This Loving Feeling (A Mirror Lake Novel) (3 page)

“You—you kissed me. In front of all my students. You don’t act like someone who desperately needs help.” She hadn’t expected that to come out of her mouth. Maybe it was the shock of discovering he was a father. The old murky feelings that had been dredged up. Oh, hell, the feelings that
kiss
had stirred up.

As if
that
meant anything to him. He was just showing off. He was known for being over-the-top and outrageous. His love life was comprised of serial dating one Hollywood starlet after another. He mesmerized females by the dozens and then left them in the dirt.

No, she would
not
play that game anymore. The one where, if asked, she could name his last five girlfriends, or the spots where he vacationed (Cabo, where she’d never been but had always wanted to go), and where he’d built his latest mansion (Sun Valley, Idaho, away from the hustle and bustle, which she admired). But who really paid attention, anyway?

He rubbed his neck. Like Lukas Spikonos could ever feel embarrassment. “It was the passion of the moment. Sorry about that.”

“I’m nearly engaged.”

“Nearly?” His ebony brows rose. “After six years?”

“Oh, come on, Lukas. At least I’ve been in a relationship for six years.”

He leveled those deep brown eyes at her, for so long it almost seemed like a game of chicken. But she refused to cave. “You look pretty, Sam. Really pretty.”

Pu-lease
. He hadn’t lost his snake-charmer ways. She bit her lip, reminding herself that he was all flirt and no real form, all smirk and no substance. She was immune to his baloney and her life was none of his business. “How can I help you?”

“Stavros is my brother’s kid. But he’s—mine now. For good.”

“Your . . . brother?” She blinked in disbelief. She’d known he had brothers, that they’d been separated young, when Lukas was around ten or so. A strange, silly relief flowed through her.
It’s not his kid. He doesn’t have a kid. Not a father
.
Nada.
She worked hard to wipe the
doctor did you just say it’s not terminal
look off her face.

He snorted. “My oldest brother, Nico. He didn’t do a very good job being a father.”

“He—left his little boy with you?”

“A social worker found me three weeks ago. The child and family services agency was about to put Stevie in foster care. It seems my brother has a longstanding drug problem . . . among other vices. Stevie’s mother is deceased. She had cervical cancer that wasn’t picked up until too late.”

Sam opened her mouth to say something, but what? It was too terrible.

“Stevie’s mom has no family,” Lukas continued. “She was living alone in California, doing her best to scrape by and raise him. After she died, a friend of hers located Nico in a trailer park. From what the social worker told me, during the month Stevie spent with Nico, he watched a ton of TV and ate a lot of frozen dinners, but at least Nico didn’t lay a hand on him.”

“How did the social worker find Stevie?”

“Nico got pinched by an undercover cop when he tried to buy drugs. Trust me, it was the best thing that could have happened.”

“Does Stevie—does he—miss his mother?”

Lukas clenched and unclenched his fists as he spoke, not seeming to be aware he was doing it. “He has nightmares. Never lets go of his blanket. His appetite isn’t that great. He stays packed up all the time, like he’s expecting someone else to take him away. At times he gets quiet and he doesn’t laugh much. I don’t know much about kids but despite everything, he’s got a really sweet disposition. I just want—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat to cover his emotion. “I just want to do right by him. He’s been through enough.”

Sam felt a mixture of horror and sadness for Stevie and something else—compassion and admiration for Lukas,
dammit
, even though she fought it. He seemed one-hundred-percent committed to his nephew. Determined to give him a better life. She couldn’t help but be impressed.

Lukas patted his pockets, clearly looking for a cigarette. Somehow, that imperfection, that nervous tic, made her feel more in control. The man she’d worshipped as a teenager was just . . . a man, dealing with problems. A smoking hot, dangerous-looking man, granted but with a nasty habit. He had his own demons to slay just like everybody else.

