I giggle for a minute, caught in the crazy jump of the bouncing mattress, then my giggle gets lost in the dark of Winch's stare.
Winch 7
She's lying under me on the bed, and I have my arms steepled over her, a human bridge over the river of her body. I should be doing more than staring down at her. My mouth, my hands, my body should be acting out every crazy hot scenario that's been torturing me and keeping me awake every night for all these last few weeks.
But something is driving a wedge between me and the girl who I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since the day I met her.
Her hands slide under my shirt and press in a long, smooth glide up the skin of my back.
"Winch? Seriously, they're hours away. Even if they don't stay the night, they always call before they leave. We're so cool."
I push up on my arms and move to sit next to her, on the edge of her bed, and out of her immediate vicinity.
"No, I know it. I'm not worried about that."
I stroke one hand over her forehead, trying to press away all those little worried lines that pop up whenever we spend too much time together.
"So, what is it?" The lines furrow deeper.
"I feel like a liar, I guess." She knots her eyebrows over the bridge of her nose, and I explain, "You told me things I know were hard for you to put out there. And I got nothing."
Her lips purse into his perfect little sexy kissable shape.
"What does that have to do with you coming here," she smoothes her hand over the spot right next to her on the bed, "and kissing me until I agree to all kinds of other bad things?"
"First of all, you know it's not going down like that." I run a thumb over her lips, she sticks her tongue out and swipes my skin, and I groan and try to keep a handle on my stupid, crazy urges. "Secondly," I manage to get out, "I feel like a fraud. And I hate that. I always try to be honest with the people I care about."
She gives me a long, patient look, batting her eyelashes at me every now and then until I'm having a hard time swallowing on my own, then finally says, "So be honest with me."
"It's compl--" I cut myself off before I use my crutch of an excuse, but her groan interrupts me anyway.
"Just say it!" she cries. She sits up on the bed, knocking me back, and hugs her pillow to her chest with ferocious intent, her eyes humming with anger and frustration. "Just say 'complicated,' okay? Don't lie to me, because that I can't deal with. But don't be afraid if you can't tell me the whole truth yet. That doesn't make you a fraud. It means you have issues, just like everyone else. I didn't tell you my secrets to get you to tell me anything you aren't ready to share. This isn't Truth or Dare. This is you and me. We can go at our own pace. Alright?"
A phalanx of orderly thoughts and ideas suddenly breaks order and starts civil warring in my head.
She's so beautifully honest.
And what she said? It's freeing. It makes me brave. It makes me want to be better, do better for her.
"Okay." I lie down next to her and hook our hands together. "I need to tell you some things."
She pushes her face closer, and her eyes are such a glassy blue, I feel like I can see through them.
"Remington? My brother?" I stall, she nods, putting me back in gear. "My brother has some fucked up shit going on in his life right now. He's got this girlfriend...I don't know if they're still a thing or not, you know? She loved him. She's a real cool girl, but Remy? Jesus Christ, he could tempt a saint. And they have a kid, and he's been...unstable. It's all fine. Mom and Benelli watch Alayah when he's got her, you know, so there's nothing to worry about. But he's a mess. A fucking mess."
It feels like all of that was pressurized inside me, like shaken soda in a can, and I just popped the tab and let the whole damn mess explode out.
Evan trails her fingers down the sleeve of my shirt and presses it up, up to my elbow. She lets the pads of her fingertips glide over the slightly raised skin and the black ink.
"It's beautiful." Her eyes flick to mine, asking without saying a single word.
Giving me an out if I want to take it.
I don't. I can't. I need to tell her. Everything.
"I got it for Remy." I study the midnight details of that ferocious black horse on my skin. "It's called a pooka. It's this animal, this creature that steals people and takes them on wild rides over the moors in Ireland. My brother has this thing for mythological crap, so he got a tattoo."
The rest is hard to come out and say.
Evan nods, and the motion of her head on the pillow messes her hair up, makes it bunch at a funny angle, so I reach up and pull the hairband out of her ponytail. Her hair spreads over her shoulders and makes little dark waves on the blankets. She leans in to kiss me, her mouth hot and urgent against mine, a distraction from telling any more, from talking about the tattoo and what it means.
If I have to choose between confessions about my brother's stupidity or Evan's irresistible sexiness, the choice is obvious. My hands pull and press all over her, first with the safety net of the barely-there fabric of her tank and tiny shorts. Her tongue flicks in my mouth, and my brain backfires.
I lose the safety net and run my hands under her clothes and along the
