Chapter Two
HARDIN
I KNEW THERE was a reason I've always hated car sex. Especially in mid-July. It's too fucking hot, and cracking the windows is just asking to be caught. I only agreed to it because it's been a few weeks since I properly got off and she was just too easy.
The good thing about Molly, is she knows my rules. We've been through this enough times. I don't kiss—so she doesn't even try. I won't do all of the work—so she knows when it's her turn to put in effort. I never fuck without a condom—so she knows better than to try me. And I especially don't get attached—so she doesn't stick around long afterward.
It's fucked up, I know. But she is a distraction, and that's all I really need. The pressure in my spine builds easily, and to be quite honest, I am too selfish to care about her needs. I spill into the condom, and I know she was close but not close enough. "Asshole!" Molly spits out, breathless.
"Don't fucking care," I tell her, rolling my window down all of the way. There is not much of a breeze, but the car begins to cool down somewhat.
Another thing—I don't ever fuck in my own car. My car is too nice, I wouldn't dare do anything to ruin its interior.
"Get out, Hardin!" She snaps at me, pulling her skirt back up and fixing her shirt. Her hair is a mess in a half-pulled up, half-down attempt of a hold. Her make-up is smudged under her eyes from sweat and if I didn't know her any better, I would assume she was about to cry. She and I both know that as soon as either one of us needs a distraction, we will be right back here again. I don't care if she is mad at me, because I know she will find someone else to finish the job anyway.
It's not that I can't—I just don't care to.
I pull my shirt down in place, my jeans and boxers up, and give Molly a look that asks if she's seriously kicking me out for not getting her off. Molly has a good bitch face, but she will always have a soft spot for me.
"Get out, Hardin," she says, less ferocity in her tone this time. But she smirks at me, and I know she's messing with me. She pulls out her phone and I see her scroll through her contacts. I swear her sex drive is worse than mine.
"What time's your next appointment?" I ask her with a smug grin on my face. She rolls her eyes at me.
"In about twenty minutes when one of your dickhead friends replies to my text."
"You really shouldn't throw yourselves at them," I joke, and watch as a look of mock offense crosses her features.
"Coming from Mr. I'll-Fuck-Whatever-Has-A-Pulse...? Okay, Scott."
"Hey, contrary to your beliefs, I do have some standards. And I don't throw myself at any of the girls I fuck," I say, waving her off. Molly can be pretty cool at times, when her mouth is doing anything but talking. She'll never admit it, but her standards are usually as low as mine. I do have some, but we just want a distraction from reality sometimes.
"I guess I can't totally argue," Molly shrugs, fixing her lipstick in the visor mirror, "I mean, you're always coming back to me for better anyways." She teases, meeting my eyes in the reflection. Just as Molly's screen turns on with a text, my phone begins to ring and I have to dig through my pocket to grab it.
It's my father. I just let it ring. I don't want to deal with him right now, otherwise Molly will have to blow off Nate again for another round with me. The idea is tempting, but if she thinks I'm going for a second time in this hot-ass car again, she's sorely mistaken.
I'll suffer with a boner and take care of it later, if that's the case.
"Are you going to be at the party tonight?" Molly asks me as we drive back to the frat house. I roll my eyes.
"Just like every Friday night," I reply simply.
"Just because there's no strings attached here doesn't mean you can't talk to me like a normal person," Molly retorts, "You could at least pretend like we're friends." I don't know if we have ever considered each other friends. She's a good fuck, but I've never really spent much time with her 'as friends' alone. We're usually surrounded by everybody else.
"What do friends talk about then?" I decide to humor her. She wants me to at least pretend, and I didn't get her off, so it's the least I can do.
"You're such an asshole," she scoffs, shaking her head. When we pull up to the frat house, I don't wait for Molly to turn the car off. I let myself out and head inside, up to my room. Nate's room is next to mine. Unfortunately, the walls in this house are paper thin, and soon enough I hear the repetitious knock from the headboard and Molly's obnoxiously loud moaning. I know she is just doing this to get on my nerves.
It only works a little bit.
