“Dee?”
My head spins. But it’s not from the alcohol. I grab the ledge for support. “How did you get my number? I’m not listed.”
“I have my ways.”
Of course, he does. Being rich and powerful would get him any information he wanted, which brings me to the more important question: “What do you want, Mick?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Makes me wonder if he’s pondering that question himself. Then he says, “I wanted to thank you.”
“Oh, I suppose I scored some brownie points for taking the case,” I reply, the liquor freeing my tongue. “Well, before you go applauding yourself for my reform, just know you weren’t a factor in my decision.”
“Whatever your reason, Dee, I’m still grateful.”
“No, you’re nots,” I say, slurring the last word. “You’re an arrogant ass.”
“And you’re drunk.”
His tone rubs me the wrong way. I’m tired of Mick flip-flopping between insults and apology, between thanks and judgment. I’m just tired.
“So what?” I retort. “I needed to unwind from a miserable couple of days.” Let Mick read into that anything he chooses.
“Have I made you miserable?”
I say nothing. I’ve already given him more than enough ammunition.
“Have I made you face things you hoped to run away from? Have I made you think about us? About our nights at the lake?”
I gasp, startled by his reference to our sexual past. And yet the memory incites an erotic need in me that won’t stand down. But I dismiss his taunt: “That’s ancient history.”
“History has a way of repeating itself.”
“Not this time.”
“Oh, we’re going to happen again, Dee.” His silky rasp licks across my skin. “And soon.”
“See? Arrogant! You assume because you’re Micah Peters, I’ll fall into bed with you on command.”
“I don’t assume it. I know it. And not because of my fame—that wouldn’t matter to you. I know you will because of how your body has always responded to mine.”
My thighs squeeze together against an achy wetness. “You’re delusional.”
“I’m right and my memory’s long,” he counters in a low, sexy timbre.“I haven’t forgotten I was the first man to touch you. The first man to be buried deep inside you. The first man to make you come.”
A moan snakes up my throat.
“And you haven’t forgotten either. Sleep well, Dee.”
I stab the off button, wishing I had a cradle in which to slam the receiver down in his ear. Tempted to hurl the phone across the room, instead I return to bed, curl into a ball, and pull the blanket up over me. Whatever numbness I achieved is gone. Desire beats in my every cell. And with the vodka diluting my defenses, my woozy mind takes an unstoppable trip to the past.
IT’S BEEN TWO MONTHS SINCE Mick first parted my lips and French-kissed me into paradise. Two months since we’ve layered one shared secret on top of another. Not only haven’t we told Mama and Papa T about Malcolm Peters’ abuse, we also haven’t told them—or anyone—that we’re dating. Okay, not what some people would consider dating. We don’t actually go out on dates. But we spend as many evenings as we can together at the lake.
Sometimes I think I’m dreaming. I mean, really, a guy like Mick is so far out of my league. But I’m hopelessly crazy in love with him. Not that I would ever tell him. I think he knows. How could he not? Still, I don’t say the words.
Unlike me, Mick’s not stingy with his feelings. He tells me he loves me. Often. As if he’s trying to convince me. Even if he totally means it, I know he’s going to break my heart. Everybody I ever love does in the end. That’s why I give him only small pieces, not the whole thing. That way, there’ll be less to break.
In July, four months from now, Mick will be off to NYU for creative writing and in the fall I’ll be heading to Amherst to work on a bachelor’s degree in family studies before law school. I don’t feel the excitement I should about college, but it’s because I hate the idea of being separated from him. So I’m preparing myself for when we part, and I’m nothing more than a girl he once cared about because I kept his secret and understood his dreams.
“Everything okay? You’re quiet tonight,” he says of my silence during the twenty-minute drive to Riverstone Lake, seven miles outside of Springvale.
