Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)
Where We Left Off: Chapter 31

I hand the driver a twenty, giving her a quick thanks before I step out of the cab onto the gravel. I close the door and she peels away, kicking up a little dust cloud in her wake as I take a step backwards to look up at the exterior of the hotel. Dammit Kit. I could get a little teary eyed thinking about how brilliant my best friend in the whole wide world is.

The white pillars which stand tall above the porch steps are wrapped up in black chiffon and twinkling yellow fairy lights, switched on despite the evening sun still glowing. A little red carpet is spread in front of the open wooden doors and inside I see the huge cardboard Hollywood sign that Kit and I spent two weeks of lunch breaks at school perfecting. The black and white film posters that I designed are hung in black baroque frames, and my little fake cinema tickets are strewn across every table, mantle, and desk.

There are a few older boys smoking and milling around by the entrance, presumably the band that we hired, but I don’t bother looking at them as I take my first steps inside. I can hear loud instrumental filler music playing from a stereo, and I walk directly ahead to follow the noise. Just before I round the corner to the right to step inside of the main hall, Kit barrels out like a tornado and throws herself into my arms. For some reason, my throat constricts and my eyes prickle as if I’m about to cry.

“This is awesome,” I croak out. My voice is hoarse and whispery, and when she pulls back I can see how round and glassy her eyes have become too. Neither of us knows what our precarious futures will hold, but what we do know is how few high school friends stay close post-graduation. She gives me a soft half-smile and it sends us both fully over the edge.

I choke out a little sob but I will the tears to stay in my eyes. I did not spend five whole minutes applying mascara to cry it off in ten seconds.

“This is awesome,” Kit replies, prodding me roughly in my bony chest. I concave and whine, tears forgotten as I jab her back in the fleshy bit under her arm. She laughs and takes my hand, half-dragging me into the main room. It’s all draped velvet curtains and obscene crystal chandeliers glinting in the late evening glow. Our classmates are sat and stood around tables, taking group photos and willing each other to dance. It’s not really me but I guess it’s kind of… nice.

“Sort of sexy, right?” Kit asks, glancing at me from beneath thick black lashes. Her long onyx hair is spilling over her shoulders, and her bright pink cheeks give her a Snow White flush.

I nod, leaning down to pick up a handful of the fake hundred-dollar bills that I made, and then I shower them like confetti into the air above us. A bright flash to our left momentarily blinds me, and I glance over to see a guy in a loosened tux holding a bulky camera up to his face. I blink at him and then become even more confused as I notice that, stood beside him, is evidently the person who is the actual photographer. He lowers the camera and my eyes widen exponentially.

Madden is grinning down at us, a guitar pick clenched between his teeth and his eyes glinting like knives. He hands the camera back to the photographer, who rolls her eyes as she walks away from him, and then, with his hands in his pockets, Madden steps languorously closer to us. He gives Kit a thorough once-over and I can’t help but blush at the obvious insinuation of his stare. She’s watching him with a bored expression, one eyebrow cocked, and her arms folded neatly over her suit jacket. His lip-ring sparkles under the crystal refractions from the chandelier and, after removing the pick from his mouth, he rolls the ring steadily with the tip of his tongue.

“River, this is Madden,” Kit says, sighing. “He’s one of the guys in the band, and he’s really annoying. Madden, this is River – she’s my best friend, and she’s off-limits.”

My eyebrows practically hit my hairline as I watch their stare-off. I feel anxious seeing Madden but I’m not really sure why. Maybe it’s because he makes me think about Tate, and Tate is more than likely using his finally found freedom to fuck his way around this town with his God of Thunder body.

Good for him.

I try to unclench my teeth.

Good. For. Him.

Madden tosses the guitar pick into the air, re-catching it over and over again with long deft fingers. Ooookay.

“Don’t need to tell me that she’s off-limits,” he says finally, his eyes flicking to me with razor sharpness. Jesus. I can only imagine what goes on in that head of his for his gaze to be so cutting. “I’ve known that for a loooooong time,” he finishes, and he flashes us his perfect white teeth.

