“They hate on us for needing to wear our protective gear when they go without it in a very similar sport, while we football guys hate them for not trying out for the team. They’re all brute force and strength and can help us win games.”
I nod, agreeing with him. “Rush does look strong with his height and muscles. I can see why you would want him on your team.”
He shrugs like he doesn’t give a care, but his tone is terse. “Height and muscles can be misleading.”
Is he implying that Rush would mislead me? Feeling braver than I’ve ever felt, I ask Trace. “Since you’re teaching me the hard lessons of life, are you saying I should stay away from muscular guys because they’re”—I let go of his neck and wave—“because they could hurt or mislead me?”
“Or you can stay away from guys in general,” he grumbles.
I don’t know whether to smile or swat his shoulder for his comment. I do something I know he likes. I toy with the dark, silky strands at his nape. “You know I can’t do that, unless I join a convent.”
He opens his mouth. I beat him to whatever he was going to say.
“Which I’m not planning on doing.” Smiling, I playfully tug on his hair. He tightens his hold on my mid-section and squeezes my hip. “I plan on falling in love and kissing and making love to the man of my dreams. We’ll never tire of one another or think about being with other people because we’ll be so head over heels for one another. Being in a convent won’t give me that.”
“What you’re talking about is a bunch of baloney sauce.”
I laugh. “You’re funny.” I press my face into his hair and move my head from side to side. The strands are inky when wet, the shade almost the same as mine. “Baloney sauce. Who says that but you? I really like it, Trace. Thank you for making me laugh.”
He grunts. I laugh. He kneads my hip with his thick fingers. I bite down on the groan that’s ready to slip from my mouth.
Trace says he doesn’t care how I talk.
He hasn’t been mean to me. Only protective. Trace said he would burn the world for me. I’ll risk being vulnerable with him. If he does hurt me, it’ll be my fault and not his. Being vulnerable is risky. I never dropped my guard with my father.
Deep down, I knew he would always use words to hurt me, and letting down my guard would have been like leaving the door open for the big, mean monster to walk in and lash at me with words that slice through me like a newly sharpened knife.
“Dinner was nice.” He’s gone silent.
Waiting for him to say something, anything, I check my body for signs of the fight-or-flight response. I don’t have the urge to hop off his lap or demand he not touch me when his arm slides across my mid-section and his fingers fan over my hip.
His palm is big. Flesh on flesh. He has callouses. Roughened skin on smooth flesh. The warmth from his palm seeps into my skin. My senses heighten, and I become hyperaware of every caress from his fingers on my sensitive skin, every rough patch on his palm. Then he palms my ass cheek.
I tremble with need, and the ache between my legs starts anew. My fingers flit to my neck. A comfortable silence lingers in the air. Tamping down how hot and bothered I am with the gentle caresses from his fingers and how he palms each ass cheek like he owns them, I clear my throat and return to telling him about the dinner.
“Mrs. Gray didn’t know my food preferences, so she gave me the option of a vegetarian dish. It was roasted mushrooms and eggplant with white sauce. It tasted so good I went for seconds.”
“That’s nice, Sorrow.” His voice is devoid of emotion, but I can tell he’s unhappy with my happiness—he’s removed his arm from my mid-section and has his hand balled against his side.
Needing him to see my face for this part, my body trembling with need and something else—anger, perhaps, or concern, I’m not sure—I clasp his head in my palms and turn him to me until we’re eye-to-eye. Trace’s bluish-green eyes reel me in with how gorgeous they are. I’ll never tire of looking at them.
Beneath the moonlight and the lights from the heat lamps around us, I search his face. Emotionless. I tsk. This boy is good at hiding his feelings beneath his nonchalant stare.
“Instead of being butthurt that I had a nice time with the Grays, can you be happy for me? I was really uncomfortable at first and didn’t want to go. I don’t know these people, and out of the blue, their son asks me over for dinner. There was no being friends first or even a slow introduction. It was dinner, and I was having a conversation with strangers. Rush doesn’t even go to our school.” I bunch my hands in his chest hair and tug the strands. “Tell me I’m brave, Trace. Tell me how proud you are that I didn’t keel over from how out of control my heartbeats were and how all the blood left my brain when I entered a stranger’s house.”
He doesn’t speak a lick to me. Trace doesn’t even blink.
“Trace.” I search his face again. “Say something.”
“Did you feel that way when my parents took you in? When you moved in? Were you anxious and scared?”
He’s angry, but not at me. He’s furious with himself. He regrets treating me like shit.
“Yes,” I admit. “You weren’t nice. You said mean things about your parents when the others asked about why you did things for me. You made your nice folks out to be the bad guys rather than telling the truth. And you were a jerk saying those things knowing I was in earshot.”
I hate hurting him with my words, but I told him the truth when I said he could be better. Feeling emotions and understanding what they are and the reasons for feeling them will help him be better.
Locking down emotions isn’t it, and he’s done it for so long that I wonder if he could be better. But I believe in him, like he believes in me. Together, we can be better people.
