Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)
Where We Left Off: Chapter 17

Kit and I have managed to submit our college applications before it’s even hit Thanksgiving, to both the delight of my mom and the observing eyes of Mitch. I’m not sure what he is most afraid of but now I am the opposite of grounded, and he wants me as socially active as possible. This is kind of a challenge for an asthmatic introverted nerd but for the sake of him not telling my mom about my sordid agenda with Tate I’m holding up my end of the bargain.

I stay back at the library until the after-school sports practices end and then I go to the pool in town, to relax in the water for an hour. It’s a low-lit and underused natatorium that mainly hosts aqua-aerobics for the elderly, so it suits my purposes of maintaining a low profile perfectly. I shrug into my swimsuit and, taking the side of the water that isn’t being used by the pensioners, I wade through the streams unhurried.

I’m not the strongest swimmer, probably because I don’t have the best lung capacity, but I love being in the water. It takes concentration and precision to keep myself afloat, and it helps to clear my mind when I want to rid myself of my creeping sinful thoughts.

After my swim I go to the shower room with all of the old ladies and wash the chlorine out of my hair in my little booth, using ten tonnes of conditioner to try and salvage my curls. Without the distractions that I had whilst controlling my paddle in the water, my mind is wandering down dark and dangerous lanes as I stand under the streams. I think about that night a few weeks ago with Tate and Mitch in the attic, and all of the confusing things that they said. They were right about a lot, but they were also wrong in parts too.

Mitch has banned Tate from coming upstairs and I have barely seen him what with spending so much time in the library, doing assignments, and finishing up my applications after school. We haven’t spoken since that night and I can tell that it’s eating him alive. I’m sadistically enjoying holding all of the cards so when I see him outside in the garage with his bike or hanging around in Mitch’s kitchen I do a purposeful swish, and sashay away from the area.

I towel-dry my hair to the best of my ability, pull on my coat and hood, and then I walk down from the town square back to Mitch’s house. It’s so cold that it takes my breath away, especially with my damp hair and skin, so by the time I’m home my cheeks are pinched red and I’m almost gasping at the strong November chill. My lungs are officially dying for my inhaler.

When I open the door I see my mom, Mitch, and Tate all sat in the room at the back, which is weird because I’m pretty sure that they’ve never done that before, and even weirder because it’s almost night, so Tate is usually gone by now.

I give a small wave to my mom, who does an unconvinced appraisal of my raincoat-winter-hat-and-clunky-school-shoes outfit before turning back to Mitch, so after that I start ascending the stairs.

Ouch. It’s just my uniform – why does she have to be so unforgiving?

I’m shocked out of my thoughts when I feel a pair of arms grip me around the middle and pick me up, carrying me hurriedly from the second floor landing up the last flight of stairs to my room in the attic.

Tate puts me down and slams the door shut.

“Where the hell have you been?” he thunders, his voice deep and rebuking. I’m guessing he thinks that, with my mom preoccupied with Mitch, his dad won’t make a scene if Tate’s only gone for a few minutes. He backs me up to the bed and when my legs hit the mattress I have to steady myself on his arm. I quickly let go of it and scowl up at him.

“I’ve been idling away the hours to give you enough time to get the hell out of here, that’s where, and for some unbeknown reason you’re still here,” I hiss. I pull my hat off and throw it on the bed.

“I can tell what you’ve been doing, River,” he growls. “You’re still in your fucking uniform, and you come home at eight p.m. flushed in the face and panting.”

I frown, confused, until he brushes two fingers across my neck and looks away, dismayed.

“You’re literally sweating,” he adds darkly.

And then I realise.

I dig my hand into my gym bag and pull out my rolled up swimsuit, slapping it into his chest with a cold wet smack.

“You’re literally insane,” I say and I push him away so that I can strip off my jacket.

He’s blinking down at the swimsuit and his face is warming red.

“Get out,” I hiss when I snatch the item back.

“River,” he starts, but I push him in the chest to get him to back up. The size and rigidity under his shirt makes me suck in a breath and claw my fingers into him, and when I try to pull my hands away he cuffs me and puts them back.

“Stop it,” I say, struggling against his warm hold.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“You’re awful sorry about a lot it seems, and it’s starting to really piss me off,” I spit out.

