Save Me: a Stepbrother Romance (6 page)

I forced my mouth into a hard, thin line.

“I’m proud of you, Sis.  Don’t think I’ve ever heard a chick with a mouth like yours—at least when you’re not around Mommy.”  He sat on the edge of my desk, and the warmth of his leg teased my hand.  I folded my hands into my lap and swallowed again.  “Funny how you drop the good girl act when you’re around me.”

“Funny how you never drop the asshole act.”

His mouth twitched.  Now he was smiling at me.  Cal Gatlin was sitting in my room, on my desk, smiling at me, and it wasn’t because he was trying to murder me.  What was going on?

“I meant it, Sis.  I am an asshole, I won’t deny that.  But I’m sorry for earlier.”

“If you’re sorry, then don’t call me Sis.”

“All right.  Natalie.”

I turned back to my papers, all of them now a vague blur.  It was so bizarre, the way he said my name.  His lips wrapped around it so easily, and it rolled out as smooth as warm butter.  His voice was soft and kind.  Soft and kind were the last things I would ever associate with Cal Gatlin. 

And most bizarre of all was the way it became more impossible to keep my eyes off of him the longer he sat next to me.  I had never thought about Cal as anything other than my tormentor.  So why was my heart fluttering?

“Why do you hate me?” I asked, keeping my gaze fixed on my hands.

Cal shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.  “I don’t hate you.”

“Please.  You’ve tormented me since I was a kid.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, I’m an asshole.  It doesn’t mean I hate you.”

“Then why?  Why do you keep doing this?  Why do you never leave me alone?”

He sighed and looked down, keeping his arms crossed.  My gaze ran along the  faded eagle tattoo that curled around his bicep.  The muscles in his arm were mesmerizing, even beneath the haze of my anger at him. 

I shouldn’t be thinking about Cal Gatlin this way, not after the way he treated me.  But something about the way he said sorry was softening me towards him.

“Because you’re perfect,” he said.  “You’ve got friends.  You’re smart as shit.  You’re gorgeous.”  He paused.  “You’re everything I’m not.”

My eyes widened.  Gorgeous?  And more importantly, Cal being jealous?  Why would he ever want anything about my life?  I thought he hated me and everything I stood for.

“I’m not … perfect.”

“Yeah, well, you’re more perfect than most people will ever be,” he muttered.  At that moment, my sleep shirt, a loose sweatshirt that fell off my shoulder constantly, slipped again. 

His gaze wandered down to glance at the flesh of my chest before I pulled the sleeve up.  I expected him to leer, but his expression was hurt instead. 

I glanced down, following his eyes. 

A purple bruise was blooming above my right breast, the spot where Nate had shoved me. 

Cal zeroed in on it. 

“Did he hurt you?”  His voice was flat and dark.

“Why?  You don’t give a shit.”

“Did.  He.  Hurt.  You.”

“That’s none of your business.”

Before I could stop him, Cal leaned down and touched my shoulder.  I froze.  The warmth of his fingertips across my skin, pulling my shirt down and resting against my neck, was electric.  At first I thought I couldn’t move out of fear.  But then I realized I wasn’t afraid of Cal, not when he was touching me so gently. 

I felt safe.  Safe and cared for, for the first time in a long time.  To have someone acknowledge that I was wounded and want to make it better … even if that person was Cal Gatlin, it was something I wanted to never stop.  His touch wasn’t forcing me still out of fear.  I was still because I liked it.

“You’re hurt,” Cal growled.  “I’ll kill him.”

“Cal, just drop it.”

“No.  This isn’t the first time he’s given you a bruise, is it?”

“Go away.”

“How many times has he hit you?  In public, even?  And no one ever stops it, do they?  They pretend it didn’t even happen.”

“Cal, please.”

“Or maybe they convince themselves it didn’t happen.  No way the perfect kid could hurt his perfect girlfriend.”

“Cal.”  My voice was growing weak.

“I saw it happen last year.  When you two were in the parking lot a few hours after school, when you thought nobody else was around, I was there.  I wanted to fucking kill him.”

“Why do you care, Gatlin?” 

My voice broke on the last word.  Tears stung my eyes as they welled, and my hands were shaking in my lap.

“Can you quit acting like you don’t know?” he said, his voice irritated.  His fingers traced the blooming bruise, their touch feather light.  I had no idea that Cal Gatlin, the tattooed bad boy, could be so gentle.  “I know you think I’m shit.  I know you’d never consider it.  But quit acting like you don’t know why I care.  It’s getting old, all right?”

“I’m not acting.  Just please .…”  My voice broke again.  I couldn’t stand having him here anymore.  “Leave.” 

