Down and Out

“Oh my god, that was so good.” Declan’s eyes glaze over in a blissful, almost drunken expression as he rubs his stomach, looking damn near comatose after finishing a plate of my fettuccine alfredo. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
I’m so glad he likes my cooking. It’s literally the only thing I have to contribute to this very odd, very one-sided . . . partnership? Friendship? I don’t even know what we are.
“Told you making it from scratch is way better.” I stand and grab our empty plates, but Declan takes them from me.
“I got it.”
My brows arch. “You’re going to do the dishes?”
Perfect teeth and dimples flash as he says, “If by ‘do the dishes’ you mean stick these in the dishwasher, then yes.” He nods to the couch peeking out of the living room. “Go. Sit. Relax.”
You don’t have to tell me twice. . .
Picking up the remote from the coffee table, I sink into the black leather and turn on the behemoth flat screen. A minute later, Declan walks in and sits next to me. I offer him the remote, but he just shakes his head and says, “Whatever you want to watch is fine.”
My gaze flits back to the channel guide on the screen, but I feel him watching me. “What?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking that it’s probably not your lifelong dream to work in a gym, so . . . what do you want to do with your life?”
“That’s a pretty deep question.”
He shrugs, his lips curving up. “I’m a pretty deep guy.”
I roll my eyes—something I find myself doing a lot around him. “I don’t know. I thought I’d have time to figure it out my freshman year, but college didn’t quite pan out.”
His brows knit together as he leans forward. “Why not?”
My eyes wander back to the TV. I don’t like talking about this. It reminds me how close I came to getting out of this stupid, poverty-stricken rut I seem to be doomed to spend my entire life in. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Something in the way he says it makes me feel bad. Like I’ve just kicked his puppy, or something. I sigh and say, “The scholarships I had lined up to pay for college kind of fell through when I dropped out. I might be able to qualify for financial aid now, but it doesn’t really matter since I don’t have the money to cover what it won’t.” I see him in my peripheral vision, but I can’t make out his expression. I’m willing to bet I won’t like it, though. “I swear to God, if I look over and see you feeling sorry for me, I’m gonna punch you.”
He chuckles. “All right. I’ll keep my feelings to myself, I promise.”
“Good.”
“Have you considered being a chef? You’re a genius in the kitchen.”
“Thank you. And no, not seriously.”
“How’d you get to be so good?”
My breath leaves me on a long exhale and I shrug as well as I can against the back of the couch. “Partly out of necessity and partly out of desire to please my foster parents.”
At his furrowed brows, I say, “Foster parents are the same as regular parents—some are great, some are okay, and some have no business raising kids. When I was younger, I got stuck with this upper middle class couple. They seemed perfect on paper—good jobs, nice house, nice cars—but they were neglectful and abusive. They had two other foster kids, and the three of us were their little maids. We were in charge of cleaning their house, doing their laundry, cooking their food, and if we messed up or fell behind schedule, they hit us. They were smart about it, too. Knew to hit us where it wouldn’t show.
“They liked my cooking, so I tried harder, branched out.” I stare into space, remembering things I spent so long trying to forget. Like the stinging whip of his belt and the taste of the sock she’d shove into my mouth to muffle my screams. “It really messed with my head, you know? Trying to please people I distrusted and loathed so much. In my young, na?ve mind, I kept thinking, ‘If I could just get them to like me, then maybe they’ll be nicer.’”
Declan leans forward, his jawline tense as he rests his elbows on his knees. “I want to know more about you, but the more I learn, the more it pisses me off.”
I nudge his shoulder with mine. “So quit asking.”
He looks positively enraged as he stares at the floor, shaking his head minutely. “It ain’t f*ckin’ right, Savannah. Did you tell anyone? A social worker, or. . .?”
“The only time I saw my social worker was when I’d get moved to a new home, and she wasn’t exactly helpful. She never talked about the why’s and how’s of things. Every time I got moved, it was scary and confusing, and I quickly learned to act out if I didn’t like a house, because the foster parents wouldn’t put up with that shit. It was kind of like my ‘get out of jail free’ card, only instead of getting free, I’d get moved to another jail.” I run my hands along my faded shorts, my voice coming out soft. “That’s how I eventually got out of there.”