I cross my arms over my chest, mirroring Kit. We must look like the two most hostile girls in the entire State, let alone in this room. “Actually-” I begin, but he holds up two fingers, his pick wedged between them like a cigarette.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says, and then he jerks his head to the stage. “Got some things to do,” he drawls and then, with one last look at Kit, he turns on his heel and stalks back to where he came from.

What the fuck?

I spin to look at Kit for some sort of explanation but she’s already giving me her don’t even ask eye-roll and head-shake. I glance over to the stage and see that the other guys from outside have joined Madden, retuning their probably already perfectly tuned guitars, and turning down the track on the stereo so that they can resume their role.

“A drink?” Kit says, and then she hauls me by the arm to the long table at the right side of the room without waiting for a response.

Nice try, but I am not one to be distracted. I stare open-mouthed at Madden as he runs his fingers up and down the neck of the guitar, his eyes trained on me like a laser-pointer, with a knowing and expectant expression quirking up the corner of his mouth. Should I be unsettled? My brain says yes, but my intuition isn’t sensing a danger. I narrow my eyes on him as he makes a test-strum. He taps his nose to tease I’ve got a secret.

“Here,” Kit shoves a tumbler of something carbonated and sparkling into my chest but, unaware, I jolt and it sloshes down my front.

“Shit,” I hiss and her cheeks flush crimson. Why is everyone so on edge today? I look around for a paper napkin but I don’t see any, so I squeeze the hem of her sleeve reassuringly as I shout over the mounting volume of the band’s guitars, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.”

As I weave back through the groups and tables to the entrance of the room, the curtains are drawn and all of the lights dim as the music explodes from the stage. I’m almost at the doors which have since been pulled shut when the song finally registers in my body. Heavy chords from the guitar slam down, emphasised by the drummer who is battering the tom with the force of Thor’s fucking hammer, and a shiver runs down my spine as I prepare for the lyrics that I know I’m about to hear.

This isn’t what we put on our suggested playlist.

But I know this song all too well.

I turn around and see that everyone has crowded into the pseudo mosh-pit area in front of the stage, teachers guarding the perimeters, but I don’t focus on them. My eyes are locked in with Madden, who only occasionally looks away from me so that he can glance down at his fingers as they flex over the strings. The vocalist next to him wraps his hand around the mic and, even though my body knows what is coming, my mouth drops agape when I hear the lyrics.

I’m angry and he can tell, but Madden’s expression remains unflinching. I storm from the back of the room with the intentions of worming my way to the front of the crowd but, given the compactness of the swarm, there’s no way that I can get my hands on him. God knows what I’ll be capable of when I do.

Could he possibly know? Did Tate tell him? Until The End was my favourite song on the Phobia album that I gave to Tate when I was fourteen, the one that I know he still keeps in his Ford, and as the band rocks through the song, the lyrics start to hit a little harder than they used to.

What is he saying? This song is about post-desolation hope, so I’m pretty clear on the symbolism, but if this is Madden’s attempt at a joke then he’s about to meet a very unhappy ending, starting with my fist and ending with his face. Sensing eyes on me, I stand on my tip-toes and look over to the far right of the crowd. I catch Kit signalling me with a what the frick is going on expression regarding the band’s playlist mutiny, her arms raised in confusion. I mirror her with a head shake that says me and you both, sister.

I flick my gaze back to Madden and his face has subsequently twisted, as if he’s trying to hide a smile. His steel eyes watch me mockingly from beneath his veil of spiky black hair and, newly recharged with vengeance, I draw my thumb across my throat to let him know that he’s a dead guitarist walking.

When he strikes the last note I shove my way through the tide of bodies, newly loosened as they air-punch and holler, and I don’t stop until I’m eight feet below his cocky little grin. Everyone is too distracted to notice us – bar the guy whose foot I just impaled with my ice-pick stiletto – as I scream up at him, “What the hell was that?!”

He grips the mic stand from in front of his band mate and tilts it towards his smug up-turned lips. He murmurs into it, “River, your ride out front is blocking the road, if you would be so kind as to move it.”

I’m half-tempted to lob my shoe at him. “I don’t have a ride out front,” I grit out.