Cal’s fingers lingered on my skin for a second longer, and a part of my wanted him to never let go.  But finally, he sighed and picked himself up, crossing his arms again.  I kept my gaze fixed on the hands in my lap.  I couldn’t bring myself to look up at him, into his eyes.  I couldn’t let him see me cry again.

“You can keep pretending everything’s all right, Nat,” he murmured.  “But you’re right about one thing.  Your life isn’t perfect.  And the more you pretend it is, the worse it’s going to get.”

“Cal, just go.”

“I can’t save you if you won’t let me.”

“I don’t need to be saved.”

“I see you,” he said.  “I
know
.” 

He turned for the door.  His tall, dark form lingered in the doorway, then glanced at me once last time.  His gaze was soft. 

“When you’re ready to quit acting, you know where to find me.  Even if I am an asshole, I’m the only one who isn’t buying your act.  And I don’t care if you’re not perfect.”

I didn’t answer.  Instead, I waited for the soft click of the door closing, and then dragged myself in bed. 

To hell with planning for the week.  I needed sleep.  And I needed to suppress the warm feelings that were growing inside me, urging me to admit that he was right—my life wasn’t perfect.  I ached to confess that to someone. 

But not Cal Gatlin.  Never him. 

Right?

The warmth of my blankets over me was heaven.  I buried my face into the pillows, and I was met with a surprising new scent, something other than the usual scent of my strawberry shampoo. 

Cal.  My sheets smelled of Cal. 

And I was surprised to realize it was delicious.  Like smoke, the tang of motorcycle grease, the freshness of his soap and shampoo, and a deep musk that was uniquely him. 

I buried my nose in my pillow, inhaling the deep, masculine musk.  My muscles released and my heart slowed.  I wrapped my arms around it, letting the warmth that Cal’s body left on it radiate around me, coaxing me into sleep.  It made me feel what I felt when he touched me earlier.  Safe.

Wait, shit!  What was I doing?

I groaned and threw the pillow away.  No.  No, no, no.  Was I feeling … friendly towards Cal?  Something more, even?  How on earth could someone so annoying smell so lovely, or even make me laugh like he had just a few minutes ago?  Why was I aching to grab the pillow and drown in it again? 

No.  I refused to even think about what that meant. 

I turned over in my sleep and pulled the sheets over me.  Cal and I had a truce, sure.  That was all it was.

That was all it would ever be.

The next morning, I didn’t slip out of the house as fast as possible.  Something kept me lingering, taking extra time to button my cardigan and lace my tennis shoes.  I passed by Cal’s room more than I needed to, my gaze constantly flitting to the crack underneath his door. 

It stayed dark. 

I stayed ten minutes longer than I should have, hemming and hawing in the kitchen, waiting for the sound of footsteps in his room.

 They didn’t come. 

Why I was waiting?  It was ridiculous.  Stupid. 

Why should I care about Cal Gatlin? 

He meant nothing to me.

That’s what I told myself over and over as I rode to school after a morning of stalling.  And what I told myself at school, every time I walked through the halls, scanning them for signs of Cal.  And what I told myself when I went home and he was nowhere in sight. 

Even at home, Cal dodged me, remaining in his room unless absolutely necessary.  Even then, he avoided eye contact as if we existed in entirely different realities.  This went on for a week.  Every day made me more and more anxious.

By Monday, I was going crazy. 

I had to talk to him, even if it
was
ridiculous.

Jess met me in the hall on the way to lunch, chattering that Nate was off at a swim meet and something about Vanessa Miller convincing the other cheerleaders to go cheer them on.  She steered clear of the topic of my new stepbrother. 

I appreciated it. 

And at least the whispers and looks at school had calmed.  Now that it was clear I would (probably) not be murdered, I was no longer fun gossip material. 

We made our way to our usual table—this time without Nate, which was good, because the first thing I did when I sat was scan the room for Cal.  My eyes landed on him tucked away in a corner of the room, leaning against a barrier and gulping a bottle of (what I hoped was) water. 

I stood.

“What are you doing?” Jess said in a hushed voice, as if just looking at Cal invoked bad mojo.

“I don’t know,” I admitted as I crossed the room to him. 

His head turned to watch me. 

A knowing smirk lit up his face.  He had had his eye on me the whole time, and we both knew it.  It made my stomach turn, but I wasn’t about to chicken out now.

His eyes followed me as I met him at his hiding place. 

“Morning,” he said.

“So are you going to come sit down or what?” I asked, crossing my arms self-consciously.

He raised an eyebrow.  “Is this an invitation?”