Chapter 5

5

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I watched Isaac get into his car as regret, relief, and lust warred within me.

That little blond pixie was going to be the death of me. From the first moment I laid eyes on him, I wanted him. I felt like I had to have him, like something invisible was drawing me toward him. And every moment after that, the need kept growing, kept building, kept gnawing at me relentlessly.

He'd pulled me back from the ledge that day, when the vending machine had decided to push my drink half out and then give up. That had been the last straw for me, the final thread that snapped and I hadn't been able to control myself anymore. Hadn't been able to hold back the anger that raged inside me, surging and breaking like waves in a storm.

My father was dead. At first, when Uncle Boone had called me that morning and told me he'd gotten pneumonia in the prison he'd been at for sixteen years and just…succumbed, I'd felt nothing. Just empty. But slowly, as the day went on, that emptiness began to fill with a dangerous energy, violent and consuming. Because he'd fucking left us—again. And even though I'd never wanted him in my life, not after what he'd done, and maybe even before that, I still couldn't deny that his death had dredged up a powerful array of nasty emotions. All day I was thrumming with a furious energy that I should have dealt with alone. At home. I'd wanted to fight someone or fuck someone and knew I couldn't do either because I'd probably lose control.

And I had lost control, when my fucking Coke got stuck. It was like I was heading down a dark tunnel, shadows closing in, and then—then…

Him. Isaac. He'd just…been there, like a fucking angel, one small arm outstretched with crumpled dollar bills and a kind expression on his beautiful face. Blond hair slightly mussed, like he'd been running his fingers through it, tugging at it. Dark green eyes that tilted alluringly at the corners, fringed in long golden lashes. Like sunlight on moss. A pert little nose that was so fucking adorable I'd immediately wanted to kiss it. Dainty, rosy, lips that had a deep cupid's bow I wanted to dip my tongue into. His gray hoodie was baggy and his jeans weren't very tight; his choice of such nondescript clothing made it seem like he wanted to fade into the fray, to not draw any attention to himself, but it was too late for him now. He was the only thing I wanted to look at ever again.

And then something had screamed inside me to test his boundaries, push him to the limit. My anger was still there, but it had faded somewhat and morphed into something quietly malicious. I'd hated that, fought against it, because Isaac was so small, and a greater part of me was screaming over the other part, urging me to protect him. Covet him. Never hurt him.

I didn't want to hurt him. But I had, and I fucking hated myself for it. I hated that it was getting harder and harder to deny that the blood running through my veins was diseased, poisoned by the same blood that had pumped through my father. He'd been a volatile man, unpredictable and vindictive, and after his arrest and subsequent prison sentence for the distribution of excessive amounts of heroin, I'd taken on many of the same attributes.

I was an angry kid, an angry teen, and then I'd spent my early adult years finding the reins to all that anger and yanking it to a stop. I didn't want to be like that. I'd never wanted to be like that. I'd worked hard to turn myself around and give myself a chance at a life I could be proud of.

Most days, the past stayed behind me. But the death of my dad had dug up all those long-forgotten feelings and it had taken me a few days to set myself to rights again.

I hadn't wanted to hurt Isaac. It made me sick to my stomach that I'd caused him any pain at all.

I'd been so desperate to stop him from leaving the shop that day, hadn't understood what it really meant to him to have his wishes disregarded, and I'd grabbed him. I wish I could go back and yank my hand away before the moment of contact, because it had caused him to sink deep into himself. I knew, right then, he'd had something terrible done to him. Something he was reliving. He was traumatized, and I'd fucking triggered him.

I knew he had demons, I'd seen it in his eyes on the night of Jamie's party. So when he lost control of himself at the shop because of me, I did the only thing I felt I could—I tried to soothe him. Calm him down. Bring him back. It seemed like it worked. And I'd promised myself I would never touch him again, not until he asked me to.

And I was going to do everything I could to get him to beg me to touch him.

"He likes you."

I looked up at Bri, who was staring at her phone and typing something out. "Who?"

"Your little fun-sized pixie."

I huffed and kept filling out the completion form. It always took me way too long because of my dyslexia, but I was persistent and stubborn. Bri always offered to do them and I always turned her down. "Pretty sure he hates my guts."

"It's all a front, Brody. He really, really likes you. It's so obvious."

Was it? Did he like me? Was I that oblivious? Maybe that day, because I'd been so unsure he would agree to help me with my assignment, and admitting I needed the help at all had been difficult. But despite Isaac's prickly nature, he never seemed to judge me. And he had seemed a little flustered that day, hadn't he? I thought it was just because he was embarrassed that he couldn't outright pay for the repairs. I would have given him the discount no matter what, and maybe I felt a little bad about wheedling some of his free time from him, but it felt like the only way he'd see me. I was desperate to be near him, desperate to apologize for making him relive his trauma, and god I just wanted him. He was so fucking cute, and that mouth? Fuck. He was savage. His temerity and ability to defend himself was fucking hot.

Maybe Bri was right. Maybe he did like me, but something was holding him back from acting on it. Bri was—annoyingly—the most perceptive person I'd ever known and didn't have any kind of filter.

Maybe I should test the waters tonight, see what kinds of things I could get away with. See what kind of responses I could tease out of him. Maybe not, though. I didn't want to push him too far too soon.

I'd taken a different route when it was clear he wouldn't ever agree to go on a date with me. Which kind of hurt, but I guess I was used to rejection. Everyone in this town knew who I was. They knew what had happened all those years ago, and they knew how I'd acted out growing up. I'd been given a lot of leeway at first. They all agreed it wasn't easy when your mom died of cancer at such a young age and then your dad was thrown in prison for dealing drugs. But their sympathy had waned as the years went on, and my own frustration with my behavior had only grown.

I'd calmed down by the time I'd turned twenty, and I was really trying to be better. Still, I had a reputation for being chaotic and intractable, and people's memories were long, it seemed. So, yeah, I'd tried dating around because I wanted to share more than just a physical relationship with someone else and, every single time, the person already had preconceived notions of who I was—who they thought I was—and only wanted to fuck. I was never good enough to date.

So if Isaac liked me—and I was hoping he liked me for more than just my body, but that was probably too high of a hope—then I was willing to pull out all the stops to get him to give in.

I smiled at Bri. "For once in your life, Bri, you've been a godsend."

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