There she went again. Allowing a tiny imperfection to make her soften towards him. Once she cracked that door open, the tiny trickle of water that meandered through would become a floodgate, an avalanche of messy feelings best kept shut away for good. As for that adorable little boy who seemed full of life and sunshine despite all he’d been through . . . well, he’d get her affection by the bucket. By the
truckload.

“I don’t know many people in town,” Lucas said.

An understatement.
Lone wolf
did not begin to describe the man.

“I just need time to sort a few things out,” he said. “I could use some help finding a babysitter while I get things in order. I don’t start touring again until August.”

Wow, August.
He was in town with a little kid for three months. That knowledge made her want to run screaming for the hills.

“Look, Sam, I’ve bought my foster parents’ place on the lake and I’m fixing it up. I need a home base somewhere and Mirror Lake is as close as I’ve ever come to having that. I wondered if we could put the past behind us and try to be friends.”

Sam closed her eyes as his words washed over her. He’d broken her heart and she’d waited for him but he never came back. She harbored years of unanswered questions and many things left unsaid. Now suddenly, he wanted to be friends? Well, she wasn’t twenty anymore and she was going to say exactly what was on her mind. “You dumped me right after I’d lost my brother and the next summer, I
still
was stupid enough to sit by your bedside for days after your motorcycle accident until you were out of danger. Then you left with barely a word. And now you’re back, after six years, kissing me in front of all my students like we were—like we were—”

“Like we were what?” His gaze roved up and down her body. He still possessed that hungry, uncivilized look that made certain parts of her light up like a pinball machine. She stepped back until she accidentally bumped into her car. “Like we were
lovers
?”

She stared at him. Her face burned, a telltale sign that she remembered another time. A sweeter time. She cleared those memories off her mental desk. Her life was different now. She’d started over, and she’d left the past behind for good.

She would never understand him or his behavior. He kept secrets, and he didn’t talk. The list of why he had been a terrible boyfriend could go on for an entire book. No, a
series
.

As she opened her door and got in, his gaze glided over the even, polished surface of her beautiful car. “You did a nice job with it.” He had a way of keeping her off balance. She never knew what he was going to say or do next.

When he’d left town, the last thing he did was hand her the keys. The ’84 Camaro had been a rusting, paint-peeling, gas-guzzling mess, and needed just about every part replaced. Which she’d done, bit by bit, until it was a now a
very
sexy car, candy-apple red and gleaming to a spit shine. She’d lived for this day, to show him what she’d done to the rusty rat trap she’d been given. So there, buster. Take
that
.

His eyes were so large and so expressive, the fault of his Greek heritage. There were too many feelings flashing in them, ones that she could not possibly fathom. So she avoided his gaze. She needed to keep thinking of him as an asshole.

Which he was. Truly.

He leaned over just a little and touched her arm. Startled, her gaze veered from his long, talented fingers, which looked so dark resting against her own pale skin, to his face.

“I want to be a good father to Stevie, but I don’t know where to start.”

Yes, how
could
he know? He’d suffered abuse at the hands of his alcoholic parents. He’d roamed from foster home to foster home for years. His smart mouth and brazen attitude had made him unadoptable. Which said a lot because in the looks department, he was King Cotton. His last set of foster parents had been kind but elderly, Mr. Ellis dying before he was eighteen and Mrs. Ellis passing a few years later. He wasn’t kidding that he’d had few examples of what a real family was like.

“Will you help me?”

Lukas represented everything in her life she had fought to get away from. Danger. Instability.
Chaos
. Not to mention his ability to string her along by dangling a carrot in front of her eyes and then yanking it away without explanation—
twice
. Harris, on the other hand, had come along right when she’d needed him, and had been her rock. A stabilizing force. One she was so, so grateful for.

She would help Lukas as a friend, but that’s as far as it would go. No matter how hard he kicked her hormones into overdrive.