His eyes narrow as he studies me, like he’s truly seeing me for the first time. No one’s ever seen this side of me before. It’s scary and unnerving, and it makes me want clam up and not share anything else with him.
Amazement laces his tone as he asks, “How are you not just . . . broken?”
A sad smile parts my lips as I shrug. “Who says I’m not?”
His eyes search mine, stripping me raw until I feel more exposed than I’ve ever been before. “You’re not,” he says simply. “You’re too feisty. If you were broken, you wouldn’t have any fight left in you.”
And then he has to go and say something like that, something that makes me want to give him more of these little glimpses past my wall. I know I’m setting a dangerous precedent, but I can’t seem to stop.
“So what happened to the other two kids?”
I shrug. “Hell if I know.” I didn’t have a way or desire to keep in touch.
Declan’s eyes grow wide as they land on me, like he’s coming to some horrifying realization. “Please tell me you understand that you don’t have to cook for me. You know that, right? You don’t have to do anything for me in order to stay here.”
He’s made no secret that he’s concerned for my well-being, and yet every time he shows it, I’m stupefied. I never would’ve guessed that under all that muscle and ink is such a big heart.
I’m terrified he could actually show me how to use mine.
My eyes drop back to my lap. “I know. But I want to. It’s my way of giving back.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t have negative feelings attached to it?”
“Declan, you’re nothing like them. The fact that you’re even worried about it proves how much different you are. I promise you, it’s no big deal.”
He frowns and rubs his jaw. “I don’t know . . . I still feel shitty about it.”
“And I’m gonna feel shitty if you don’t eat my food.” A soft chuckle bubbles out of me as I stare at him. He’s being ridiculous. “Declan, I still need to eat, so I’m still gonna cook, and it’ll be silly for you to eat something else when I’ve gone to the trouble of making a whole meal. Do you want to hurt my feelings?”
He sighs dramatically and rests his head on the back of the couch. “Fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you?”
My eyes automatically stray to the patterns and colors embedded into his skin. “I wouldn’t do that to such a nice arm.”
“You think it’s nice?”
I hear the grin in his voice, but I’m lost in the mural along his forearm. My eyes roam over the roses, the pocket watch, to the skull and shading that connects everything. It’s mostly done in shades of black and gray, but the roses are a muted red and the watch is a dull gold so as not to overpower or detract from the whole image. There’s a scrolling banner between the watch and skull that says Time Waits for No One.
The mural blends into the very lifelike black and gray angels on his biceps, their wings spreading up into the blue-tipped heavens peeking out from under his t-shirt. It’s almost understated and surprisingly tasteful for something that takes up every visible inch of skin.
“I think it’s beautiful,” I say, my fingers reaching up to graze the angels’ wings. His skin, stretched taut over so much muscle, is feverishly warm and sends a tingle straight through me.
My gaze lifts, meeting his hooded eyes, right as the Ramones’ “Beat on the Brat” blares from his pocket. It startles me so much that I yank my hand away from him.
My heart’s thrumming somewhere deep in the valley of my torso as a sour, almost guilt-like feeling floods me. I can’t explain it, but it almost feels like we were caught doing something wrong. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline coursing through me.
Declan groans and rolls his eyes as he shifts and pulls out his phone. Pressing a button on the side, he turns off the ringing and leans forward to set it on the coffee table.
It’s late. Pair that with his reaction, and I’m thinking the caller is some girl. An ex? Or maybe something more current?
I try to sound indifferent as I ask, “You’re not gonna answer that?”
“Nope.” His answer’s succinct as he suddenly shows interest in the long-forgotten TV show.
“Why not? Don’t want your girlfriend to know you’re shacking up with me?” I grin and playfully nudge his shoulder.
He glances over. “You know I don’t do girlfriends. Jamie’s just . . . filler.”
“Ugh, I hate that name,” I say, grimacing. “There was this girl I went to school with named Jamie who used to pick on me, and well . . . I never really got over it.”
Actually, “picked on” isn’t the right term. This bitch made my life a living hell for years. Her reign of terror lasted from seventh grade up until I dropped out our senior year. So yeah, the name leaves a sour taste in my mouth and I know it’s completely irrational, but I’m kinda mad at Declan for sleeping with one.
“You want me to kick her ass?”
I look over at him, seeing his teasing smile.