I pull my phone out and scroll through messages from numbers I never saved and phone calls I never answered. One sticks out like a sore thumb; my father's. He left a voicemail, of course he did.
Much to my annoyance, I press play and put the phone up to my ear.
"Hardin, I just wanted to let you know your mother's wedding is in a few days. Karen and I are leaving for London tonight. The flight leaves at 8. Landon is joining us. You're more than welcome to come if you've changed your mind. Just give me a call back, son—"
I delete it before it finishes. He should know I haven't changed my mind. I can't blame my mother for moving on, it's about time if I'm honest. I guess I am happy for her. She doesn't need to bust her ass making barely anything anymore, but my father should have never fucked everything up in the first place. And the last thing they need is me causing a scene at her wedding—it's better if I just stay away.
Why he thinks I'd ever want to sit on a ten hour flight with him and his new family is beyond me. Ken Scott is a grade-A fuck up, and anything he does now will never change the way I see him.
However, if they're going to be out of town for a few days, then surely my dear old dad won't mind me stopping by the house to hopefully get some decent sleep for once.
xxxxx
THE PARTY IS in full swing when I head down later on in the night. I don't join them until I hear more music than people, and the front lawn is full. None of these parties are ever any different, but WCU has a reputation of throwing huge parties and it's usually the only thing to do on Friday nights in this town. The frat house I live in is notorious for throwing the best—it's one reason why I chose to live here, the other being to stay as far away from my father as possible. My mother may have sent me here to spend more time with him, but I made no promises that would actually happen. I knew choosing to live here over the house he shares with his new family would piss him off.
I was probably right, but I don't talk to him enough to know. And although I realized that living here was the worst choice I've made so far, it definitely beats constantly being reminded of the life I don't belong to.
One more year of this place, and I'll be on my own for good. There will be no more easy exams, and pointless classes I already know the material to. And if I play my cards right, I'll be graduating in the early spring. I just have to stay on speaking terms with my father to make that happen; I only ever call him when I need to know what papers have to be filled out.
The party drags on well past midnight, and I know there's no chance of it dying down anytime soon. Everyone around me is past drunk and working on smashed. Molly has clung to my side for most of the night after leaving Nate's bedroom. She is hammered, but I give her credit; she knows how to hold her liquor. If she didn't, she sure as hell wouldn't be sitting on my lap.
I forget how I lose her, but I eventually find myself leaving the frat house in search of some peace and quiet. It's just past one in the morning, and I'm goddamn exhausted.
The amount of sleep I've gotten this past week is next to none, and right now that's all I want. Nobody will miss me at the party anyway. I hate this routine, but there's never anything better to do around here.
I drive until I see the outline of the house in the dark. It's hard to miss, and they always keep the lights on outside. I park in the driveway and cut the engine. The last thing I need is some asshole clipping my mirror. If there's anything I love in this world, it would be my beautiful 1970 Ford Capri. This baby is a classic, and everyone knows it's mine. And if they touch it, they better stay the fuck away from me if they know what's good for them.
I rummage through my pockets quick, but I come up empty. I left my key in my room at the frat house. I know where they keep the spare though. Karen believes nobody would ever think to dig through a planter to find a key. She could be right, if not for my smart ass.
The door unlocks easily, but I notice the alarm is disabled when I walk in. Usually I have to turn it off myself, but it's already off. Strange...
I don't think too hard about it, if anybody wanted to hurt me they'd think again once they saw me. I make my way to the kitchen, in search of a water bottle or even a glass. I only spot sparkling water in the fridge and can't help but roll my eyes, of course they would drink this shit.
I grab a glass from the cabinet above the coffee brewer and run the water from the tap instead. The water here tastes better, even from the sink. I bet they've never had to worry about the water being shut off... I think bitterly. My eyes wander to the bottles above the fridge; Ken keeps his most prized liquors and spirits in the wine rack. I eye them wearily—they've never been opened. Of course not—he doesn't drink.
I don't drink alcohol anymore either. I got too fucked up on it, and I was even more of an asshole then. My mum begged me to stop, but it wasn't her I stopped for. Whenever I drank it reminded me too much of him, the old Ken from my fucked up childhood.
