CHAPTER 13

After rehearsal, I make a stop on the way home. Then I collect my prize from the trunk of my car and head around the house toward the patio. I rest my package against the siding before knocking on the door of the pool house. Timothy answers, deliciously disheveled. He looks as if he started changing but forgot, clad in faded jeans with his dress shirt half unbuttoned. "What's up?" "What's up?" I laugh. "You show up at rehearsal and go all Rodgers and Hammerstein, and you're asking me what's up?" He pulls back the door, and I glance past him at the three guys in the main living area with their instruments, all staring at me. "Give us a second," he tells the guys. "Right. We'll just...water the plants." Brandon offers a wink as he and the others trail past me. Timothy crosses the room, the muscles of his back tugging at the dress shirt in a way that makes my throat dry as I follow him inside and shut the door. He picks up a remote, and a speaker in the corner starts to croon something bluesy. I set the guitar case on the bed. "This is for you. Because you believed in me enough to help me. And I believe in you." He opens the zipper with calm hands, pulling back the soft top to reveal the instrument inside. His long exhale has the hair standing up on my neck. "Emily, I can't accept it." Timothy tries to shut the case, and I grab the top at the same time. "You know," I say, my voice rising. "most of the time, I let you be an idiot." His jaw tics, eyes flashing. "I'm an idiot?" "Yes, because you won't take the things you want. I had this guitar made for you because this way you can't ignore it, can't pretend it's not yours." He doesn't release my hand as I stare at him, my eyes burning as the weight of the last few days builds up on me. "This guitar is made for a prince. Not a prince of assholes, but a prince who trusts himself enough to take what the world gives him and then some. You can break it or sell it or throw it in the pool, at least wait until I'm gone." My heart twists at the sickening thought. "It's so beautiful---" "You're so beautiful," he interrupts. "Do you know that? How fucking beautiful you are?" His voice is raw silk. My heart thuds as he steps closer, stops in front of me. Timothy fills my vision, his sculpted chest and shoulders making me feel small but not weak. "You're worth a thousand of every person in that school," he states. "When they're assholes, you fight back. When you almost get assaulted at your own party, you turn it into an excuse to work harder. You survive everything that gets thrown your way." Timothy cups my face, that firm, perfect mouth descending toward my cheek. The first brush of his lips on my skin sends a jolt of awareness through me, electricity that has my lips buzzing and my breasts aching. More... I circle his wrists with my fingers to keep him from moving away. He doesn't. He moves to the other side of my face, and as his lips descend, I lift my face. This time his lips brush the corner of mine, cling for a moment. It's open-mouthed and deliciously sexy. My fingers creep up his face, curl into his hair. I tug at the ends of the soft strands not hard enough to bring his mouth to mine, but enough that when my tongue darts out to wet my suddenly dry lips, I taste him too. I want him closer. Want more of him, all of him. Holding back nearly breaks me, takes every ounce of control I have plus some borrowed from tomorrow, next week, next year. Tears sting the backs of my eyes from the effort until one spills over, tracing a bold path down my cheek. Shit. "You can't kiss me right now." I breath. "I wanted our first kiss to be perfect." I reach up to swipe at the tear, the evidence that this isn't going how it's supposed to, and he brushes my hand away. He gazes down at me, his expression full of wanting and something more. "Really?" His breath dances across my lips, and his warm palms cup my neck. "Because I just fucking want it." Before I can protest, Timothy Adams is kissing me. His hand is in my hair, dragging my mouth to his. Of the million thoughts I could have in this moment, the only one that cuts through fog is, fucking finally. He tastes like home and adventure, everywhere I've been and everywhere I want to go. It's so new I'm fascinated and so familiar I ache. The first brush of his tongue sets me on fire. Forget playing it cool. My arms lock around his neck and pull me up so I can press my body closer to his. I want to feel him everywhere. From the way he kisses me back, I can tell he wants that too. He backs me across the floor, swallowing my gasp when I hit the wall. My hands slide up his firm chest, relishing the muscles that jump beneath my touch. I swear I feel every inch of him, and my leg hooks around his as if I can draw him into me from that motion alone. Kissing Timothy is a storm I want to bottle, to study, to