“I’d do it myself if I ever saw her again.” If not for fear of our school’s zero tolerance policy when it came to fighting, I’d have kicked her ass a long time ago. But I was worried about what getting expelled would do to my chances at a scholarship.
Fat lot of good those scholarships ended up doing me anyway. . .
“What’d she do that was so bad?”
I laugh and lean my head back on the sofa. “It sounds really stupid now, but in seventh grade, this was like the end of the world. Anyway, I developed really early and certain girls—certain flat-chested girls—thought I was stuffing my bra.
“Jamie was the leader of their little mob, and she spread all kinds of rumors about me. You know—I stuffed my bra, I was a dirty slut, etcetera.
“And Jamie, of course, was rich and popular so everybody believed her. The few friends I had stopped talking to me, because they didn’t want to commit social suicide, and the boys . . . well, I was a ‘slut’ with ‘huge’ boobs.” I laugh humorlessly. “Needless to say, boys were my new best friends.
“So eighth grade rolls around and I’m lucky enough to get stuck with Jamie in my PE class. Two weeks into the school year, her and her little minions corner me in the locker room and pull my gym shirt over my face, temporarily blinding me while they lift up my bra. I guess they expected a bunch of tissues or socks or something to fall out, but all they got was a good look at my huge tits,” I mutter sarcastically, gesturing to my lovely set of B cups.
“After that, the rumors about my bra stuffing stopped, but she’d always find something new to tease me about. How my clothes weren’t name brand, or how I didn’t have any friends. . . Then she found out I was in foster care, and that was enough ammunition to last her until I dropped out.”
I hadn’t meant to go on such a long-winded tirade, but man, I hate that girl.
“What a cunt.”
I glance over at Declan, seeing him with a look so disgusted it makes me laugh. I clutch my sides as tears well and spill down my cheeks. When I can finally speak, I wipe my eyes and say, “Thank you. I needed that. . . So what’s your Jamie like?”
The light in his eyes from watching my reaction dims as a scowl settles over his face. “She’s not my Jamie.”
My eyes narrow as I study his profile. “Does she know that?”
Laughter catches in his throat. “Oh, yeah.” He shrugs and says, “We hooked up occasionally, but it’s over now.”
“Why? Did you get tired of her?”
“Pretty much.”
“And that’s why I’m single,” I mutter, though his honesty is refreshing.
“No, that’s not—” His brows pinch as he tilts his head. “Wait, why are you single? Because you’re afraid he’ll get tired of you?”
Blush spreads to my cheeks, and I immediately regret saying anything. “Quit trying to psychoanalyze me. What were you gonna say?”
He frowns at me for a second longer, his gaze narrowing infinitesimally before he sighs. “I didn’t get bored with her, I just don’t like her. She’s not a nice person, and I guess it just got to the point where the sex wasn’t enough to justify putting up with the rest of her shit.” He winces. “God, that makes me sound even worse, doesn’t it?”
“Eh. At least you knew something about her personality. I’m lucky if I get a first name most of the time.”
“You really have casual sex like that?”
I can hear the judgment in his voice, coloring his tone an ugly shade. I know what I am. Whore, slut—I’ve heard it all before. Don’t mean it doesn’t hurt every time.
And like every time, I smile through the pain so they won’t get the satisfaction of knowing how much it hurts. “Like what? A slut?”
He frowns. “No. Like a man.”
Caught off-guard, I blink and look down. “Not so much anymore. I’m kind of taking a break from sex.”
“Why?”
Declan’s looking at me like I’ve gone completely insane, and I can’t help but guffaw at his ludicrous expression. “Uh, did you not just hear me say that I didn’t even get their names most of the time? I think that’s a pretty good reason.”
His massive shoulders shrug as he says, “I don’t get a name half the time and that doesn’t stop me.”
My eyes automatically roll. “Yeah, but you’re a guy. There’s a double standard for women.”
He clears his throat. “So how long have you been, um, abstinent?”
“About two months.”
“Don’t you miss it?” he asks wistfully, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could go two months.”
A decidedly unladylike snort escapes me. “I doubt you could go two days.”
“For your information, it’s been—” His mouth snaps shut. “Never mind.”
The grin on my face is so wide I’m surprised it hasn’t split my cheeks. Is he blushing? I scoot over to him as he hangs his head. “No, no. Tell me how long it’s been since you’ve had sex. A few hours? A day? What?”
