But it does. Cash pulls up along the curb and rolls to a stop. I wait to see if he’s going to flip down the kickstand. When he doesn’t, I sigh and slide off the seat.
Cash watches me unbuckle the helmet from beneath my chin, pull it off and hand it to him. He takes it, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t move to put it on right away. I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about the same thing I am—how to walk away without a kiss.
After all we’ve shared over the last few weeks, after all the words and kisses and nights and mornings, it seems so strange to just walk away like friends. In the pit of my stomach, it feels like a bad omen, that we’d part ways like this.
“Well, thank you,” I say uncomfortably, trying not to fidget. Cash is frowning. I feel like frowning, too. “Um, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“You’re working your shift, right?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“I’ll call you in the morning. How ‘bout that?”
“Sounds good.” At least it’s something.
The silence grows tense.
“I’ll wait until you get inside. I don’t know why she didn’t leave the lights on.”
I glance behind me at the dark apartment windows. “Are you really surprised by anything selfish and inconsiderate that she does?”
Cash’s grin is small and wry. “I guess not. But damn!”
I sigh. “I know. But that’s just the way she is. Some things never change.”
Silence again.
“Okay, well I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride. Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
I nod and rock back on my heels before I turn to walk up the sidewalk to the front door. I’ve only made it a few steps when Cash calls my name. I jerk around, anticipation curling in my stomach.
He can’t stand it either.
I walk quickly back to Cash. I feel more than a little deflated when he hands me my overnight bag, which he’d strapped to the back of the bike, behind the seat.
“Don’t forget your bag.”
I smile politely and take it from his fingers, turning once again toward the apartment. The anticipation in my gut cools into an uneasy sensation.
How can things have changed so much, so fast?
Taryn’s comments, my mother’s voice and a whole slew of bad choices come crashing into my head like a rock slide.
I dig around in my purse for my key as I approach the front door. I’m distracted as I slip it in and unlock the knob, turning to wave to Cash. But he’s not on his bike at the curb. It’s resting on the kickstand, motor idling. He’s charging up the sidewalk toward me. Before I can even blink, my back is pressed to the cool metal of the door, Cash’s lips are on mine and his hands are in my hair.
I melt into him. Relief that he was feeling the same way battles for dominance with the desire to drag him into my bedroom, shut the door and pretend nothing and no one exists outside it.
But before I can give in to that urge, Cash is pulling back, giving me room to breathe and giving rational thought the tiny crack it needs to wiggle back into my mind.
His eyes, darker than the night around us, search mine as his hands move from my hair to my shoulders and down my arms to grip mine. “Do me a favor,” he whispers, curling my fingers over the back of his and bringing them to his mouth.
“What?”
His eyes never leave mine as he brushes his lips over my knuckles. “Dream of me tonight,” he says softly. He watches me, waiting for a response. I have no words, so I simply nod. He doesn’t need to know that no one else occupies my dreams. No one.
“Dream of my lips, teasing you.” Straightening one of my fingers, he kisses the tip. His voice is like velvet and his words are like an aphrodisiac. “Dream of my tongue, tasting you.” His tongue sneaks out to flick the end of my finger. A surge of desire rocks my core. “And I’ll dream of you. Of what it feels like to be inside your warm, wet body.” As if to show me what he feels, Cash sucks my finger into his mouth and pulls it in and out of his mouth, back and forth over his tongue. I can barely breathe.
He pulls it out, but before he lets it go, he gives it a gentle bite. I feel a burn in the pit of my stomach, a drop of lava in a boiling volcano.
“Good night, Olivia,” he says quietly. And then he turns and walks away.
On legs that suddenly feel like jelly, I pivot toward the door. I focus with every ounce of my brain power on putting him out of my mind before I do something stupid, like ask him to stay. I push open the door and reach around to flip on the foyer light before waving back to Cash.
But what I see stops both thought and movement.
The narrow table next to the door is turned over and the lamp that sits atop it is broken. The plant stand at the corner of the living room is overturned and there’s dirt and foliage all over the floor. Some pillows from the couch are scattered across the floor, two having been thrown all the way over to the door.
Marissa has been home fifteen minutes at most. What in the world could’ve happened in such a short amount of time?
A shiver of apprehension works its way down my spine. When fingers wind around my upper arm and jerk me backward, I open my mouth to scream, but a wide hand clamps over it before any sound emerges.
My heart springs into wild motion behind my ribs and my mind races, going back through every possible memory for any self-defense know-how. All I can think of, though, is Aim for the balls! Aim for the balls!
“Shhhh,” a familiar voice hisses at my ear.
I calm immediately. It’s Cash. It’s Cash that’s behind me, Cash that’s holding me.
He releases me and steps in front of me, pulling me up against his back. “Stay close,” he whispers from over his shoulder.
They’ll have to peel me off your ass, mister!
All my senses are heightened by fear. The deep rumble of Cash’s bike purring at the curb is an eerie backdrop for the absolute silence in the apartment. There are no other sounds. Not even those of Marissa.
Slowly, we make our way to the edge of the living room. Hyper alert, I look around, taking in even the tiniest of details. I see more signs of struggle—the lopsided position of the expensive clock on the wall, a small hole in the plaster not far from it.
I barely control a reflexive yelp when Cash’s phone rings. I hear him growl as he fumbles for it in his pocket. He glances at the screen and then starts backing up, pushing me toward the front door.
He holds up his phone and I see the name on the Caller ID. My heart does a nervous little flip.
It reads “Marissa.”
“Hello,” he answers quietly.
Without saying another word, Cash listens for a few seconds then lowers the phone and sticks it back in his pocket.
“What? Why’d you hang up? What did she say?”
“It wasn’t Marissa. Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here.”
“Who was it then? Cash, what’s going on?”