chase to the ends of the earth. We're both storms, tow opposing forces clashing, becoming one. It's hard and hot and bewildering. My teeth sink into his lower lip, and he groans, tugging on my hair so I open for him. He grabs my ass, grinding against me, and I rub my breasts against his chest though our clothes, needing some friction, any fucking friction. His lips skim my damp cheek and down my neck. I angle my jaw up, needing him closer, and he devours me like a starving man. I'm dying... Turning to a liquid, to a gas, to plasma under his hands. If this is what it feels like to be real with Timothy, I'm in. I want everything he is, and I want to be everything he's not. I want to shut out the world and lose myself in him, to beg him to show me all he--- A knock at the door has Timothy tearing his mouth away. The anguished look on his face has my gut wrenching. "It's Brandon." comes the voice through the door. "You ever gonna come out, or is this a sock-on-door kind of situation?" Timothy shoves a hand through his hair. "One second." he calls back, his gaze on me. I adjust my clothes, and he helps me off the wall. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. "That was..." "Fucking crazy." His heavy exhale makes me inordinately happy. "Yeah It was fucking crazy." He steps close, leans his forehead against mine as if he can put off the inevitable, steal a few more seconds where it's just him and me. That tiny gestures gives me more hope than anything he could say. "Enjoy the guitar." I toss when he steps back. "And I won't tell anyone crying turns you on. It's our little secret." He smirks at me, and my heart flips. As I turn for the door, I decide the only thing better than Timothy smiling is Timothy smiling when his mouth is still swollen from mine. "Your lilies need mulch." Brandon says when I close the door after him. "Where'd the others go?" "They took off. You were taking too long." Brandon rubs a hand over his jaw. "Tricia called. She doesn't think she has more gigs for us. I'm guessing you guys haven't smoothed things over." "Nothing to smooth. We're done." I haven't seen Tricia since the night of the party. "I could used the tutoring before exams, but it wasn't worth the drama." I turn to see Brandon circling the bed. "Damn, this is sweet." His fingers slide over the strings and frets, admiring the wood, the full sound. "It's yours?" "Yeah." Brandon's low whistle is admiring. "One of my brothers bought me a six-foot stuffed lizard for my sixteenth birthday party as a joke. This is way better. What's the occasion?" I take it from him, put it back in the case, and close it before following him to the couch and dropping onto the opposite end. "It's my I'm in over my head and it's all my fucking fault party." He frowns. "That some Catholic thing?" I shoot him a look. "Eddie introduced me to a guy who can get me working in New York after graduation." "No shit. When are you going?" My abs clench. "This summer, I guess." "You guess?" he echoes. I rub a hand over my mouth. I swear I can still taste her. "When I came here, it was a short-term deal for my music. I wasn't planning to make friends. No offense." "None taken." He cocks his head. "I always figured part of why you ran with us was to keep Carla and the others from fucking with your girl." I swivel on the couch to stare him down. "What are you talking about, Brandon?" He smirks. "It's obvious. Not to all of them, but to me. Only reason Carla can't see it is she doesn't want to. She's got what my Dad would call a vested interest. Gotta say, I'm sorry I missed that stunt at rehearsal. Sounds like a bold move." I shove off the couch to pace the room, thinking of Chris' and Carla's bewildered faces. "It'll cost me." "No. It'll cost her." I pull up sharply. That thought hadn't occurred to me. When Emily showed up at my door, half of me wanted to lock her out of my life and my heart. The rest of me wanted to press her up against that same door and prove I'm worthy of her trust, her hope, her damned guitar. I'm supposed to be in charge, but tonight she turned the tables. She was holding court, and I was on my knees. "I can't," I hear myself say. "Can't what?" "Anything." I grind out. "I can't have her. I can't ignore her. I can't even look at her without wanting her." It's a dangerous game. Not only because Eddie would string me up, but because I'm supposed to be leaving and focusing my future, scraping together the pieces of the hand I've been dealt to try to make a life for myself. Not lose my head by depending on a girl, letting her depend on me. "Who says you're supposed to?" Brandon shakes his head. "You want me to say Emily Carlton doesn't want something from you? You're asking the wrong question. What you should be asking is, who're the people in this world you wanna count on? Because none of us make it through alone."