With You (Tear Asunder 0.5)

Georgie’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Not liking the sound of that.”

“Need a call, Georgie.” His voice had gotten scary deep, and even Georgie paid attention to it, giving him a nod.

I’d known Georgie only a few months, since I’d started working at Perk Avenue to make some money before college. I also knew Deck checked up on her all the time.

She hated it, said it made her feel like a kid. I’d noticed he always scanned the shop and even went to check in the back as if he was searching for explosives or something. Georgie merely shrugged when I asked why he did that every time he came by.

Deck didn’t take her shit and continued to do it no matter how much she bitched—and Georgie knew how to bitch. Deck came by routinely, took his coffee black, and had yet to say anything besides Georgie’s name. Cold, stoic expression with a tribal tattoo running down the side of his neck, Deck looked fierce. The short buzz cut with a good amount of scruff on his face finished off the look. But his eyes were what softened his face as they drooped in the outer corners and were the brightest green I’d ever seen.

Except in the last few weeks Deck had been “out of town.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but his absence was something significant, because Georgie accentuated the “out of town.” Deck being gone didn’t mean Georgie wasn’t checked up on; it meant another guy came by, and he was just as frightening as Deck.

Georgie always appeared unperturbed by Deck’s appearance and rarely looked at him as she handed him his usual coffee. He left five bucks on the counter for it every single time, even though Georgie tried to refuse it. She never put it in the cash register, instead slipped it into a kid’s pink elephant bank she kept under the counter.

“Mouse, let’s go.”

“Um, yeah.” I looked at Georgie, and she waved her hand.

“Go with your make-out-worthy guy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She gave me a hug and whispered in my ear, “Careful, sweetie. He’s something different. Don’t want to have to send Deck after him . . . Deck can be a real dick. Sculpt’s face being fucked up—be a bitchin’ shame.”

I knew Sculpt was different, and that was why I wanted to take it slow. He was closed off and never talked about his family or his past. I figured maybe it took him a while to open up. Well, it wasn’t like I shared either. I had told him that I no longer saw my mother, but I hadn’t offered any explanation and thankfully he hadn’t pushed. At the time, I’d thought that had been odd. Most people would immediately ask why, but Sculpt never said a word. Maybe because he didn’t want to have to reciprocate and talk about his family.

I grabbed my purse, and Sculpt took my hand as I came around the end of the counter. His pinkie finger swept aside a stray strand of hair from my forehead, and from the way his eyes took me in, I swear my panties got damp.

“Where’re we going?” I asked as he led me outside.

He stopped beside a rusted old truck. “You’re going to hear me play.” He opened the door, and it creaked on its corroded hinges.

I jumped up onto the old vinyl blue seat and reached out, my hand touching his chest before he moved away. “Are you any good? Cause I hate whiny voices and am not a fan of the screaming hard rock stuff. Gives me a headache, actually.”

He leaned in close, his eyes flashing, and the corners of his mouth curving upward. God, I wished he smiled more often. “When I scream Eme, you’ll love it. And I won’t be giving you a headache, I’ll be taking it away.”

Holy shit. A deep ache moved into my womb and settled in like it was staying for a while. Damn it, I was putty in his hands. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. I’d lost the only family I had in the world —my mom didn’t count, and I didn’t want to go through anything even close to being so cutting again as losing my dad.

My dad had been my rock; my mom the hammer smashing the rock. Dad called me his little princess; mom called me the garbage that ruined her life. Of course she never said that when my dad was around. It got worse after my dad died of lung cancer when I was ten. Then she became a full-time bitch, and that was when I started running away to Matt and Kat’s who were dealing with their own grief at the time. Sometimes, my mom didn’t notice I was gone for a good twelve hours. She missed me when she needed something done, and suddenly I wasn’t around to do it.

Sculpt’s mouth was so close I sucked in his breath as I inhaled, and it made my body come alive. I couldn’t imagine what was going to happen when I heard him sing. All thoughts vanished as his hands came on either side of my face and held me still—not that I was going to go anywhere with him standing there looking at me like I was the only woman in the world.

“Give me your mouth, Eme.”

Even if I could have found words, he stole them away as his lips lowered over mine. His kiss was slow and hard, yet sweet and lingering. Our mouths moved together in harmony, and the throbbing ache between my legs intensified.

I wanted him.

Needed him.

He groaned as he pulled back, and my body went with him until I caught myself and sat back in my seat, breathing hard, feeling as if my thirst hadn’t been satisfied. And it scared the crap out of me. I had a feeling being thirsty would be the worst sort of torture anyone could experience.

“I . . . Sculpt you’re . . .” What was the word? “Overwhelming and—”