Wicked White
Page 22
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He smiles as he points to my second grade school photo, where I’m smiling proudly without my two front teeth. “Cute.”
I blush and let a small giggle escape. “That was Gran’s favorite picture of me when I was little. She said that was my sweet phase.”
His lips twist. “I don’t know if I agree with that. I think you’re still pretty damn sweet.”
I feel more heat rise to my cheeks and instantly know that my blush has deepened at the sound of his complimentary words. Quickly, I try to change the topic, because if he keeps saying things like that, I might not be able to stop myself from jumping his bones. “I think Gran may have argued with you on that. She says the older I got, the more sassy I became.”
He smiles at me, but it’s not a happy smile exactly—more like one of those sad smiles someone gives you when they feel bad for someone. “Your gran sounds like she was a lot of fun. I can tell you loved her a lot. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I swallow hard, trying not to cry yet again over the death of the one person I loved most in my life, so instead of elaborating, I simply reply with a faint, “Thank you.”
I give the pot one last stir and try to change the subject. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving.”
After we fix our plates, we sit across from each other at the table.
Ace sprinkles some powdered cheese on top of the heaping mound of noodles, sauce, and meat that’s on his plate. He moans and closes his eyes as he chews his first bite. “Iris, this is amazing. God, it’s been so long since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. I forgot how good they are.”
I bite my bottom lip, trying to reel in the huge, goofy grin that I know is blooming on my face. “I’m so glad you like it.”
“Do you always cook this well? Because if you do, I might be tempted to hold you hostage at my place and make you cook for me.”
I laugh. “That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
Ace’s jovial expression almost immediately disappears, and the smile drops off my face as well while I wonder what’s going through that brain of his. “This is dangerous.”
My pulse quickens at the sound of his words. “What is?”
His brow furrows. “Us—you and me. This won’t end well, Iris, and you don’t deserve that. You’re too nice of a person—way too good for the likes of me.”
“You can’t possibly know that about me. Maybe you’re too good for me. We don’t even know each other that well to make those kinds of judgments.” I sigh, utterly confused on why he keeps pushing me away. When he lets his guard down, we seem to get along so well together.
He shakes his head. “Everything I’m running from . . . it’s not a life I would wish on anyone. It’s selfish of me to hang around you. You being around me could disrupt everything you’ve ever known if people associate you with me. I just feel like I need to look out for you.”
His revelation causes my pulse to quicken beneath my skin. While he exposed his feelings for me, he still keeps the reasons he’s dangerous all to himself. This causes my curious brain to go into overdrive as it starts developing theories on what exactly he’s running from.
A long few beats of silence pass between us, and when I’m sure he’s not going to divulge any additional tidbits of information, I ask in a soft whisper, “What are you running from, Ace?”
He picks up the bottle, his eyes never leaving mine as he finishes off its contents and sets it back down on the table. “I’ve got to go.”
The moment he pushes back, I stand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
He stands and holds his hand up, cutting me off. “It’s fine, Iris, but I’ve got to go.”
When he opens the door, I begin to panic, knowing that the connection we’ve been feeling is slowly slipping away. I stand in the open doorway as he makes his way down my front steps. “Ace, please.”
“Thanks for dinner,” he calls over his shoulder.
Those are the last words he says to me before he disappears around the corner and heads to his own trailer, leaving me to wonder exactly what this man is running from.
ACE
It’s been two weeks since I spoke to Iris—nearly three since I walked off stage—and the dark-paneled walls of this trailer feel like they are about to close in on me. The two books I brought with me, I’ve already read at least five times each, and for the past two days I’ve done nothing but stare at the guitar I brought. It’s been sitting there, taunting me to play again, so I finally give in and pick it up, enjoying the peace that strumming a familiar tune brings me.
Music has always been my one emotional release. It wasn’t always easy talking about my feelings or how things were going in my life, and my mother understood that about me. She reached out to the broken little twelve-year-old the state dumped on her doorstep and encouraged my love of music.
While I would love to say that music instantly straightened me out and made me the reasonable man I am today, that’s not exactly how it happened. It took a long time for me to mellow out. When I was younger, I had a lot of anger built up inside toward my biological mother, who left me stranded in a hotel room when I was just six so that she could run off with her pimp boyfriend. I used that aggression to lash out physically every chance I got to help ease the pain from the loss of the only existence I had ever known. Even though life with my biological mother kept me frightened most of the time, I was scared to be without her. She was the only constant in my ever-changing surroundings as we moved from place to place with whoever would take my mother and me in.