“I’ll ask around about the sitter.” She cast him a quick, businesslike glance, forcing her gaze not to linger on his too-handsome face. Then she turned the key, put the car in reverse, and drove away.

CHAPTER 3

Eight years ago, Lukas Spikonos had burst into Sam’s life at a time when it really couldn’t get to sucking much more. Yet from the very first time she’d ever laid eyes on him, she knew he was big trouble.

Senior year, she’d been in love with Reggie Reid, the quarterback, like every other girl in the class, but her first love was Johnny Depp, (which proved she probably had a thing for bad boys all along). Maybe that was why she first noticed the handsome mechanic who’d fixed the fender on her Grandma Effie’s car that she scraped when she pulled in a little too close to the garage. When she’d gone into the shop to pick it up, she didn’t hear a single word he said about the car because she was too busy blushing and having a heart attack.

Even from the brief glances she’d allowed herself out of the corner of her eye, she saw he was a remarkable boy, with pitch-black hair worn a tad too long (although he was kind of going for a tough, Goth look, and it was probably dyed), skin that looked tanned even though summer was long past, a black T-shirt, and skinny jeans that showed off his lean form. He was older, twenty-one she’d guessed, and although he was thin, he was filled out in a way that made him look more like a man than a boy.

But the thing that got her was his eyes, which were big and brown, the color of strong rich coffee. And the way he looked at her! Lordie, no one had ever looked at her that way, with unabashed, unhidden desire. He
noticed
her, in a way that was totally different from any of the boys her own age.

“There you go,” he said, handing her back Effie’s credit card and oh, wow, their fingers grazed. He had such fine hands, with well-trimmed nails. Each finger displayed a different hammered silver ring with some sort of symbols she’d never seen before. As if all that wasn’t enough, his smile sealed the deal. When this guy smiled, she swore, the angels held their breath. It was beautiful, the slightest bit imperfect, and a little bit wicked. And it sent tingles scattering like fairy dust all over her body.

After that, Sam tended to notice him on her evening walks home from the craft store, where she worked until it closed at seven. Under the cover of darkness, she would see him leaning up against Clinker’s bright red garage doors, one sneakered foot braced up against the brick, watching. Always watching.

She felt his eyeballs searing into her as she passed, but he never waved, never called out. Just stood there with his glowing cigarette or with his hands buried in his pockets.

This perplexed her. Had she imagined the smoldering stares? Why wouldn’t he talk to her? She’d gotten enough attention from boys to know she was pretty enough and thanks to all her brothers, she had a fairly good window into how the male mind worked.

Still, he was everything she’d been warned against from the time she was a baby. A
ne’er do well
is what Effie would call him. A slacker, most likely. A blue-collar kid with a penchant for trouble. Not for her.

“Walk home with me tonight,” she’d begged Jess one winter evening.

“Yes, he is staring at you,” Jess confirmed. Then shot her own hand into the air and waved.

Mortification flooded through Sam. “Jess, I swear,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh, chill,” Jess said. “Look.” She tilted her head toward Clinker’s.

Mystery Man was waving back. And smiling. And oh, that smile was like kindling, igniting Sam’s body into flames.

“He’s hot,” Jess said. “You have to talk to him.”

Yes, he was, and she wanted to. If only she could figure out how.

Weeks had gone by and nothing. He hadn’t sought her out, or called her. In fact, she rarely saw him standing outside anymore when she walked past Clinker’s. But she still got goose bumps, as if he were watching her from somewhere deep inside the shop, and she did subtly check out all the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of him working.

Once when she went to see an old movie at the Palace, he was there, sitting by himself in the back. He’d stared at her so hard that one of her girlfriends poked her in the ribs on the way down the aisle. Their gazes locked, and she slowed enough that her friend bumped into her from behind. She waved as she passed—of course she did! Because by this time she was dying to see him. Wanted to sit with him and talk with him and know who he was. All he did was nod casually in her direction, nothing more.