His expression hardens. “How about I didn’t want my father’s hot little live-in screwing around whilst he gives her a roof to sleep under?”

I cock up an eyebrow antagonistically. “So this is in the name of the father, is it?” I ask, and then I look pointedly down at his crucifix. “Not, the son?”

Before he has a chance to retaliate there’s an urgent banging on the door.

I give Tate a smug little smile and call out, “It’s open.”

His eyes go wide and he reluctantly releases my hands as Mitch storms into the room.

He’s volcano-eruption red. “This better not be what I know it is,” Mitch grits out.

I fold my arms across my chest and reply, “Don’t take your tone with me. It’s him that needs to be put on a leash.” Then I turn around to Tate and whisper, “We can get you one to match your little clerical collar.”

Tate smirks as Mitch grapples him out of the room, and seriously – what did Mitch think that Tate was going to do? Obviously he wasn’t going to try and hate-fuck me because that’s what I asked for, and he hasn’t made any moves on that front in weeks. And in front of Mitch, too?

Actually, the thought of getting off whilst Tate and Mitch are both in the room is making me dizzy, so I better quickly swipe that thought under the rug.

“Don’t worry,” I say, brazen as they descend the attic staircase. “I’ll be out of this stupid arrangement in no time, finishing high school and fucking off to college, and then you’ll never have to see me again.”

Mitch swings around. “Yeah, about that – you need to go to the living room because your mom wants to talk to you, now.”

What? That’s weird. My mom never wants to talk to me.

I wait a minute until Mitch and Tate are out of sight, taking two puffs on my inhaler when they are no longer in the hearing vicinity, and then I go downstairs to the living room at the back. My mom is looking at renovation photographs which I presume are from our house, but it looks so different in its bare state that it’s virtually unrecognisable right now.

“Hey,” I say as I tentatively sit down on the cushion next to her.

“Hey honey,” she replies casually as she sweeps up the pictures and closes them into a folder. “So I have some news,” she begins, and my stomach instantly drops. “First of all, I wanted to say that it’s been great to see you getting on so well with Mitch these past months.”

It really shows how much attention this woman pays me if she hasn’t realised that my encounters with Mitch end with steam coming off his body. I look over to where he’s standing across the room and I see that he’s gnawing on the square edge of his thumb.

“And that’s why I know that I can tell you this now,” she continues, “because you’ve been so well behaved whilst we’ve been staying here.”

Her elongated pause makes my heart start hammering at a dangerously fast pace.

“I know that I told you that our staying with Mitch during the renovations was a temporary situation, but really it’s been a trial run – to see how well you mesh with him in the family. Mitch’s work on our house is almost done and that means that, in a matter of weeks, I’m going to finally put it on the market – he’s made it so saleable that it’ll be off our hands in the flip of a switch, and then we’ll be able to officially move… here. To Mitch’s house. Permanently.”

She gives me a little ta-da! smile and then pulls me into a tight squeeze before I can wipe the shock off my face.

What.

The.

Fuck.

*

When I wake up in my bed it’s still pitch black outside. I roll over, face smushed against the dark pillow case, and I grapple for my phone so that I can see what the time is. 2:52am.

I guess that’s not so strange, but something that is strange is the fact that there is so much life coming from outside in Mitch’s back yard right now. I sit upright, slipping on my glasses, and then I push off the bed. As quietly as I can, I open my door and tiptoe down the two flights of steps until I’m on the first floor landing. Then I turn around and start making my way to the back of the house so that I can look out of the windows overlooking the garden.

So that’s why Tate was still here when I came home tonight. I don’t even know if he knows that I’m going to be “permanently” moving into his room, at least until I enrol into college, and it technically wouldn’t be of any consequence to him seeing as he lives in some unbeknown secret location, but it doesn’t matter anyway – my “talk” with my mom is not the reason why he stayed here tonight.

Tate is hosting a pool party.

It’s weird to see a pool party in November, especially when it’s raining, but for all I know Mitch’s new pool might be as equipped as a hot tub – and, judging from the steam clouding up from the surface, it is.

I haven’t dared venture into the outdoor pool before, mainly because I never thought of Mitch’s house as my home, but now that it sort of is I’m annoyed with myself. I don’t want to get in there after all of the guys Tate hangs around with have washed their junk in it.

And I definitely don’t want to get in there after all of the girls.