He cocks an eyebrow at me and then drops down so that he’s squatting in front of my face. The band behind him begins plucking up the intro to a new song, keeping the crowd satiated, but Madden leans forward and whispers to me, “You sure about that?”

He rises up and mouths at me go, before turning around and walking to the other side of the stage so that he doesn’t have to deal with me anymore. I narrow my eyes on him for a few seconds and then spin around, pushing my way back through the throng, ready to find out what this asshole has up his sleeve.

I push through the wooden doors and I’m momentarily disorientated. It’s so much darker than it was fifteen minutes ago. The deep twilight hues are bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and it takes me a few seconds to remember which way I came from. I turn left towards the entrance and I start walking at as quick a pace as I can manage. I shove my glasses back up my nose as I make it to the front of the foyer, stabbing through the plush red carpet, and then descending the wide porch steps with Cinderella haste.

And then I freeze.

He steps around from the side of the truck, uncrossing his arms from the front of his white button-down shirt, and I stare at him in shock, my mouth popped into an open o.

Tate looks up at me.

I shakily make my way down the last two steps, my fingers holding up the black satin so that it doesn’t slip under my stilettos, and I try to gulp in enough oxygen to keep up with the frantic jack-hammering of my heartbeat.

When my feet reach the gravel I look up at him with a pinched brow, chewing my lips out of sheer nervousness. He takes a cautious step forward and, when I don’t retreat, he takes another. He stops when he’s about six feet away from me and my heart is in my throat for him to close that distance. I’m the sorry one now. I’m the one in the wrong.

“What are you…” I begin, but my voice is quiet and small. I do a little cough and try again. “What are you doing here?”

He watches me carefully, his chest rising and falling under his suit shirt. I can’t believe what I’m seeing right now. Tate Coleson, no nonsense jeans-and-a-t-shirt Tate Coleson, is dressed for prom. His shirt is crisp and pressed, and I’m fairly sure that the reason why the top buttons remain unfastened is because they simply can’t stretch any further across the expanse of his chest. His black pants show off an anatomical level of bulging thigh muscles, and my heart swells when I see that he’s wearing his dark brown leather belt through the loops. Just so Tate.

He takes another step forward and this time I do too. I don’t feel as though he’s here to reprimand me, punish me, or gloat. I can still feel every ounce of the sincerity and promise that he has always bestowed on me, radiating between us into the warm May air. My erratically pumping pulse and the buzzing summer mosquitoes are the only sounds to fill the stillness of the dawning-night.

“Two reasons,” he says, and the deep timbre of his voice jolts straight down my spine. On instinct I take another step forward – a big one – and he does the same. We’re barely two steps apart now. I’m practically shivering with longing, fear, anticipation. “Something happened with your mom today.” He moves one hand to scratch the back of his neck and my eyes roam over the swell of his bicep. My yearning is unhinged and Tate’s arm flexes under my gaze, as responsive to it as if I had physically touched him. “She came round with my dad and she wanted to talk – to apologise. It was surreal,” he states, and then he takes another step closer. “But I’m taking it.”

I’m ready to fall into his arms but I keep the tangible inches of air pressed between us. The evening has grown so balmy that I can taste it on my tongue.

“What’s the second reason?” I ask, my hush-puppy eyes sparkling up at him, alight with tears that I refuse to shed as I clench my jaw to stop the wobble.

He remains silent for five, ten, twenty seconds, as if he’s gauging what’s going on inside my brain, and then he takes the final step forward. Our bodies remain un-touching, but if I was to lift up my pinkie finger I would be able to graze the black fabric enveloping his thigh.

“Because you turned eighteen yesterday, baby,” he says softly, “so I had to come and get my girl.”

I jump into his hold just as he wraps his hands around my hips, lifting me in a swoop so that he can meet my lips with his. A light sound, somewhere between agony and relief, releases from my chest at the feel of him holding me again, and Tate replies with a deep protective growl. I grip my arms around his neck, tangling my fingers into his hair, as he holds me tight and kisses me sweet. I melt against the solid crests of his chest as he turns us around so that he can walk us back to his car. When my calves meet the door he sets me down and pulls away so that he can look at me. His warm hands find their way into the open back of my dress, sliding firmly up the sides of my rib-cage until his thumbs brush against my nipples, and I make a little gasp.