I blush and let a small giggle escape. “That was Gran’s favorite picture of me when I was little. She said that was my sweet phase.”
His lips twist. “I don’t know if I agree with that. I think you’re still pretty damn sweet.”
I feel more heat rise to my cheeks and instantly know that my blush has deepened at the sound of his complimentary words. Quickly, I try to change the topic, because if he keeps saying things like that, I might not be able to stop myself from jumping his bones. “I think Gran may have argued with you on that. She says the older I got, the more sassy I became.”
He smiles at me, but it’s not a happy smile exactly—more like one of those sad smiles someone gives you when they feel bad for someone. “Your gran sounds like she was a lot of fun. I can tell you loved her a lot. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I swallow hard, trying not to cry yet again over the death of the one person I loved most in my life, so instead of elaborating, I simply reply with a faint, “Thank you.”
I give the pot one last stir and try to change the subject. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving.”
After we fix our plates, we sit across from each other at the table.
Ace sprinkles some powdered cheese on top of the heaping mound of noodles, sauce, and meat that’s on his plate. He moans and closes his eyes as he chews his first bite. “Iris, this is amazing. God, it’s been so long since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. I forgot how good they are.”
I bite my bottom lip, trying to reel in the huge, goofy grin that I know is blooming on my face. “I’m so glad you like it.”
“Do you always cook this well? Because if you do, I might be tempted to hold you hostage at my place and make you cook for me.”
I laugh. “That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
Ace’s jovial expression almost immediately disappears, and the smile drops off my face as well while I wonder what’s going through that brain of his. “This is dangerous.”
My pulse quickens at the sound of his words. “What is?”
His brow furrows. “Us—you and me. This won’t end well, Iris, and you don’t deserve that. You’re too nice of a person—way too good for the likes of me.”
“You can’t possibly know that about me. Maybe you’re too good for me. We don’t even know each other that well to make those kinds of judgments.” I sigh, utterly confused on why he keeps pushing me away. When he lets his guard down, we seem to get along so well together.
He shakes his head. “Everything I’m running from . . . it’s not a life I would wish on anyone. It’s selfish of me to hang around you. You being around me could disrupt everything you’ve ever known if people associate you with me. I just feel like I need to look out for you.”
His revelation causes my pulse to quicken beneath my skin. While he exposed his feelings for me, he still keeps the reasons he’s dangerous all to himself. This causes my curious brain to go into overdrive as it starts developing theories on what exactly he’s running from.
A long few beats of silence pass between us, and when I’m sure he’s not going to divulge any additional tidbits of information, I ask in a soft whisper, “What are you running from, Ace?”
He picks up the bottle, his eyes never leaving mine as he finishes off its contents and sets it back down on the table. “I’ve got to go.”
The moment he pushes back, I stand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
He stands and holds his hand up, cutting me off. “It’s fine, Iris, but I’ve got to go.”
When he opens the door, I begin to panic, knowing that the connection we’ve been feeling is slowly slipping away. I stand in the open doorway as he makes his way down my front steps. “Ace, please.”
“Thanks for dinner,” he calls over his shoulder.
Those are the last words he says to me before he disappears around the corner and heads to his own trailer, leaving me to wonder exactly what this man is running from.
ACE
It’s been two weeks since I spoke to Iris—nearly three since I walked off stage—and the dark-paneled walls of this trailer feel like they are about to close in on me. The two books I brought with me, I’ve already read at least five times each, and for the past two days I’ve done nothing but stare at the guitar I brought. It’s been sitting there, taunting me to play again, so I finally give in and pick it up, enjoying the peace that strumming a familiar tune brings me.
Music has always been my one emotional release. It wasn’t always easy talking about my feelings or how things were going in my life, and my mother understood that about me. She reached out to the broken little twelve-year-old the state dumped on her doorstep and encouraged my love of music.
While I would love to say that music instantly straightened me out and made me the reasonable man I am today, that’s not exactly how it happened. It took a long time for me to mellow out. When I was younger, I had a lot of anger built up inside toward my biological mother, who left me stranded in a hotel room when I was just six so that she could run off with her pimp boyfriend. I used that aggression to lash out physically every chance I got to help ease the pain from the loss of the only existence I had ever known. Even though life with my biological mother kept me frightened most of the time, I was scared to be without her. She was the only constant in my ever-changing surroundings as we moved from place to place with whoever would take my mother and me in.
