin. And when I wrap my arms around her, I know there’s no going back. Once I cross this line for real, all this pretending is over.

  I just don’t care anymore.

  I want her.

  My hand slips down to her thigh and I begin rubbing it.

  Indie turns her cheek and a chill runs through my whole body when her lips touch my neck.

  I sigh.

  “You were always my favorite, you know that, McKay?”

  “Lies,” I whisper back. “You always loved Donovan more.”

  “That’s not true. It was always you. But you were so… so… focused.”

  “Focused?” I smile.

  “Yeah. On doing the right thing.”

  I lean back a little and push her away. “What the hell are you talking about? The right thing? I can’t think of a single fucking time in my entire life when I did the right thing.”

  “You did the right thing with me all the time. That’s why we’re not together.”

  I’m not sure if she’s joking right now or this is just her unreliable memory talking. “Indie. Come on. I taught you how to kill people. In no way, shape, or form did I ever do the right thing with you.”

  “You didn’t want to fuck me.”

  “Stop that. Just… stop that.”

  “It’s true. You drove me to Nathan St. James. He was all I had.”

  “That’s funny. He was all you wanted. He was your number one. Not me.”

  “When I was little.” She snuggles up against me again. “But not later. It was always you. And you just… never wanted me.”

  I want to tell her everything. That she is everything to me. I want to make all these years fit together inside her head and make sense for once. I want to force her to open up and understand all the reasons why I did the things I’ve done.

  “And when I left you never even looked for me. I could’ve used you, ya know.”

  “Literally? Used me?”

  “Not just literally. All the ways. But yes. There were so many times that I needed you, McKay. And you weren’t there.”

  “That’s because I was here. And you knew I was here. And you didn’t come back to me.”

  She relaxes against my chest and breathes for a few moments. “I needed you to come back to me.”

  “I wasn’t the one who left.”

  She sits up in my lap. “Really?” Her eyes are locked with mine. But then she frowns and a stab of panic washes through my body. I don’t want her to remember. I don’t want her to know any of the shit she’s forgotten.

  I reach up and grab her hair. Pull her face to mine. And I kiss this creeping beautiful girl the way she should be kissed.

  I kiss her the way a man kisses a woman he’s spent several lifetimes dreaming about.

  I kiss her the way a woman made of messy, lovely darkness needs to be kissed on a stormy night.

  I kiss her like a man who accepts all the pieces of gorgeous misery locked inside her heart.

  I kiss away all her pretty little nightmares until there is nothing left but emptiness.

  And then I just… fill her up again.

  She moans into my mouth. Her tongue searching for things she’ll never be able to find. Her soft lips lingering on mine like this connection is the last thing she’ll ever feel before she dies.

  “Take me into your bedroom, McKay. Before you change your mind.”

  I wrap my arms around her and stand up. Her legs immediately grip my waist and I slip my hands under her ass and hold her as I walk down the hall and into the dark bedroom.

  I don’t flip on the lights. We need the darkness tonight. We might need the darkness every night after this too.

  I lie her down on the bed and paw at the waistline of her sweats, jerking them down her legs. And when the back of my hand touches the soft, young skin of her thigh my cock swells inside my jeans.

  I toss her sweats aside and she reaches for me. But I step out of her reach and just bend her knees—slowly hiking them up to her chest as I lower myself to the floor and press my mouth against her pussy. Wet, and warm, and waiting for me.

  All these years. Waiting for me.

  My hands reach around her legs. I tug her forward to the edge of the bed and then my thumbs begin caressing small circles over her hipbones.

  She arches her back and moans, her fingers digging into my hair, clutching at it like she’s falling and I’m the only thing that can save her.

  I wish that were true. I want to be the one who saves her.

  But I can’t change that. Only she can. I lick her. Flick my tongue against her clit until she lets go of my hair, slips her fingers up my short sleeves, and begins clawing at my shoulders with her fingernails.

  I shove her shirt up her stomach, reaching for her tight, round breasts, then roll her nipples between my thumb and forefinger.

  She moans. “I want you inside me, McKay. Now, please.”

  And my heart hurts for her.

  For all the bad things coming, even though they’ve already happened.

  For all the tears she will cry, even though she sobbed herself dry years ago.

  For all the memories that will be ruined, even though they haven’t even been made yet, and never will now.

  I pull away from her, unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans as I stand. I kick my jeans off, push her up towards the top of the bed, and then ease my body between her open legs. The top of my cock pushes against her opening as I brace myself on the mattress with open palms and lean down to kiss her mouth again.

  I want to give her all the breath she will need to get through the pain. And when I enter her, she gasps into my mouth, giving it back.

  “Take it,” I tell her. “Take all of it and all of me, Indie. It’s yours. I’m yours.”

  It’s a slow fuck. And nothing about this time is anything like the last time.

  There is no rush. There is no urgency. There is no one else. Watching, or waiting, or second-guessing what we’re doing.

  It’s just us.

  And everything about that feels wrong.

  But we don’t care.

  Because nothing about this has ever been right.

  CHAPTER SIX - INDIE

  I have gone through two journals now and I have a feeling that I will go through dozens more before I’m done. Donovan always said it was a g
ood idea to journal. He says getting things down on paper helps you see things clearly.

  Sometimes I think seeing clearly is overrated. Most of the time, really. Show me a person who prefers sharp clarity over a soft hazy fog and I’ll show you one cold, mean bitch.

  That’s how they are.

  I know. I was one of them once upon a time.

  Back when I first came to Old Home I was all about seeing things clearly. Face the facts, Indie. The truth shall set you free.

  But there’s another saying that many people forget about.

  Ignorance is bliss.

  Like Adam and Eve before they ate that stupid fruit.

  Or was it just Eve who ate that apple? I can’t really remember. Never was much of a biblical girl. And even though Adam dragged me to church every fuckin’ Sunday, I didn’t pay attention. I just counted things. Ladies’ hats. Stained-glass windows. The number of birds in those windows. Not sure why there’s always a damn bird up in that glass, but the church we went to near Old Home had seventeen birds up there. I always thought that was a little excessive.

  They were all doves too. Which are kinda boring, if you ask me. Doves. What do doves do but fly through the air and remind you of Jesus?

  They don’t scare people like snakes do. And who wants to think about Jesus when you’re killing people?

  They should put a big, black raven up in those windows. Now that’s a bird that demands attention.

  Not sure it matters who ate that apple though. That’s my point. It’s all just good and evil in the end and you just take your pick and live with it.

  That’s why I’m not afraid of snakes.

  They come bearing gifts, don’t they? Apples. Adams. It’s all one and the same.

  Adam was always big on telling truths, though. God, how that used to drive me crazy.

  “Indie,” he’d say. And he always said my name like it was a curse word. “Indie. You tell lies like a bee gathers honey.” By which he meant, like it was my job.

  I wasn’t a liar though. That’s the part he never understood. I was just a storyteller. And who doesn’t like a good story?

  Everyone does. I don’t care who you are. If you tell a good one nobody is gonna complain about your story being lies. That’s the whole point of stories. It’s fake. That way you can make your story say anything you want and no one ever gets hurt.