Without thinking, I licked my lips, the memory setting my hands against the windowpane in my bedroom. The urge to move, to reach out and touch, overruled anything else. My breath came out in a rush, and my breasts tingled in a way that they never had before. They ached. The awareness that he stood just below my window made the want for him to touch me more acute.
The ache spread from my breasts, down to my lower stomach, then slid between my legs. My mouth parted at the sensation, my fingers curling, and the need for him to touch me greater than any I had ever known.
His eyes alone could command my body, its wants and desires. He already commanded the blood in my veins. It was only natural that the rest of me belonged to him too. Whether he wanted me fully or not, I was his.
Closing my eyes, I remembered the heat of his body. His touch was a hot coal to the ice of my freezing skin. As I had sat so close to him in the truck, my fingers itched to touch his, to claim his hand and hold it in mine, interlace our fingers and our breaths. Hold on forever.
And then, like riding a flash of lightning, we were at my parents’ house. We had sat in comfortable silence while the truck idled in the rain. I wanted him to tell me when I would see him again. I wanted him to confess his feelings. I wanted him to give me his word.
Bigger dreams were always better than small ones—the rejection hurts the same either way. And it was better than the alternative, nothing.
He had stared ahead, at the rain, following the direction of his lights. Droplets of rain played in the beams. “Scarlett,” he said, his voice low but filled with force, “I want you to dance again.”
The shock of his unexpected comment must have registered on my face, because he turned to me, eyes prepared for battle.
“You heard me,” he said in the same tone. “Dance for me.”
I ran a hand through my wet hair. “Why?” I could barely get the word out, so it seemed to float.
“Reasons.”
I put my hand on the door, ready to escape. He caught me with a firm grip on my arm before I could. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but enough to let me know that he wouldn’t allow me an escape from this topic.
“Dance for me,” he said, his tone the same but his eyes—those damn eyes!—much softer.
“You have no idea what you’re asking of me, Brando,” I whispered, my voice trembling with the rattling of my bones. The cold in the air seemed to hit me with force then, pushing all of his warmth aside.
“I do.”
That’s all he gave me.I do.As if those two words could work magic.
All I could do was nod in response, not giving him a definite answer either way. But he knew. He had asked. That’s all it took. Without giving me another moment to compose myself, to form an argument, he stepped out of the truck, taking his time as he came to my side, and opened the door for me. He kept me tucked underneath his arm as he walked me to the front door.
Five minutes ago had brought me here—the view looking out to my world. After he saw me in, I had rushed up to my room, wanting to see him drive off. He hadn’t. Our eyes had made the connection, and he was as powerless as me to stop it. He stood in the rain, looking up at my window, the same one I looked out from.
I took a deep breath. I listened,listened, attempting to hear the music again, to feel it inside of me the way that I felt him. My feet knew the steps, my hands knew their positions, and so I should have been set to move. To give over to the muse that caused me to float over the dance floor.
Instead, fear gripped my heart, separating me from what the world had always called my destiny. Opening my eyes, staring at the man standing in the rain, I knew they had been wrong all along.
Chapter Nine
Scarlett
“Hey, nice jacket.”
I finished stuffing my books in my locker before I turned to find Mick standing beside me. He admired Brando’s gift with lust-filled eyes. I had my slap hand ready just in case he got any funny ideas.
“Thanks.” I slammed the door shut. The noise in the hall swallowed the intended impact.
Mick leaned against the locker next to mine. He reminded me of the actor who played on the popular sitcomSecond Noah, James Marsden. He always wore flannels over vintage band shirts, baggy jeans, and a wallet chain.
His brother Mitch seemed to be his opposite. James Dean cool with slicked back hair, Levi jeans, and a cigarette peeking out from behind his ear. Though he could have easily been Stephen Dorff’s doppelgänger, as Violet had told me in the car that morning, rather dreamily. Mitch’s hair was a bit darker though.
The only connecting fiber of the Lewis Brothers, as far as I could see, seemed to be the placement of the cigarette and that both of their names started with M and could easily be confused. I wondered if their mother called them by each other’s names when she got mad.
I motioned to his cigarette. “Have you heard? Those things will kill you. Cancer sticks.”
“I’m sensing some hostility, Scarlett.”