I stopped because I hated how it made me feel every time it touched my lips. I have always heard alcohol was supposed to make you feel good, and forget things. But it only ever made me hate myself more, and I usually remembered all of the bad things. So now water is the only thing I will drink, and I usually hate water straight from the tap, but it seems I have no choice right now. I'd open that bottle of scotch before I ever even thought about drinking that sparkling shit.
I lean against the counter, staring off until my eyes land on a figure outside of the kitchen doorway. What the fuc—the glass slips from my hand and shatters against the floor. "Who the fuck are you?" I yell, my chest aches from the shock. She struggles to find an answer, "Well? What are you doing here?" I snap impatiently. Is she deaf? Or just stupid?
"I... I'm watching the house," She trips over her words. Christ, she scared me and she's the one that can't talk, "The Scotts asked me to stay he—,"
"—Where is my father?" I already know the answer, but I want to know if she's lying or not.
"He—they left for a wedding," She rushes the words out in a breathless huff, and I feel more angry towards my father for letting some stranger watch the damn house. Who the fuck even is this girl, she didn't answer that one.
"Who the fuck are you?" I hate repeating myself.
"My name is Tessa," She places a large book on the counter, and it's almost twice the size of her head. I find it comical—what was her intention with that? To throw it at me? It looks like she can barely hold it as it is.
"That was your weapon? A book?" I can't help but laugh at the absurd idea, "What did you plan to do with that? Throw it at my head, can you even lift that?" Her eyes narrow up at me, and for a moment I see a hint of something I can't place. Defiance, maybe? No way she's gonna stand here and try to defend herself when her plan to stop an attacker is to throw a book in their way.
"Your father didn't mention you would be home," She says, and for a moment it doesn't sound like she's talking to me. But it's obvious she knows Ken is my father—did he actually tell her that? No fucking way. I can feel the tension in my jaw. I'm not going to confirm or deny it, so I simply keep my answer neutral.
"I can't say I'm surprised—he likes to forget about me. This isn't my home, anyways." I suddenly wonder why I even bothered to come here—oh, right. To try and get some decent sleep. Looks like that's shot to hell now.
"You don't live here?" She asks. Why does she want to know?
"You're nosey," I hiss in response. She doesn't even know me. She's not going to either—I wish she would just shut up, or disappear. Why is she even here? Since when does Ken have anybody watch the house? Of course, Landon isn't here like he usually is... so that must be why. But still, this girl is nobody to my father, as far as I know.
"Right now, I have more of a reason to be here than you do," She retorts—Tessa, I think she said? Yeah, Tessa. "Who are you?"
"None of your business," what the fuck? She's got some nerve saying that to me, "this house belongs to my father, so my presence trumps yours automatically."
"Considering he never mentioned you, I would guess that's not true." If he never mentioned me, then how the fuck did she know he was my father? Maybe she's smarter than I originally thought. I guess putting two and two together is easy for her. At least she's not dumb—but her attitude is enough to piss me off, and I feel agitated again.
"Just shut up," I answer, and I feel like a child, "I'll call him if you don't believe me."
"It's too early to call him," Tessa says, and I see a flash of panic across her face. What does that mean? Maybe she is lying, and she's just really good at it.
"He's only five hours ahead," I retort, rolling my eyes. I'm settling this once and for all, I need sleep and this is just pissing me off.
"How do you know that?" She immediately asks, suspicious. I'm not answering that—God, does she ever stop asking questions? Every word out of her mouth is followed by a question mark. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial his number. I watch her in case she tries to bolt out of the room. By the third ring I'm annoyed, but on the fourth the line picks up. "Hardin? Is something wrong?" My father questions.
Her eyes look up, and I realize they're an odd colored blue. They almost look gray and it catches me off guard for a moment, even though she's standing so far away. I remember I'm on the phone with my father, and I think up a lie fast, "I went to the house to find you—,"
"—At two in the morning?" –Hey Ken, shut the fuck up. I click my tongue in annoyance. I want to ask if he's done interrogating me, too.
