When I Was Yours
Page 4

We’re two almost strangers with a world of hurt sitting between us.
Her eyes sweep the floor. “I-I can’t…”
She lifts them back to mine. I can see anguish and indecision in them.
“I…don’t know what to say.”
My chest is pounding so heavily that air is gusting out of me. “You don’t know what to say?” I yell, punching my fist on the counter. “How about the truth? How about telling me why you upped and disappeared on me a fucking week after we got married?”
Her eyes go to the wall over my shoulder. I see a shine of tears in them. It makes me ache for her, and that just pisses me off further. What right does she have to cry?
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I erupt again. “I don’t want your fucking apologies!” Well, I kind of do, but I want an explanation more. I want to know why she destroyed us…destroyed me.
I take a deep breath and try to even out my voice as I say, “I just want the truth, Evie. I just want to know why you left.”
Her eyes flicker to the window, looking at the people passing by. “Please, Adam,” she beseeches. “It’s my first day here, and I need this job. Can we talk later?”
My head nearly explodes. I half-expect to see my brain splattered all over this counter. “Are you fucking kidding me? No, we can’t fucking talk later! Ten years, Evie! Ten fucking years! You owe me an explanation, and I’m going nowhere until I get it.”
The door to the café opens, the sound yanking my eyes away from Evie. I don’t want any interruptions right now.
A seriously overweight middle-aged guy stands just in the doorway. I don’t recognize him. Must be a guest at the hotel.
He looks between Evie and me as the door shuts behind him. His brow furrows, and concern flitters over his face.
We can’t look like a picture of heaven right now. More like the very definition of hell.
Evie looks like she’s about to burst into tears, and I’m pretty sure my face is bright red from the rage burning up my skin. My hands are now curled around the edge of the counter, and I’m leaning forward over it, invading Evie’s space.
Ignoring the guy, I stare back at Evie. “Answers, Evie. Now.”
“Is…everything okay here?” Fatty asks.
Letting out a pissed off sigh, I swing murderous eyes his way. “Things are just fucking peachy.”
Then, out of nowhere, I feel her hand on my arm.
The touch sends me reeling, searing into my skin, heating me right through to my bones. I haven’t felt this way since…since the last time I felt her touch.
“Adam, I know I owe you my time. But, please, can we talk later?” Her voice is soft.
And I’m reminded of all the times when we used to lie in bed after making love, and we’d talk about nothing for hours. Her voice was always so soft, so sweet, in the darkness.
“I have my lunch break at one, or I get off at five. Whichever works best for you, I can do. But just not right now. Please.”
My eyes move down to her hand. I need her skin off of mine, yet I need her to never let go again.
She removes her hand from my arm.
The instant her touch is gone, I feel cold. And the iciness seeps straight back into my ruined black heart.
I watch as her fingers curl into her palm, like I just burned her skin.
I lift my eyes, boring straight into hers.
“Five. I’ll come back here.” Releasing my grip on the counter, I step back and stride toward the door, passing Fatty as I go.
I yank the door open and then stop before passing through. I turn back to Evie to find Fatty already at the counter. Guy sure can move fast.
My eyes meet with hers, and I pin her with my stare. “Five o’clock, Evie, and you’d better be here. Otherwise, I will come looking for you, and you can bet your fucking ass that, this time, I will find you.”
Then, I get the hell out of there and slam the door on my past.
She’s here again—rock girl. She’s sitting up on that same big rock, a hundred yards away from my beach house, where she sits every day. Hence, the nickname, Rock Girl.
God, I’m lame.
With her sketchpad resting against her bent knees, her eyes are fixed on the paper like her life depends on it while her hand freely moves the pencil over the paper, drawing…I have no clue.
I wish I did.
I mean, I could take a wild guess and say she’s drawing the scenery—the pier, beach, sand, sky. There’s plenty of shit like that here in Malibu. But still, I want to know exactly what she’s drawing that has her so enraptured.
Like, I really want to know.
I’ve been watching Rock Girl for a week now.
I saw her on the first day when Max and I arrived at the beach house, which will be my home for the next year. This will be my year of freedom before I have to go to Harvard, and then once I graduate, it is on to work for my father to learn the family business.
Can’t wait. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
Until then, I’m here to surf my ass off—and apparently stalk cute blonde artists.
Every day, at least for the last seven days, at just a little after five p.m., Rock Girl walks along the beach, passing by my house, with a bag on her shoulder, usually wearing a pair of ass-hugging jean shorts and a red tank, which shows off her perfectly formed tits. They’re not too big or too small, just the right size to fit my hands, I imagine. And from what I’ve seen, they look to be real—meaning, when I watch her climbing up the rock, they jiggle about.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a hot girl with a real pair of tits, not in the silicone world I’ve been raised in. Everything in my world is fake, even the people, especially the people.
On Rock Girl’s shirt is a logo, covering the left breast, that I can’t quite make out. And trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve nearly gone blind, staring at that fucker, trying to work it out—not that staring at her tits is exactly a hardship.
I’m assuming her clothing is her work outfit. Either that, or she has a really limited wardrobe, not that I’m complaining because her body looks smoking hot in those threads.
She keeps her long blonde hair, which I would really like to get my hands all tangled up in, tied back into a ponytail.
When she reaches the top of the rock, she sits down and pulls a sketchpad and pencil out of her bag. Then, she spends the next hour drawing. At just a little after six, she packs her things back into her bag, climbs down the rock, and leaves the way she came.
And I watch her.
Every day.
It’s not creepy at all.
Okay, maybe it’s a little creepy.
But I just can’t help myself. There’s something about her, something that has captured my attention in a way no one ever has before. And it isn’t just her sexy tan legs, great rack, or tight ass—even though those are amazing.
There’s just something…captivating about her.
I don’t know if it’s the way she seems to put all of herself into her art the moment she presses that pencil to the paper or the way she looks so totally free while sitting up on that rock with the wind blowing through her hair, like nothing or no one can touch her.
For that hour, she’s free.
But when she steps down off that rock, I can see a heaviness falling down on her, like a cloud of responsibility.