12/13/16

I'VE WAITED.

On Sunday after baking cookies with Chase's mother I came down to the library in hopes of running into Clayton. He never showed. I did the same thing yesterday, and once again he didn't show.

So now here I am once again. Waiting, for a third night in a row wondering if my boyfriend's older brother will show up. Show up so I can talk to him and at least attempt to lessen the guilt I know clouds his hazel eyes. I hate to see the shame the mixes into that gorgeous face of his every time he's around his brother and me.

I run my fingers over the cracked paperback book in my hands letting myself sink into the soft leather chair. My legs are tucked under me as I prepare myself for diving into this book. The singular book Clayton suggested I read from Stephen King's long list of works. I found an old bookshop that sold the books when they were still serialized and not lumped into one book yet. The pages are old and beginning to fall apart, and there is writing in the margins and certain passages highlighted like someone loved these books more then anything.

I bought these books the day after Clayton mentioned them, and they have been my secret lifelines. They mean something to him. He chose these books to recommend to me for a reason. Maybe he can see I'm broken like him, or maybe he just simply likes the book. But either way he found something in these pages, and I'm hoping I can as well.

My thumb absentmindedly plays with the small gold ring on my left ring finger, pushing the worn piece around in circles. A small tic I have when I'm on edge, like waiting for a guy who thinks he touched me in an inappropriate way because I'm technically dating his brother for all he knows.

Nerves fester inside me the longer I wait, and I can barely focus on the words in front of me with the buzz of energy that fills me.

So I close my eyes, and I picture my father. I picture him in this exact room with me. I picture what his expression would be when he walked in, he always dreamed of having a home library this large and extensive but it never happened. I picture him sitting next to me, reading aloud his favorite novel in a way the sweeps me into the story as if I was there with the characters.

The images playing in my mind of my tall, pale, freckled father immediately calm me like a wave crashing upon a shore. It's instant and washes away everything in sight only leaving a memory of what was once there.

My fingers fumble through the pages not paying attention to the typed words, but instead the hastily written thoughts. The thoughts of a reader who was obviously just as passionate about literature as I am, as this person continues to draw parallels between this book and many classics.

I drop the book I'm holding and grab the first book in the series. I flip to the first page and run my hands over the faded and smeared ink.

To my darling,

May we love in the ruins....

This dedication. These words capture me more then anything. I don't know why this simple scrawled writing of a man or a woman writing to their partner holds me, but it does. And nights when I'm too tired to read I run my fingers over these words, knowing they are taken from the novel, and try and image who wrote this small message and what it meant for them.

The signature creak of the door makes me head snap up to meet eyes I only dream about. Clayton pushes through, but immediately pauses when he spots me. I can see the debate going on in his head. I can see he's thinking of leaving and turning around without a word, as if I haven't been waiting for him for the past few nights.

But then I spot it, and I know he won't leave. Because he never makes good decisions when he's drunk. And I see clear as day the glass tumbler in his hand sloshing with what I can only assume is scotch.

Before I can stop them words come tumbling out of my lips as if I'm the one that's intoxicated. "Don't leave," my voice almost pleads. And maybe I am intoxicated. Maybe all I need is his presence to chase the high I've been so obviously after the last few years.

Clayton's eyebrows draw together and his eyes narrow as if he's not only conflicted with himself and what to do, but also with me. Confusion swims in his expression from my words, and I'm convinced he might do the right thing and walk away from me.

But he doesn't. The golden liquor wins, and the soft click of the door shutting echoes around us.

"You're wearing leggings." These are his first words as he leans his long body against the door. Almost as if he wants to have an easy and quick escape, just in case.

I hold back the random smile that wants to break free at his words, and instead let out a dry chuckle. "You're a very astute drunk," I tell him as sarcasm drips from every word. I put on leggings in attempts to not have what happened last time we were in this room occur again.

Clayton pushes off the door and steps forward. At his simple steps my fingers drop the book on the floor beneath me, and I wrap my arms around my legs. Almost as if I need a barrier between us, and if I'm being honest I do. We both do. Our past actions haven't lead me to believe we will exactly behave, especially in this room.