"Yes," I snap. I look over at her, watching me, "It doesn't matter what time... I wasn't expecting your guest to sneak up on me." If that even is what she is.
"Oh, that's Tessa." Ken replies, his tone brightens up. What the fuck? Okay, so obviously he knows her. "She's watching the house while we are away. I would have asked you to, but I didn't think you would say yes, or even answer my call..." He says lightly. All I can do is shake my head as the anger boils in my blood. He's right—I know he is. But I'll be damned to admit that to him.
"Whatever, this was a bad idea," I hang up without another word, just as my father tries to speak again. I almost forget Tessa is standing only a few feet away. I give her a harsh look; because of her I called him, "Do you believe who I am now?"
"Sure," is all she says. Sure? Her attitude is infuriating.
"I'll be gone before you wake up again," I just want to escape the way she's looking at me, and the tension is so thick between us I feel like I'm choking. I need some sleep or I think I'll lose it.
"You're staying here?" She gasps, hot on my heels as I stop before the stairs.
"Uh... yeah?" I laugh without meaning to, but her horrified expression is hysterical, "You can leave if you'd like."
"Your father asked me to watch the house. I'm not leaving." Of course you aren't, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Her hand rests on her hip, and I know she's refusing to back down. Who is this girl? I can see she's ready to fight me on every word. And since when does anyone have the balls to confront me?
"How do you even know him?" When she has no answer, I realize my suspicions were right, "Thought so."
"Why are you so rude?" She really has no filter on that attitude of hers, huh? She seems to spew out the first thought that comes to mind, and she thinks I'm the one being rude. Granted, I did ask who the fuck she was the moment I noticed her. But still, she's being rude nonetheless.
"I could ask you the same," I stretch out on the couch and close my eyes; maybe if I think hard enough she'll disappear into thin air, or some shit. Since it's likely I'm not making my way upstairs anytime soon, the couch is my best bet.
"How does a man like Ken have both a son like Landon and a son like you?" At that, my eyes pop open and damn near fall out of my head. Now I'm convinced she doesn't think before speaking—where the fuck did that come from?
"Because Landon's not his biological son—I am." I spit at her, rolling my eyes. She sets me off far too easily, and I am too exhausted to keep this game up, "It figures he wouldn't refer to him as his step-son."
"I didn't mean that," Oh, so she knows she has this problem then?
"But you said it," I argue. I need to calm down, I shouldn't even be having this conversation with her. I look up at the ceiling, breathing in and out through my nose. Fuck, I think I will be opening that bottle of scotch at this rate.
"I'm sorry," Tessa's voice is so low I almost don't hear her apology. I don't want it—I don't care for it. She already said it, so her apology doesn't mean shit to me. When I don't reply, she asks, "Why are you here?"
"I already told you," I sigh. Can't she just disappear? Aren't women like her supposed to be good at going unnoticed? Except that I do notice her—the way her breathing has picked up because she's angry with me, me... and the way she sighs in frustration without noticing she's done that a hundred times already.
"Why are you really here?" She must like to push buttons, because she's doing a great job at pushing mine. I glance over at her, taking in her appearance for a moment. She's plain, with blonde hair and blue eyes... a deep blue, with silver like the sunlight off wave caps.
She's plain, but there is actually something striking about her that I can't put my finger on. Her attitude is nothing short of feisty—I laugh to myself, her attitude is taller than her height itself. I suddenly wonder how tall she actually is... would she just reach my shoulder? I doubt it.
"I just don't have anywhere else tonight, okay? Get off my back!" I finally say. "Why do you ask so many questions? What does any of this matter to you?"
"I'm just asking a question—," She tries to argue, but I don't let her. I'm on my feet within seconds, towering over her. I was right, she falls just below my shoulder.
"—No, you're prying!" I yell at her without really meaning to, but the exhaustion is seeping into my body and I just want to be left alone, "it's annoying!"
"What's annoying is your lack of patience," Tessa snaps, her eyes glare at me but her face looks too kind. She looks more like an angry kitten that wants to roar like a lion.