His eyes are trained on my mouth.

“Lip gloss,” I say thickly.

His eyes are hooding a little. “Haven’t seen you in that since Homecoming,” he murmurs quietly, and I roll my lips together, feeling self-conscious. He removes one of his hands from the front of my dress, making a shudder rip through my nerve-endings, and he plies my bottom lip out with his thumb, before rubbing the pad of it over the rosy swell. “Looks good on you,” he finishes. Then he dips back down to take it with his own.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as he spoils me with kisses, up my cheeks and down my neck. “I shouldn’t have given up like that. I should have fought harder.” My voice is hoarse.

He shakes his head and then presses his forehead to mine. “You went through so much. I’m sorry, baby. But I’m here now, and I’ll be here always. Whatever you want, you’re going to get.”

I bite into my lip, my earlier worries resurfacing. “But college- now that my mom’s set me free I don’t know what I want to do about it all. I’m so fucked,” I say, tears threatening to fall.

He grips my jaw in his hands. Heat shoots in my belly. “We’ll talk about it, baby. We’ll figure it out. I’ll figure it out. ’Til then I wanna take you to my place and…” He looks deep into my eyes. “And I’m gonna take care of you now. For as long as you’ll let me.”

He crowds my body against the passenger door before he leans down to kiss me again, one hand entangling in my blown-out curls and the other fisted on the hood of the truck.

I pull back, gasping, as another brain cell resurfaces. At this point, it’s one of few. “The song- and the band- did you get Madden to play-”

He shuts me up by pressing his mouth firmly to mine, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Okay, I guess the answer to that is pretty obvious, plus I can quiz him as much as I want tomorrow morning when I wake up in his bed.

And not the one in Mitch’s house – I’m talking about finally going to Tate’s house, wherever the hell that is. I run my hands up over his shoulders and then move one of them to meet his fingers cupping the back of my neck.

He makes a quiet startled sound and pulls away slightly, his eyes moving to our hands. I look up at him surprised – did I scratch him or something? – but then he looks down bashfully and shakes his head as if to clear it.

“Uh,” he starts, and he swallows thickly. “So this is a I’m taking you back kinda moment, right?” he asks, his cheekbones glowing sunset-red.

I blink up at him confused but nod anyway. “Yeah, obviously,” I say, trying to pull his face back down to mine.

He laughs shyly and then nods. “Thank God for that,” he says, and then he moves the hand from my hair so that it’s resting over his chest.

My eyes instantly move to his hand and my mouth drops open. I read the letters freshly inked into his knuckles in neatly scripted capitals.

RIVER.

Just like he always said he would.

My fingers fly up to my face and I burst into tears. He breathes out a laugh as he pulls me into his chest, cradling my head against the open collar of his shirt, his beautiful strong scent filling the air around me.

“The only word I never fuck up,” he jokes, but it only makes me sob harder. The most faithful person that I have ever met has branded his inhumanely incredible body with my name, permanently.

How did I get so lucky?

I lean my head back so that I can look up at him, taking off my smudged glasses so that I can get a clearer view, and he wipes the mascara tracks from my cheeks with the rough pad of his thumb. His eyes glitter against the setting blaze of the sun and they are the most beautiful colour that I have ever seen. Molten. Sparkling. Mine.

I have to say the words clearly because you only have one try at saying it for the first time, so I swallow hard and take a few deep breaths before I go in. I run my hands up his neck and lock my fingers into his hair. I didn’t say it before but there’s no way anyone could stop me from saying it now. We have both waited long enough.

“Tate,” I say, all hoarse and quiet because my emotions are insane right now.

He’s smiling down at me, jerking his chin to say yes before he settles his forehead down against mine again.

I clench his hair tighter as I pray for the strength to get this out right. I pull back so that I can look at his perfect face, and his eyes meet mine with patience, adoration, and trust.

“I love you.”

Those three words are all that I have the time to get out before Tate crashes his lips back down to mine and he shows me how much he loves me too.

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