"How do you know I'm drunk?" he asks as his head tilts to the side and lets his eyes graze my body. Even when I'm covered I still feel completely bare in front of this man, and it makes my veins bubble with nerves I didn't have before.

I clear my throat attempting to regain the control I wanted to come in here with. "Because when aren't you drunk," my words don't come out as a question, it is a statement. After Chase told me about what happened to his brother I paid more attention to his drinking as I hadn't thought anything of it before. But he always has a drink in his hand, always. It looks social to anyone who isn't aware. He's good at hiding it. But when I look, and really pay attention I see the way it's glued to his hand. I see the way he needs it, needs the release of the control he has the other months of the year.

The same way I control my life by keeping everyone at arms length, even my best friends and especially men.

"Whatever," Clayton grumbles out, brushing off my words as if they meant nothing. As if I wasn't spot on in my assessment. He downs his drink in two large gulps making my skin heat at the way he can stand the burn of the alcohol. Just like it did a year ago on a snowy night in Illinois.

He turns and I know he's about to leave and make his escape. So I abruptly stand from the cushioned chair. "Clayton," I call out, and my sole word has its desired effect.

It stops him. He stops walking, he doesn't reach for the door, he doesn't do anything but let the word reverberate through the room and settle on him. Settle on his skin, his ears, and maybe even his lips.

The connection is something we don't acknowledge, especially since I'm dating his brother. But we both know it's there, and knowing his past only strengthens it on my end. Only makes me want more from this man who tempts me to love in the ruins.

"What do you want Hayley?" he questions, his voice cracking slightly at the end as if it pains him to be around me. More like it pains him to not act out on what he truly wants with me.

My tongue darts out to wet my suddenly dry lips, because I don't think I will ever not be amazed at the way my name sounds coming out of his perfect mouth. I let myself sit in the moment for a second longer before I say what I came here to say. To end what won't even get a chance to truly begin. "I wanted to apologize," I say truthfully. I don't want Clayton to feel awkward around his brother, and I don't want to be the cause of any more tension in this family.

He turns on his heal and faces me. Clayton wears his emotions clear as day, not on his face, which rarely gives him away. No, his hypnotizing eyes are where he holds everything. Every emotion that fills him like he fills his glass.

"Why?" he tests slowly as if he doesn't know how to react to my words.

"Because I'm dating your brother who I care deeply about, and—"

"We didn't even kiss," he scoffs as if my apology isn't needed. But we both know that even though his lips didn't touch mine, the feel of them on my skin will remain in my mind forever. And the mark he left on my skin stained me for days after as a constant reminder of how I fucked up.

"You're right," I agree. "But we both know where it was leading, and I just want to apologize and let you know that I don't blame you and hopefully...." I trail off suddenly scared to say the next words. I'm never scared, I always speak my mind confidently, but admitting the next words scares me like nothing before. Because what if he says no?

"Hopefully what?" he drags out my words trying to understand the unsaid.

I shake my head and focus on the man in front of me, and push away any level of fear that laces through me. "Hopefully," I start my voice breaking awkwardly. "We can be friends and move on from what happened," I tell him as my body rocks back and forth as nerves course through my blood.

"You want to be friends with me?" he asks incredulously as if he can't believe the words that have come out of my mouth.

"Yes," I state simply.

"Why?" he pushes.

"Why not?" I counter not understanding where his skepticism is coming from. I'm being completely sincere in my words, and yet Clayton couldn't care less.

A loud scoff puffs from his lips and unexpectedly he's headed towards the door once again. Once again trying to leave, trying to escape my presence.

But he doesn't understand. He can't understand how I connect with him more then anyone. Not just from the bar a year ago, but from our experiences with heartbreak and loss. With the loneliness that creeps in even when surrounded by people, he doesn't know but I do. Being around him makes me feel understood. Makes me feel linked to someone for the first time in such a long time that it makes my chest burn with excitement and need all at once.