My stomach is rolling as I tentatively walk up to the window ledge to get a clearer look. I feel like I stepped out of bed and fell into a frat house, because Mitch’s garden – lit up with yard lanterns and glowing cigarette ends – is perfectly illuminating a biker-chic college orgy for this one woman audience. It’s dudes with tattoos and backwards caps (at night-time – in the rain) and girls with bleached hair and fitted stringy bikinis for as far as the eye can see. I try to ignore the fact that I love the song currently vibrating from the portable speakers.

When I see Tate I feel even worse. He’s sitting on the edge of the pool, muscled legs spread wide with his calves half-dipped in the water, and his tanned abdomen fully on display. He’s shirtless and his hair is mussed up, as if he’s ran his hands through it fifty times in the last ten minutes.

Or as if someone else has.

There’s a girl sat next to him talking animatedly and I think that she’s trying to read what it says on his tattoo. I scowl. I wonder if she’s the one who roughed up his hair.

When I look back at Tate I almost jump out of my skin because his eyes are dead straight burning into mine. I immediately falter backwards, bumping into the living room sofa like a pinball, but he’s already shaking off the pool water and striding right for me. I put an armchair between us once he’s inside the room.

“I wondered if you would show up,” he says huskily as he shakes the rain from his tousled hair, momentarily entrancing me.

I fold my arms across my chest and flick my eyes outside again. The girl who was next to him is craning her neck to see where he’s gone to. I hope that she can’t see in here as well as he could.

“It’s very loud out there,” I observe, kind of hating how librariany I sound right now.

“I thought you’d like the music,” he says, his mouth lifting slightly at the side.

“I do,” I reply, “especially at three in the morning.”

His dimples deepen. “You came down here to punish me?” he teases, stepping a little closer than before. I can smell the rain and the water radiating off his heated skin and it’s… enticing. Once he’s as close to me as the armchair will allow he tilts his head down and asks provocatively, “What exactly did you have in mind?”

I turn my head away and make a little dignified cough. “For all I know it could have been my mom and your dad out there,” I lie.

He rests his hands on the back on the armchair and then grips into it as he takes a chest-swelling inhalation. “Yeah, I bet your mom loves Three Days Grace,” he says, his eyes burning into mine.

I shake my head and move to exit the room but he pushes his body up and jumps stealthily over the armchair, regaining his stance instantly and then taking my shoulders in his hands.

“Don’t you remember what day it is?” he asks, and even in the dimness of the room I can see the sadness etched into his brow.

What day it is? I blink, confused.

And then I realise.

It’s funny how our minds retain certain information, even if the use has long-since expired. I kind of feel bad that I hadn’t remembered sooner, but at the same time I’m high-fiving myself for almost forgetting it completely.

I look at the pendant resting in the severe dip between his pectorals and I wonder if the metal is cold from the night air, or if it’s hot from his body temperature.

He stoops down a bit, eyes all sad and sparkly as they meet mine, and he locks our gaze together.

“My dad told me about you moving in here with your mom, and I’m sorry River. I know it makes you uncomfortable. I…” He looks away and swallows, then bites his lower lip into his mouth. When his eyes meet mine again, there’s a flicker of something in them that I can’t quite distinguish in the dark. “I wish it didn’t,” he finishes, and I realise that we are now almost flush together.

I don’t even try to shove him away. I may no longer love his soul but I sure can enjoy his hot as hell body. I can’t deny it, I love looking at him. In fact, I love looking up at him. I love tilting my neck all the way back just so that I can be met with his intimidating stare, made even darker because of the long curves of his lashes. I love breathing in the testosterone laden heat that oozes out of his pumped-up body. I may hate that I want to touch him but I love being held. Everything feels contradictory but, right now, I don’t care.

I fist his pendant and lean my forehead into his hardened chest. God that feels good. He’s been out in the rain all night and somehow his body is still volcanic. I think I mewl a little when he wraps his arms around my shoulders.

I want to cry but I don’t let myself. Instead, before I drag myself out of his arms and force myself to climb back into his bed, I sigh and nestle in further. I run my free hand around the waistband of his shorts and I feel a twinkle in my chest when he shudders against me.

My voice is barely negligible but I know that he hears me. I tear myself away and straighten my glasses before I go.

“I wish it didn’t, too,” I whisper.

And then I’m gone.

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