Wreck (Sphere of Irony 4)

I’m glad we’re in the car, because if we weren’t, Hawke would be long gone by now, a cartoon trail of dust trailing behind. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Abby,” he warns, his tone serious.

“I’m not. I’m your friend, not your therapist. I care about you.”

“If I wanted to discuss it, I’d have told you a long time ago.”

That hurt. Hawke is almost out of patience with me, I can tell. “Okay. I’m sorry.” It’s impossible to keep the melancholy out of my voice. I catch Hawke wincing at my sorrowful tone. “I won’t bring it up again. I just hate seeing you suffer.”

He grits his teeth together, the muscles in his cheek pulsing. Without warning, Hawke jerks the SUV into an empty parking lot and slams it into park. He tilts his head in my direction but doesn’t meet my eyes. “You obviously already read about what happened. Now you know why I’m fucked up. I watched my entire family die in front of me, Abby. You can’t erase that shit. You can’t make it better or undo it. Talking about it won’t bring them back.” I can’t tell if Hawke is getting angrier or more miserable as he speaks.

“You can—”

“Fuck, Abby! Stop it! It’s my fault they died, okay? I was stupid and needed a ride and they fucking died because of it! That’s the end of it! I killed my parents and sister and it’s done!”

All of the blood in my face drains to my feet.

Holy shit. I was not expecting that.

Hawke

Abby and I have come to a peaceful, if awkward, truce. She doesn’t bring up my past or any of my issues and I hold back all of my raw desire to have her, hiding the way I desperately want her in my arms and in my bed. Somehow, despite our challenges, we’ve managed to become friends, good friends. It’s almost reminiscent of the time we spent together in our early twenties, before we dated and I fucked everything up.

Today, it’s quite possible that we’re embarking on the worst idea ever. Of course it was my stupid idea, and I’m about to repeat history by fucking everything up again.

The buzzer by the front door echoes through my condo, letting me know the driver is here. I take one last look in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I don’t bother with stylists. I know my style and what the fans want. I’m wearing a typical “Hawke Evans” outfit—skinny black jeans, tight faded vintage T-shirt with an open, black suit jacket over it, the sleeves cuffed to show the colorful tattoos on my forearms. My dark hair is longer on top, but swept back off my face. By the end of the night, half of it will likely be hanging in front of my face. Last but not least, my dad’s black-framed glasses are perched on my face.

“Friends. You can do this, Hawke.”

I stare at my reflection, into the brown and blue eyes looking back at me. Girls love the man they see, the playful, pierced and tattooed bad boy. The guy who looks harmless enough, nonthreatening, wearing Converse sneakers and nerdy glasses. The lip, brow, and tongue jewelry, plus the tattoos, are enough to give the girls not brave enough to go for the real asshole types a bit of a thrill.

If they only knew how not harmless I really am. The guy I see in the mirror is a first-class prick, selfish and loaded down with enough fucked-up baggage to sink the Titanic.

The buzzer sounds again, startling me. I frown at my reflection and head downstairs.

“Joel.” I nod at the familiar driver sent over by my record label.

“Mr. Evans,” he says, opening the back door of the sleek black sedan.

“You have the address?” I ask as he pulls the car away from the curb.

“All set, Mr. Evans.”

Satisfied Joel will get me to our next destination, I put up the tinted glass divider, sealing the back of the car in silence. I drum my restless fingers on my knee the entire drive, which should take twenty minutes but naturally, with hideous LA traffic, it takes forty. By the time the car slows to a stop in front of Abby’s small beach cottage, sweat is trickling down the back of my shirt, the fabric sticking to my skin between my shoulder blades, and I’m a nervous wreck.

Joel doesn’t get a chance to open the car door. I shove it open to leap out on the pavement, in a hurry to get to Abby’s front door before I change my mind and take off. This entire night has the potential to blow up in my face big time. I don’t know what prompted me to ask Abby to be my date for the awards ceremony I have to go to tonight. To justify it, I like to tell myself it’s because all the other guys are bringing significant others and I’m tired of being the pathetic single guy. But the real reason is much more complicated. Selfish as always, I want Abby with me, on my arm, calming me down, showing her off for the cameras… even if we’re just friends.

Abby answers the door before I reach the small set of porch stairs. Her smile is tentative, not quite reaching her eyes. She’s as nervous as me.

“Hi.” Abby blushes and averts her gaze. Long, dark lashes flutter against smooth, rosy skin.

Wow. My date is stunning. I know Kate hooked her up with a stylist so she wouldn’t have to worry about what to wear. I owe her big time for creating the vision in front of me. “You look incredible,” I blurt out, causing Abby’s cheeks to flush an even darker shade of red.

“Thanks,” she says so softly I have to lean in close to hear her.

Big mistake.

Abby’s familiar scent envelops me. The light floral fragrance with traces of the beach has my blood pounding in my veins like molten lava, the majority of it heading straight for my dick.

I try to shake the thoughts out of my head. It’s not exactly appropriate to have a massive hard-on when picking up Abby for her date as my friend. I want to touch her so badly I could scream. Despite my attempts to divert my brain, images of ripping the tight blue gown off her perfect body and sinking deep inside her tight hot pussy dominate my thoughts. Instead of grabbing her, touching, smelling, tasting… I dig my fingernails into my palm and bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.