"It's hard to have any when you're testing it every two seconds!" She doesn't look away and neither do I. No way in hell am I losing this challenge to her—she's so maddening, I feel everything in me getting worked up. I've never felt this kind of frustration before.
"You knew your father would be away, didn't you?" What? She can't be serious. I want to throw something, but I find nothing that will satisfy my anger. Instead I let out an angry groan, and my fingers pull at my hair like they always do when I start to stress out.
"Fine," I look away from her. I feel like I'm about to snap, "Obviously, I knew. Happy? I just didn't want to stay at my usual spot for once, it's not a big fucking deal so stop making it one. I can be here, but you don't have to stay." I rush the words out, but they don't offer me any relief. Why am I so goddamn worked up right now? Fuck.
"I'm not leaving," She's persistent. I don't know whether to laugh or scream. "I already told you, I was asked to stay here." I suddenly wonder why she's so intent on staying, but then I remember there were no other cars outside.
Then my mouth works faster than my brain, and I can only laugh, "Let me guess, you have no way of leaving." She presses her lips into a hard line. She actually has nice lips, too bad her attitude is off-putting. I smirk, "Though so. I didn't see any cars out front, apart from mine."
"It doesn't matter," Tessa's eyes fall somewhere south of my nose, and for a moment I wonder if she's staring at my mouth too. I almost forget I am supposed to be fighting against her, not thinking about her. Why the fuck would I even think about her?
"No, you don't get to ask me all of these questions and expect me not to pry any out of you." I feel greedy, but I'm not sure why. She thinks she's the only one who can ask shit, but I have a few questions of my own, "How did you even get here?"
"Bus," She's lying. Not that I care, I don't care how she got here. But I want her to know how annoying she's being.
"Do you go to school around here?" I continue.
"No."
"So how did my father hire you?" My father has few connections outside of the university—most of which, consist of other professors and scholars. And she's definitely neither of those.
"My mother put a word in for me..." She mumbles, her eyes avoiding my stare. I know there's no way my father fucked her mum... he may be a fuck-up, but he's got too much to lose now. But now I'm even more confused.
"Let me guess, you grew up in a nice house that looked like every other one of the block, and you've never worn a wrinkled shirt in your life. Your life was probably planned out for you minute by minute. You've probably never had to go a night without dinner, and I bet both of your parents always made it a point to tuck you into your bed. So your dear old mum has always been your reason for getting everything handed to you—,"
"—Jealous much?" Tessa yells, clearly offended. Her eyes start to water, and for a moment I wonder if I've crossed a line somewhere. Not that I care about her feelings—but I'm not good with tears, if she's starts crying I don't know what I'll do then, "and for your information, you're wrong! You don't know anything about me, and everything you've just said is not even close to the childhood I had."
"Well I can promise you that you know nothing about mine either. And it's going to stay that way, so stop asking me stupid questions."
"I don't even know why I'm wasting my time arguing with you," She sighs, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, "You already said so yourself, you'll be gone before I wake up again. Thank God!" She spits out. I laugh as she storms up the stairs—it's about damn time.
She's on the top landing when I peer down at the floor by my feet, and I spot a bag. This is hers, it has to be. Well, there's nothing that says I can't be nosey right back. I pull out the first thing my fingers touch; a planner. Across the top in neat handwriting is the name Theresa Young. So then Tessa is a nickname—one she obviously prefers over Theresa. For some reason, that name is fitting. "Somehow I don't think this will be our last encounter, Theresa." I call after her. I hear her footsteps stop, and when I look up she's staring over the banister at me again.
"What?" Her gaze falls to my hands, and she gasps. It's just a planner—what's the big deal? I wonder what would happen if I tore it in two by it's stupid plastic rings, or threw it into the toilet. She didn't cry before, but I bet she would if I did that.
"I said, 'somehow I don't think this will be our last encounter, Theresa.' That is your name, isn't it?" I ask her. Her expression says it all.
"Put that back now!" She cries, and suddenly she is down the steps and coming straight for me. Damn, she really is short... I have almost two feet on her. She tries to reach for her planner back, but she must know this will end one of two ways: she'll have to practically goddamn climb me to get it, or she'll stomp her feet like a child until I give it back.