Then The Incident happened, and all her teenage worries and dreams—small and large—disintegrated, blown away like wisps of smoke on the wind.

“Don’t do it,” Sam said to her friend Amy Chan over lunch one day in the cafeteria.

“What, are you kidding, Sam?” Jess chimed in. “She has
no choice
.”

The CCs, The Country Clubbers, as they called themselves, the most popular, beautiful kids—and also the cruelest—were causing trouble. Monique Martin, the head of the pack, was all long, gorgeous hair and thick lashes and a pretty smile—attributes wasted on a mean girl. She asked Amy to a) do their calculus homework and b) let them cheat off of her on the upcoming test. Or else.

“Or else what?” Sam asked.

“Or else they’ll get to my sister in Special Ed,” Amy said. “They can make her life hell. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Turn them in,” Sam said.

Amy shook her head, no doubt remembering that another one of their friends, Pete Rosenblum, had found his dad’s pickup keyed all down the side and his tires slashed last month after he refused a similar demand about physics. “I’m just going to do it.” Amy was terrified to tell Mr. Malone, their principal, for fear of the repercussions if she turned them in. It was the perfect bullying scenario, and Sam had no clue how to help.

Sam worried about Amy, but she had her own problems. It was fall of senior year, and she was applying to art schools, working at the craft store, and polishing her portfolio. She was putting the final touches on a portrait project she’d been working on for weeks, which she’d planned to enter as part of a scholarship competition to help her get into her dream school, RISD. She had a great shot. Her art teacher, Mrs. Kissinger, said she did.

She’d applied for every art scholarship she could find, because on the wild chance she got in someplace fancy like that, her family wouldn’t have the money to send her. She hadn’t even told them she was applying to art school. Her brother Brad didn’t want her to be an artist. There was no money in it, he said. She had to be practical. Get a business or teaching degree, something useful. He’d always thought health care was a great profession.

After all, Effie was a nurse and her Grandpa Rushford had been a beloved town doc. But ever since Sam had passed out after seeing her brother Ben get hit in the head with a soccer ball (so that both of them landed in the hospital at the same time), she’d crossed that off her list.

As fate would have it, Monique was in her advanced art class. Not because she was any good at art but because she said she needed a “relaxation course” to help offset all the pressure she felt from applying to Ivy League schools. One day, Monique passed by the art table where Sam was working on her portrait project.

“Wow, he’s hot,” she said. “Who is that guy?”

The grays and blacks of a solitary figure emerging from the shadows were offset by a bright red background. There, captured on the canvas, was the sexy, leaning silhouette, one Converse shoe propped carelessly against the bright door.

Sam had been obsessed with capturing his face. Not so much its beautiful oval shape, or the curve of his cheekbones, or the thickly curved brows, but she’d somehow managed to capture a certain . . . moment.

It was the way the Clinker’s boy looked at her. Or how she imagined he did. Those mysterious eyes, full of secrets, his gaze turned on her as if he’d just been surprised, just turned his head, maybe because she’d called out his name. And upon discovering her there, he liked what he saw. A lot.

It was her best work, and it was turning out well. She could feel it. This painting was speaking to her in a way unlike all her other pieces had, and she knew it was good. Really good.

“You’re an
amazing
artist,” Monique said. Sam’s gaze flicked up briefly, then she went back to work, praying Monique would go away. She wanted nothing to do with the Clubbers. Even Reggie, her quarterback crush, was starting to hang out with them, and they were turning him to the dark side. Monique cleared her throat. She was still staring at the portrait, and it was making Sam nervous. “Your friend Amy’s really good at calculus,” she said at last.

Sam bit her lip.
Don’t engage
, she told herself. She didn’t need trouble right now, and she was no fool.

Sam grabbed a few brushes and left her seat to wash them out, anything to get away. But Monique followed. “Maybe you can help me get a couple projects done. Like how Amy’s helping us. Because, you know, it would be a shame for me to ruin a 4.0 GPA with a stupid art class.”