"I know," I shout loudly enough that my words vibrate through me. It's the last thing I can think of to say to keep him around, to get him to understand that if I can't have what I truly want from him that I at least need him as a friend.

"Know what?" he tests with a sneer painted across his handsome face. He wants to leave, and I should let him. I shouldn't be selfish and keep him around because I'm weak, but I am selfish and weaker then he knows.

"About your girlfriend," I say quietly almost instantly regretting bringing this up, especially this way.

His face hardens as if I've just threatened him, and his eyes darken as they narrow in on me. "You don't know shit Hayley," he all but growls at me.

"Chase told me—" I try and start but I'm once again cut off.

"Then you really don't know what the hell you're talking about," he says vehemently.

"But I do," I respond heatedly. "More than you're drunk ass can comprehend," I say beginning to take my misplaced anger out on him. But I just need him to get it through that thick skull of his that I do know what I'm talking about because I know him.

My words immediately set him off until he stalks forward, and his warm body is pressed up against mine. Lowering his neck ever so slightly so his wild whiskey eyes are leveled with mine. His pink lips settle into a grimace as his liquor tinted breath heats me in a way that makes my stomach flip.

"You don't know me," he states each word hard through gritted teeth. He's pissed, but I can see the truth in his clear eyes. He is beginning to understand; he sees what I see in him. The truth, the one we hide from everyone else.

"I know I don't," I easily agree. Because he's right I really don't, and yet I know him in every way that matters.

His jaw stays locked, but his eyes soften just so faintly. "But you understand me," he breathes as if he's finally understanding.

"I do," I quickly reply not wanting to lose him from this moment. Not wanting to lose not only his closeness, but also the way he is starting to grasp my words.

"Why? Who broke you?" he asks the question so determined as if he needs to know.

I can't stop the tears that well up in my green eyes. "My family," I tell him honestly. Because it wasn't only my father's death that ruined me, it was my mother's actions that truly drove the knife in that completely broke me.

His nose flares and his eyes flicker to my lips making my chest heave as the taste of anticipation fills my bones. I know I should step away, and state again I just want to be friends. But I'm frozen as I'm filled with so many emotions I feel like I might burst if I don't get closer to Clayton. It's as if I need him in a way only my body recognizes.

"You're with my brother," he states the fact. But it's not a fact. It's a lie Chase fabricated to keep him sheltered from the fear of the truth. And now more then ever I hate the lie, but I don't give in and speak the truth.

I keep the lie and let it grow. "Yes," I reply.

Clayton's eyes rake over my face as if he can't choose one place to land his gaze, as if he wants to look at everything all at once. Take it all in and never stop. "You love him." Once again not a question, a fact.

He's right. I do love Chase, obviously not in the way Clayton thinks, but I do love my best friend. "Yes," I reply as the truth and lies begin to twist and merge together.

"But you let me touch you." In this in fact isn't a question. Because I did let him touch me, and I enjoyed it far more than I should've.

"Yes," my voice comes out husky because all I can think about is letting him touch me again. Just one more time.

"Why?" he asks as if he has to know how I can love someone, his brother, and let him touch me. How I can enjoy it, how I can want more.

My head tilts and my shoulders lift knowing I won't be able to give him the real answer he wants. I could absolve him from all his sins right now and tell him the truth but that would go against my best friend. I could try telling him it was my fault, that I seduced him and it will never happen again.

But with his hot and hard body pressing into me further, with his hands lingering now against my hips just a whisper of a touch. I can't think straight, and I don't want to. I don't want to promise nothing will ever happen again, because I want it all. And I want it right now.

"Because I feel more with you," I admit. "I'm not just going through the motions. When you're around I feel everything, every emotion I've been careful to keep at bay. Around you they bust out and fly through me, and it scares me. But more than that," I pause as I let my hand land on his chest right above his heart. I can feel the untamed beat of his heart and the pace mimics my own. "I want more," I breathe as I tilt my chin back lightly letting my lips graze his.