He lifts his head and licks his lips. Yep, his cheeks are definitely tinged pink. “Three days, all right? Night before I met you.”
Something deep within my chest twists painfully, making my smile falter, but I’m quick to recover. Why does that bother me so much? I mean, Jesus, I’m the one who asked him. “Tell me about it,” I say, trying to play it off. “What’s her name? Was it any good?”
His brows arch. “Uh. . .”
“What? We can’t talk about your sex life, just mine?”
His lips purse as he nods. “All right. Jamie dragged me to some party and she was being particularly . . . I don’t know—Jamie—and I couldn’t take her anymore. So I got shitfaced, ditched her, and hooked up with someone else.”
My eyes widen and I blink. “Wow. You’re quite the gentleman, sir.”
His face scrunches up into a grimace. “I know, right?”
“Well, was she any good?”
He laughs. “Shit, I don’t think I was any good. I was so f*cked up, I honestly don’t remember much of it. I don’t even remember her name or what she looked like.”
“So I take it you’re not gonna see her again.”
“Wouldn’t recognize her even if I did.” There’s a moment of silence before he says, “What about your last time? I hope it was good enough to carry you through your dry spell.”
“It was okay. I was pretty drunk too, but I remember some things. He was cute and nice. A little older.”
His brows lift. “How much older?”
“He was . . . thirty-ish?”
There’s a mischievous glint in Declan’s eyes. “So you got a thing for older guys, huh?”
My gaze narrows on him. “Why? How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
(Insert millionth eye-roll for the evening here.) “You’re only four years older than me.”
“Older is older, Kitten.” He winks at me. “So this nice, older guy—he, uh, send you off into celibacy with a proper goodbye?”
A flush blooms across my skin as his insinuation registers. “Are you asking me if I came? Oh, God.” I bury my face in my hands.
“I’m just saying, if you need to relieve some tension, I’m a whole lot better than a pair of double A batteries.” I can hear the smug grin in his voice, but I still peek at him through my fingers. Yep, there it is.
Letting my hands fall away, I glare at him. Well, try to. “Oh, I bet you are.”
“So what do you say?”
His eyebrows wiggle and I almost choke on a laugh. “Uh-uh. I’m so not sleeping with you.”
He holds out his hands in a defensive gesture, his brows rising. “Hey, I never said anything about sex. There are lots of other ways I can relieve your stress.”
“Right,” I scoff. “And what do you get out of it?”
“Nothing. This can just be about you.”
I smile wryly. “How selfless of you. Going around and giving out orgasms out of the goodness of your heart.”
He’s still smiling, but his joking nature is gone. “There’d be no ‘around.’ This offer’s only good for you.”
“Oh, so the other girls would have to give you something in return? A blowjob, perhaps?”
“Other girls?” A crooked smile lifts his lips as he reaches up to brush my hair aside. “Kitten, the only one I see is you.”
Those seemingly inconsequential words make my stomach squeeze and my heart flip, breaking my affectation. And then the Ramones blast from his phone again, sending my already racing heart into an epileptic fit.
I jump and place my hand over the rapid beating as he practically growls and picks up his phone. Swiping his thumb along the bottom of the screen, he holds it up to his ear and says, “Stop calling me, Jamie. It’s over.” He hangs up and sets it back on the table as an errant thought runs through my head.
“Do you give everyone their own ringtone?”
Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he’s scratching the back of his head as he looks at me. His eyes narrow dubiously. “Yeah, why?”
“What’s mine?”
Something flickers across his face before he looks away. “I haven’t had time to pick one out for you.”
My lips crook up. “Liar.” I pull my phone out of my pocket, praying it hasn’t been shut off for non-payment yet, and scroll to the number he’d given me yesterday.
Declan lunges for it, trying to yank it out of my hand. I squeal and fall onto my back, holding my phone high above my head. He climbs on top of me as he tries to snatch it, and I giggle as I press the call button. We’re still struggling and laughing as his phone rings on the coffee table.
Our little game of keep-away is forgotten as I focus on the rock song I don’t recognize. It’s kind of slow—alternative and almost bluesy, with lightly distorted guitar riffs—and a man and woman are singing “sweet sour” over and over. The person they’re singing about is sour at first, but sweeter over time. There’s no hidden meaning to the song or why Declan chose it for me.
