Floating (13 page)

I had no fucking idea what I was doing applying for that job. Having only one tattoo of my own, it wasn’t like I spent a great deal of time in places like that.

But… on the plus side…

A fresh start would do me good, or so I thought. Moving to somewhere no one knew me, I might be able to try to ground myself finally, and put down roots.

Maybe even stop floating.

The only people that would miss me around here would be, Clinton and Stephan, sad really but such was my lot in life and all of my own doing. My parents may need to travel further to come and visit, but that was neither here nor there. They would visit me anywhere and had said as much, time and time again. They always made the effort and although it made me feel horrible that I put the burden of travel solely on them, it was a necessary evil.

I had my interview over the phone, because let’s face it, my geographical distance proved a, teeny, tiny bit difficult to do it face-to-face There was no way I was committing to relocate before I had a job.

A man named Max, however, he answered the phone with, “Reaper,” weird. He sounded nice though, hired me less than five minutes into the conversation telling me to, “Pack your shit and buy some thermals and get your ass out here.” The man was not one to mince words, that’s for sure. I couldn’t say he was rude though, maybe blunt was a more apt description.

I was due to start at Skin Fusion in ten days; so I bid my teary farewell to Clinton and Stephan and loaded up my Jeep. The whole time thanking God that I rented a furnished apartment here in Dallas and managed to find one in Blackwater, so I didn’t have the hassle of needing to haul or store furniture and hit the road.

I planned to split the thirteen-hour trek to Blackwater over two days. I could have done it in one, but it wasn’t necessary to rush it. I needed that time with my thoughts and driving had always been kind of soothing for me. Lots of long straight highway to work out what the fuck I was going to do with the rest of my life.

While externally I was cheering for the new chapter, pom poms and all, I was about to begin, internally I was petrified.

I had little savings left, knew no one in Blackwater, hell, I knew no one in Colorado, at all. I had very few options available to me, shy of going home to my mom and dad with my tail between my legs, asking them to take me in if this didn’t work out. There was no way in HELL; I would allow that to happen.

I still couldn’t bring myself to hear my parents talk about Verity, what she was doing with her life, or where she was living now, let alone risk going home with her still living in our childhood home. I had no doubt she would be the same tormenting, nasty piece of work she’d always been.

This wasn’t about pride or stubbornness. I’d spent years trying to force myself to forgive her and move past it. I knew I would never forget what she had done, that simply wasn’t possible when the devastation she inflicted I still felt viscerally. In the end, I gave up forcing the issue and decided it was better to just let time go on, without giving it or her another thought. Easier said than done most days.

That didn’t mean that, in my cold, empty bed I didn’t cry myself to sleep, occasionally. Okay, more than occasionally, more like, nearly every night. There were so many things I regretted, things I wished were different. Even thoughts that maybe I should have stayed and dealt with the situation. Logically, I knew that there was very little I could have done to prevent my twin sleeping with the love of my life

It boiled down to one simple fact; what Verity wanted, Verity got. She would stop at nothing. Scheming, manipulation, seduction, it was all part of her repertoire. I’d seen her use all that and more to find her way in to the jeans of the attached guys in high school. It didn’t matter if they had girlfriends for years or weeks, Verity was the proverbial man-eater, and no girl should trust her around their men.

Worse than all of that, there was a small part of me that blamed myself for it happening in the first place. I damn well knew Verity wanted Nate, she’d made no secret of it, ever since Verity was old enough to notice boys she wanted Nate. It wasn’t simply a matter of wanting to sleep with him that drove her obsession, either. No, Verity wanted Nate because he was mine; he was interested in me, not her. It might sound childish, like two children arguing over a toy and, maybe it was. That didn’t change the fact that for our entire lives, Verity systematically destroyed anything and everything I loved. I don’t know why she felt compelled to break me, my spirit, and my self-esteem. There was no reason I could think of as to why she would hate me so much and be so cruel to me day after day.

I was a quiet kid, kept to myself most of the time, never started arguments with her and tried to constantly build a relationship with her the way sisters should, nothing worked. Verity didn’t want any part of me or any relationship we could have had. If anything, my efforts only drove an even bigger wedge between us. The more I tried, the worse she treated me.

When I was seven, I learned it was better to just stay out of her way, fly under the radar as much as possible. It was sad that a child of that age understood she was better not to be seen or heard by her own sister.

Thinking about Verity triggered so many memories. Most of them were not pleasant ones, the pain, the loss, and the feeling that an integral part of myself was missing. It was common knowledge that twins share a bond and that some of those bonds are so strong one or the other twin can feel the others physical pain.

This was not the case for Verity and I.

All I felt was a hole, one that was neither gapping nor damaging, it was just there… Unfillable, small and tucked away in the recesses of my heart, but there nevertheless.

Verity is the least of my worries at the moment.

My biggest concern is how to put distance between Nate and I. The intimacy caused by our living situation is clouding my judgement, it has to be; there is no other explanation for it. It is as if I am drawn to him like a magnet, the pull so strong that I knew if I didn’t break the connection that is developing further every day, I never would.

It doesn’t help that Nate is sex and sin rolled up into one, gloriously packaged, specimen of testosterone-laden male. From the top of his blue-black Mohawk, past his neck, thick and corded with muscle, over his broad shoulders, his tapered trim waist and all the way down his powerful thighs to his sexy feet. Yes, even his damn feet are fucking sexy, the bastard. Nate is entirely too edible, and that was creating a VERY large problem for me.