That single move ends whatever conversation we should be having because his lips are on my own and I'm drowning.

Not in the ocean. Not in sadness. Not even in some random guy I dragged out from a bar. I'm drowning in a man who tastes like scotch and burns all the same.

His lips move against mine fast and hard as if he's trying to consume me, as if he knows our time is limited. I wind my hands through his hair and tug at the ends pulling him closer, wanting more. Wanting more of his touch, of his lips, of his all consuming need that pulses through his veins straight into mine.

We both fight for dominance as we go at each other. Our kiss anything but sweet as tongues, teeth, and lips collide in a fit of passion so electric I feel as if I've been set on fire. I burn for more of everything, more of anything he can offer me because the taste of what he's giving me is only making me crave more. So I let Clayton take the lead, knowing he needs the power, the control, and I know if I do this I will get what I want.

And what I want, what I need is more.

Before I know what's happening Clayton is sitting on the leather chair I once reigned in, but now he's the king, and as he pulls me to straddle his lap I know I would give him anything he wants.

He deepens the kiss, if that's even possible, and the feel of his soft lips finally against mine battling for what we both want makes my hips rock into his lightly in need of more. I'm on fire, but the simple action has turned me into an inferno of desire only after one thing. The small action tears a groan from Clayton's throat forcing it to resound against my lips.

His hand slithers up my shirt and I'm surprised he hasn't ripped it from my body at this point with the straight animal aggression we are both exhibiting in this moment. Clayton's fingers graze the smooth skin of my stomach. It's the first time he's touched me here, and it makes my skin quiver in what's to come. His fingers slowly travel upwards until he comes in contact with more bare skin. He pauses as if surprised to feel I'm not wearing a bra, but it's as if that only spurs him into action further.

Clayton keeps one hand tangled in my hair, as his other one now covers my breast in a hard squeeze causing me to whimper and move further into his grasp. The only words echoing through me are: more, more, more, more, more.

My hands leave his messy hair and snake down so I can rip the shirt from my body forcing our lips to part for only a second before they are brought back together with a magnetism I can't explain. I hate the layers between us, I want nothing but his scorching hot skin against mine making me fall apart in every way possible.

He pulls his lips from mine, and lets his hand in my hair tug until my neck is bent back and his lips have full control of the sensitive skin on my neck. His lips caress the expanse of skin causing my already labored breathing to go into overdrive. But when his teeth dig into my delicate skin, my hips sink into his and rock even harder. The moan that flies from my parted lips is followed with a long swipe of his tongue soothing the sting of the bite.

I trace my nails up his neck until my hands reach his face. My body pulls out of his grasp slightly so I can dive back to his perfect lips. So I can feel them against my own, so I can taste him, so I can live in the fire that surrounds us for a few seconds longer because before I know it a bucket of water is thrown upon us.

My phone that had fallen between the cushion and the arm of the chair when Clayton had first entered the room begins to ring loudly.

Our bodies freeze as if the shrilling ring shocked us both. Our eyes meet knowing this is over, knowing that it most likely won't happen again either. I reach my hand down until my fingers grasp the slender phone, and when I turn my phone to see who's calling my stomach flips making me feel nauseous.

"It's Chase," I whisper.

I flick my eyes up to meet Clayton's tortured and hard gaze before I scramble off his body.

"Fuck," he rumbles as he stands from the chair only leaving the impression of our once impassioned bodies behind.

"Clayton—" I start, but with one look at him the words die on my tongue.

He holds up a hand as I attempt to take a step towards him stopping me in my tracks. "No," he breathes harshly. "Just, no," he requests before he takes off and leaves the room slamming the door shut behind him.

Salty tears burn my eyes as I sink into the chair pulling my shirt slowly back over my head to shield my naked body.

My phone dings letting me know I have a text, and as I flip my phone around I see it's from Chase.

Where are you? The text reads making my heart squeeze in pain.

My head falls against the back of the chair as a sob fights to break free from my chest.

Lost, I think to myself.