"Not a chance—I was right about one thing. Your life is planned out, minute by minute." She's so pissed! I can tell she hates that I'm teasing her over something so minuscule, but it's keeping me entertained at least.
"For someone so angry when people pry, you have no problem being a hypocrite!" She screams at me, and stomps her foot. She actually stomps her foot like a child—this takes me entirely by surprise. I guess I should have known which way this would end. I think for a moment that she will back off and give me the silent treatment, but clearly I am wrong again when she starts throwing every insult in the book at me, "You have no manners, you're an awful person to converse with, and you clearly have no respect for anyone but yourself!"
I know am gaping at her. My mouth is hanging open because her anger has floored me entirely. Nobody has ever had the balls to talk me in such a way that she just did. I'm a little impressed by her bravery, but also annoyed by it at the same time.
"Look at the pot calling the kettle black," I finally say when my thoughts have pieced themselves back together. I hate metaphors, but for some reason I just threw one at her absentmindedly. Speaking of throwing things—I remember I am still holding her damn life in my hands. I toss it onto the couch carelessly behind me, "You called me rude, but look what you just said to me."
"It's the truth," Tessa hisses at me. For a grown ass woman, she sure as hell acts like a petulant child when she doesn't get her way. She steps back, putting a good four feet of space between us. She doesn't look at me, but my eyes follow her gaze to the clock—three-thirty? Fuck... I'm not getting any sleep tonight, that's a definite. Have I really been arguing with this strange girl for over an hour?
"Doesn't make it any less rude," I state with a shrug. She reaches for her planner on the couch and goes for her bag, but I am quicker than her. I pull papers out of folders and anything else that will be sure to piss her off.
I know I'm an asshole, but I can't help it. She's pretty hot when she's mad. And now I almost can't believe I just thought of her as hot, but I've definitely just admitted that to myself so I can't unthink it. I decide to taunt her some more to get my mind off of fucking that anger out of her. "Straight A's. Perfect attendance. You probably show up early to everything."
"What do you want?" She whines, and her voice stills something inside me for a moment. Is she really going to give up now? All because I grabbed her planner and joked about her perfect attendance. At least she isn't crying...
"It's not fun having someone pry stuff out of you, it is?" I ask her. Before I can laugh at her expense, she rips the bag from my hands and calls me a jerk, rushing up the stairs without another glance back. I hear a door slam and then nothing else but silence follows.
I pity whatever man dates her ass. If that's all it takes to fire her up, he's in for it big time.
Though I can't help but feel more on edge now that she's no longer in my presence. I feel energy pulsing under my skin, and now I know there's no way I'm getting even an ounce of sleep.
From where I'm standing, I'm reminded of the glass I broke in the kitchen earlier. I wonder if her watching the house includes her cleaning it as well... but I won't do that to her after all the torment I just caused her tonight. I'll make up for it in this way.
It takes me a couple of minutes to find the broom, but when I do I make sure to sweep up every bit of glass I can find. By the time I'm done with that, it's already past four and my head is pounding. I really need to try and get some sleep.
The last thing I do is grab the book off the counter—I can't believe she even thought this would protect her from an attacker, let alone me. I would have been pissed if she did throw it, though. I turn it over, it's my father's copy of Moby Dick. She must have gone into the library, then.
I am too tired to bring it all the way back, so I toss it onto the coffee table and plop my ass down on the couch. I'll put it back later.
I toss and turn on the couch for another hour or so and finally I decide it just isn't going to happen.
It's now past six and I am exhausted, but my thoughts refuse to let me be. I keep replaying the argument in my head; she's very animated, I've noticed. And when she's pissed off, she doesn't show a care in the world. Something about her has me interested—though I'll never admit that out loud.
I don't know what carries me up the stairs—the thought of sleeping in a bed and not on the couch, or the fact that I will be near her again. I don't know why, but the idea thrills me a bit.