Take going without sex for nine years out of the equation, I know, nearly impossible right? Nate has been, and if I am being honest with myself, still IS the only man I will ever love. Not that I will ever admit that to him, hell no. I am barely able to admit it to myself without feeling the overwhelming desire to throw myself at him every time he walks into the same room.

Herculean efforts are employed by me when I resist the carnal urge to jump his bones and let him have his very experienced, deliciously talented way with me. Right about now, I would let him do just about anything to my body and not utter a word of protest. My body sings when I am close to Nate, goose bumps break out across my skin and I’m sure I blush more than any normal woman ever should.

At least, I’m not the only one suffering and in that I took a small measure of solace.

Nate doesn’t even bother hiding his attraction for me anymore. He has figured out that there is no point. He isn’t blatant about it, but I have more than enough to go on to reassure myself I’m not the only one.

Yesterday I was leaving his room; he still hasn’t let me move into the guest room and him back to his own space, yet. I won’t push it though. I love being wrapped in sheets that smelled like him every night. When we crossed paths as he was walking out of the guest room with nothing but a towel, barely big enough to cover his cock and nothing else. Within seconds he was fully erect; droplets of water running down his bare chest and staring into my eyes like he would devour me for breakfast. I will openly admit, I was utterly enthralled by his long thick cock trying to break free of the confines of that tiny towel.

Was that a fucking hand towel? It sure looked like it.

It wasn’t until he cleared his throat and cocked an eyebrow at me in question, that I had the decency to blush, a-freakin-gain, scurrying back into the bedroom as fast as my partially gelatinised legs would take me. I mean who wouldn’t feel a little weak in the knees at the sight of an almost fully naked Adonis, standing inches from them and still dripping water from his shower with a ten-inch cock saluting them? Not me, that’s for sure.

Awkward, was one way to describe the rest of the morning after that embarrassing little interlude in the hallway. I could hardly meet his eyes when we spoke over the dining table, drinking our coffee. My embarrassment only seemed to amuse him, so my mortification quickly morphed to anger, a feeling I was much better acquainted with. Smug bastard.

I am so sick of feeling on edge around Nate. Constantly on guard, I am wound tight enough that one more twist and I may just snap. God help Nate if he’s the one to cause that meltdown of epic proportions I can feel brewing. At this juncture, I refuse to be held responsible for any actions I may, or may not commit while being sex starved, forced into confinement with my ex, and severely sleep deprived.

On the topic of sleep, when I do, it is broken, short bursts, not enough to fully recharge anyone’s batteries. Two or three hours maximum before I wake with a start, covered in sweat, from a nightmare or worse…

Fucking Nate.

It has been years since I had dirty, filthy, nasty sex dreams about him. Thanks to the situation I find myself in now, the dreams have come back with a vengeance. This is not good. This is not good at all.

I woke up several times with my hand down my panties rubbing my clit, covered in sweat, panting. I swear I was moaning his name while unconscious to go along with the almost orgasm I was about to give myself.

Now is not the time to think about Nate and his huge, thick, perfectly proportioned cock and what he can do with it. Trust me, that’s even better than the sheer size of it. I am meeting Priss at the Mo’s Diner in ten for coffee after she finishes her shift.

It is impossible, not that I haven’t tried, really, really, hard, to not think about Nate. It’s like not taking a breath, that shit is compulsory. Thinking about Nate is subconscious, completely out of my control, and pissing me off beyond belief.

In the four weeks I’ve lived with Nate, he’s managed to make me dependent on seeing him, hearing his voice, being in his presence again. I. Do. Not. Like. It. Not one little bit. What the hell will I do if he decides it is best to go back to the way things were between us, not talking, not seeing each other? I have no fucking idea. This is why I was better off alone, well not alone, I had the girls, but you know what I mean. All these chivalrous gestures are fucking with my head, in a big way, like epically.

I need to spend more time painting, reading, maybe with Lou and her sarcastic sense of humour, or Priss who’s full of sweetness and built with a spine reinforced with steel. I definitely need to spend more time with Kendall, who I know for a fact, will help hold me up if I fall apart. Let’s face it, I would definitely fall apart, if Nate and I part ways again. That type of support isn’t something I have ever experienced before, and I feel it deep within every fibre of my being that this time it will be essential.

Every day one of the girls and I, twice all of us together, have gone to brunch, lunch, or coffee some time or other during the day. It is nice to have some girl time, and I am thoroughly enjoying spending one-on-one time with them all.

Mo’s Diner is less than a two-minute walk from Skin Fusion, decorated in; actually I have no idea if there was even a name for how Mo’s is decorated. I have to call it eclectic, and that is a nice way of saying a visual assault of the eyes you will likely never recover from.

It is evident Mo hasn’t been married or been privy to a female influence in a long, long time. No sensible woman in her right mind would allow the diner to remain as it is.

The black and white chequerboard linoleum floor is faded and worn down in places, matching the round, cracking, vinyl-topped stools bolted to the floor at the red well-weathered serving counter. The booths are made with the identical vinyl but the tabletops are buttercup yellow, not remotely in keeping with the red counter wrapping around three sides of the kitchen.