It’s kind of fitting for our situation, but I’m only like that with Declan, apparently. Why, I don’t know. I don’t want to look too closely at what he’s doing to me or try to label what he’s making me feel.
The song ends, shifting the mood, and I disconnect the call. I’m suddenly aware of our intimate position and how close his mouth is.
Declan’s weight is heavy atop me, and even though his muscles are hard and unyielding, it’s not scary or suffocating. It feels . . . nice. Warm. Inviting. Pressed this close, chest to chest, I feel his every breath, every heartbeat. It makes me want get even closer.
I swallow and bring my arm down. “You’re probably the only person in the world who’d call me sweet. Everybody else would stick with sour.”
’Course that’s because it’s all I let them see.
His dark hair brushes my forehead as his eyes search mine. “I don’t think you’re sweet, not yet. But I think you could be.” His thumb grazes my cheek as his eyes dip to my mouth, his voice growing softer. “I think you could be very sweet for the right person.”
Just when I think he might kiss me, he looks back up. If I wasn’t pinned in place already, his gaze alone would do it. From this close, I can see the gold flecks dotting his bright green eyes as they burn with a mixture of desire and tenderness. I’ve never been looked at like this before and I’m not quite sure what it means, but it’s both thrilling and terrifying.
“I meant what I said. No strings, no expectations, no sex. Just you and just once, if that’s all you want.”
He’s so beautiful I can’t stand it. I can’t even look him in the eye anymore. He’s like the male equivalent of Medusa, only instead of turning to stone, I’m in danger of bursting into flames.
I bite my lip, trying to keep my libido in check, but it’s impossible with his hips cradled between my thighs and the hard bulge of his erection pressing into the inseam of my shorts. It takes everything in me not to rock my hips and get the delicious friction I know is waiting for me. And all I can smell is Declan, which doesn’t help. His heady combination of soap, fresh laundry, and a touch of cologne is making my blood boil in a really lovely way.
It transcends the watered-down versions of lust I’ve felt in the past, until my nerve endings are on fire and instead of pumping blood through my veins, my body’s pumping a liquid, tangible form of desire. It’s wonderfully chaotic and I don’t think I ever want this feeling to end, because for the first time in my life, I feel truly alive.
Yeah, but how long will this feeling last?
My high is dashed by the unwelcome, but probably necessary reminder of why I gave up sex in the first place. I mean, sure, I want this now, but how will I feel tomorrow? Will I regret it? Will I feel cheap and dirty?
Something tells me I won’t, but I’m not sure I want to risk ruining this beautiful feeling if I’m wrong. I should make my way back to sanity and self-control, because once this fire catches, it’ll be unstoppable. I need to keep this little burning ember contained within me. Just shove it down like I do with everything else.
Giving him a cocky grin I don’t really feel, I say, “I thought you said you’d make me beg.”
He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger, smiling down at me with the cockiness I’d just feigned. “Trust me, Kitten, after a few minutes with me between your legs, you will.”
God. My walls clench in response, and I wonder how I could possibly regret something I want so much.
You can’t. You won’t.
All thought leaves my brain except for monosyllabic words like “yes,” “more,” and “want.” I struggle to think through the desire clouding my head, because I still don’t get why he’s offering to do this.
“Why?” I whisper. “What do you get out of it?” You don’t get something for nothing. He’s got to have an endgame.
C’mon, do you really care at this point?
It’s like he senses my resolve weakening, because he leans down and kisses my jaw softly, making my toes curl. My phone slips out of my hand and lands somewhere on the floor, but I don’t care. I’m too busy gripping his broad shoulders as his stubble brushes my cheek, my eyes sliding closed as I revel in the alternating roughness and softness of him.
His tongue licks at my neck, teasing the area just under my ear before he nips it, then places a soothing kiss over the spot. “Isn’t it obvious?” he murmurs against my skin. “I’d get you.”
The ties holding my control in place are starting to disintegrate from the heat building inside me, but I can’t bring myself to care. It’s easier not to fight it, and it would feel so good to just go with his flow.
Would it really be that bad if we just fooled around this one time? What’s the worst that can happen? It won’t even be sex, it’ll just be . . . a friend helping out another friend.
Oh, God, I’m rationalizing this.
Damn it, self-restraint, you never were my strong suit.