“Um, I’ll pass. Thanks anyway.” Sam headed for the sink.

Monique blocked her path. “Um, I don’t think you have a choice.” She dropped her voice to a sharp whisper. “Bow down and worship, bitch.”

Heat flooded to Sam’s face. Had she heard wrong? Had Monique really said that? Of course she did, because she was mean. But Sam wasn’t a cowering flower. Growing up with all those brothers had made certain of that. She set down her paintbrush. “I don’t bow down and worship anyone in this high school. Especially not you. And leave Amy alone because I have no problem telling Mr. Malone what you’re up to.”

Something flashed in Monique’s eyes. It might have been fear, and for the first time, Sam felt she’d done something positive to stop these cruel, vindictive people who preyed on the weak. She would take a stand. She’d be brave and fight for what was right. She’d get Amy, and together they would march into Malone’s office and set the record straight. The good guys (and girls) would win. Evil would be defeated.

Sam had to paint sets for the play after school that day, and Amy had band practice, so they made a plan to visit the principal after the next morning’s study hall.

Bad move, because the next morning, Sam’s portfolio was gone.

The art closet had been locked all night, Mrs. Kissinger said. There was no sign of anyone breaking in. It had simply disappeared.

That day, Sam approached Monique’s table in the art room. She and three of her cronies were painting pep rally posters. Pint-sized cans of orange and black acrylic paint, Mirror Lake High colors, lay strewn about the table. “Give it back,” she said simply.

“Hey, Sam, did you find your art?” Monique asked, shooting a knowing smile at Reggie. “We feel so bad it was lost.” She punched a few buttons on her phone and held it up to Sam’s face. “Did it look like this?”

The blur of a photo came into focus. It was her precious painting. The Clinker’s boy one. It was lying on asphalt—she could tell by the scattered leaves surrounding it. From off to the side, an arced stream of water was hitting it.

No, it wasn’t water. It was urine, because at the source of the stream was . . . oh, God.

Sam squeezed her eyes shut to block out the vile image. No, no, not her painting, her best work ever. And all her other work, the work that would ensure her a future.

Shock hardened to fury. In one quick movement, Sam grabbed a can of paint and flung the contents at Monique. Bright orange blobs landed in her hair, her face. Dripped down her brand-new blouse and onto the art room floor. “You’re scum,” Sam said.

“At least I’m not a pathetic loser whose family can’t even afford art school.”

Sam lunged, taking her down. She’d never fought anyone before, but she knew how to get into it with her brothers. Hands flew, hair was pulled, and none of it was pretty. Mrs. Kissinger and five other students had to pull Sam off the vile, vile girl.

Sam struggled to pull out of the grasp of the students who held her, her friends who wore looks of shock and concern at the formerly mild-mannered girl who’d gone postal. “She stole my portfolio,” Sam heard herself say in a high-pitched, almost hysterical voice. “Check her phone. There’s a photo of my painting on it.”

Mrs. Kissinger picked up Monique’s phone. Principal Malone came running in. He was usually pretty laid back, but the look on his face was one of pure shock to see her—Samantha Rushford!—at the center of such a disaster.

He’d always seemed like a reasonable man. Surely he’d see what they’d done and take her side. She wouldn’t need to say anything about it. The picture would tell the entire story. She was counting on it.

“I’m not seeing it,” he said, flipping through the photos.

“It’s hard to miss a picture of someone’s dick urinating on my painting!” Sam said. Who could make that up? She was crying. The smell of acrylic paint stung her nostrils. Her shirt and jeans were ruined. Monique’s eyeliner was running and between that and the orange color, her face looked like a Halloween nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Kissinger said. “There aren’t any photos of—ahem—anyone’s genitalia in here.”

“Let’s continue this in the office,” Principal Malone said.

What had happened to the photo?