Between The Lines. Lauren Hawkeye
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Название: Between The Lines
Автор: Lauren Hawkeye
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9781474087049
isbn:
“You don’t treat him any better!” Jo’s harsh words reverberated off the walls of the room. “You might not get along, but he’s still trying to help you make something of your life, and you thwart him at every turn!”
Theo had known that Jo had a temper since the second day of their acquaintance, when they’d gotten into a fight during an impromptu softball game and she’d accidentally beaned him with the bat when she’d thrown it in a rage. His anger management wasn’t much better, though, and she’d just stuck a crowbar into his most tender parts and cranked it.
He fisted his hands at his sides, blood rushing to his head so fast that he felt dizzy.
“Thwart? Who actually says that in conversation?” he sneered, his words aimed to pierce her delicate skin. “I get it now. It’s not that you care, that you’re worried about me. It’s that I have chances you don’t, and it’s driving you crazy!”
Jo’s mouth fell open in disbelief, and her eyes were wild. “I’ve known you were a lazy prick with entitlement issues since the day we met, but stupid me, I thought you’d grown up a bit. But you never will, will you? You’ll never figure out what you’re going to do with your life, because you don’t want to do anything!”
She sucked in a big breath before continuing. “Your mom is the one who died, Theo! Not you! So why the fuck do you keep acting like you went with her?”
Theo couldn’t think past the roaring in his ears. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he fought the urge to give her a shake. He’d never hit a woman in his life, and he didn’t intend to start, but Josephine Marchande sorely tempted him to.
He growled, an unintelligible sound low in his throat. He had so much to say, to try to make her understand, but the words were stuck in his suddenly dry throat, choking him. He needed an outlet for the rage, the confusion, even the hurt that was storming through him, and Jo was safe. She’d always been safe.
Instead of shaking her stupid, he tugged her against him, crushing her lips against his. She shoved at his shoulder seconds before he felt a hint of the tension leave her body, her lips softening beneath his.
And then a stabbing pain as she sank those razor-sharp little teeth of hers into his lower lip.
“Motherfuck—” He reared back, clapping a hand to his injured lip. It came away bloody, but before he could utter another word, Jo followed the bite with a straight shot to his solar plexus.
His breath escaped his body in one giant cloud. Wheezing, he doubled over, sinking back into his chair, one arm around his stomach, the other pressed to his lip.
“What the actual fuck, Jo?” If she’d wanted to stop him in his tracks, she’d done it—he couldn’t believe she’d hit him. He’d have been proud of her right hook if he didn’t think there was a distinct possibility that he was going to vomit all over her bare feet. “What was that for?”
“Are you serious right now?” She laughed, but the sound was dry and harsh. “I can barely look at you right now, so you sure as fuck don’t get to touch me.”
“What?” He tried to focus on her face, but his head was spinning. “Jo. What?”
She sucked a breath in through her nose before jamming a finger right in front of his face. “You don’t touch me unless I want to be touched. And you sure as hell don’t try to kiss me when you’re breaking my heart.”
He watched, at a complete loss for words as she stepped back, putting some much-needed space between them. Crossing her arms over her chest, she started to shake, and when she looked back at him, her eyes were shiny and red, though not a single tear actually spilled.
Without another word, she turned and made her way to the door. She didn’t slam it, didn’t even close it—just left it hanging partway open like a wound that needed stitches but couldn’t be closed.
He should call out. Go after her.
He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
She’d cut him open, flayed his flesh, and he didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if he could.
Instead, he sat motionless in his chair until the sun came up, warring with himself. He was furious with Jo, with his dad, with his dead mom, with himself. He was absolutely, utterly incapable of dealing with any of it.
When pale golden light began to filter through the paned glass of his window, he stood. Strode to his closet. Opened the small safe inside it, retrieving his passport, birth certificate and the stacks of cash that he kept just for the hell of it. Pulling a supple, chocolate-brown leather trench coat from his closet, he stuffed the retrieved items into the pockets and threw the coat over his shoulders.
By the time the sun was fully up, shining fat and high in the sky, Theo was gone.
Now
THE NUMBER ONE question in my in-box? The biggest thing that readers want to know? It’s how much of what I report on is something that I actually do. Yes, you filthy-minded little freaks want to know all the dirty details, and I know why...because if I’ve tried it, then you’re not so weird if you do, too.
If you’re waiting with bated breath for me to answer, you’re going to have to keep on waiting. Why? Because I think that if you want to let your freak flag fly, you should find the guts to hoist it yourself. Color it with your own kinks, and don’t be afraid to invite a partner...or three.
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