I have never used my room here, but I remember the conversation my father and I had when my mother sent me out here. He had mentioned that Karen had stocked the dresser with clothes, and that this room was in the farthest part of the house so I could have my space. I should have never turned it down in the first place, but I can't say I actually regret my answer either. I may live in a shitty frat house surrounded by pricks who don't actually do anything for the community, but everyone usually leaves me alone so it's not all bad.
It doesn't feel like my room, not in the least bit, but technically it is. There is a large four-poster bed in the center of the room—I picture using it for more than just sleep, however. In the corner, a large cherry wood desk with a brand new Mac-desktop perched on top. I notice the chest at the end of the bed is the same material. Maybe if I were anything like Landon, I'd thank him for buying his way into my life. Except he'll never actually be in my life, so I'd prefer to keep it that way.
The pull open drawer after drawer and I'm not surprised that the dresser is more of a disaster than I first thought—my eyes land on a sea of plaid underwear. Who the fuck wears these? I groan in disgust.
The only spare clothes I've got are in my trunk, and I'm too tired to go all the way out to my car to grab them. I guess I will have to suffer in her charity donations until I can get out there.
I pull my shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor, working on my jeans next. I grab the only decent pair of sweatpants I see and pull them on. They are just a plain, gray pair—they aren't so bad, at least. However, if I were alone I'd have no problem being in just my boxers. But given my temporary neighbor down the hall, that run-in could freak her out. Or excite her—I wouldn't be opposed to that kind of company.
There is a speaker on the desk, beside the monitor. I connect my phone and turn the music up. I just want to shut my mind off for now, and it seems this will be my only release.
I turn it up as loud as it will go and I lay back on the bed, finally feeling my body relax. The only thing that could make this even better—getting my rocks off. I still feel so worked up. When I've decided that I've tortured her enough, I turn the music down and listen for any movement. I get up from the bed and inspect the hallway. I think, at first, that she may have left until I hear the water running down the hall.
She would definitely throw something at my head if I barged in there on her. I think she got my hint, however, so I won't bother her this time. I keep on walking, my eyes land on the damn book I never put back when I hit the living room.
Technically I should be making her put it back, but I decide to just do it myself. I don't care for putting it back in its place, they're lucky I even put it back in the library.
On the table in the corner, I see a few familiar books—my father's friend, Vance, used to bring me a new book whenever he could; and the older I got, the better the stories did too. Why does my father have them here? Last I remembered seeing them, they were on my tiny bookshelf in my childhood room. It looks like all of them are here, if not most anyway. My mother must have noticed I left them... though I planned on returning to London at some point and gathering them up myself.
There is only one missing, my favorite one actually. My copy of Wuthering Heights, that was once Vance's. It's the oldest copy I own—the pages are bent, and the spine is almost falling apart, but the story never changes. Does my father have it here, as well?
I search through the shelves, and I find it easier to look through than I first thought because they are all kept in alphabetical order. I do find a copy, but it isn't mine—the condition is too impersonal, too pristine. This must have been here before mine.
It couldn't be lying around the house, could it? Not a thread is out of place anywhere here, so the chances are slim but it's worth a shot.
When I exit the library, I don't hear the water running anymore but I hear the rustling of fabric and the sound of a cabinet closing. She's probably still naked, drying herself off—fuck this, I can't even begin to think of where that thought came from. No doubt from my hormones fueled by this morning's frustrations, courtesy of a stubborn fucking blonde.
I push the door open to Landon's room, though I don't have to walk too far—his bookcase sits beside the door, but the only books he seems to own are mostly textbooks. There are a few novels I recognize, but nothing close to mine. I don't waste any more time, and head for the stairs.
I search my father's study next, but the only books I find are journals and manuscripts. I have to be careful not to move too much around, because it looks as though he hardly ever uses this room himself. The only other place I can think of is the living room, but my hopes are crushed when I find no books lying around at all.
I don't realize her presence in the room until I turn around, and she is staring right through me. She doesn't even notice what she's doing. "Do you always stare at people?" I ask, watching the thought in her head pop like a bubble. Her cheeks turn red and she avoids my eyes. Her hair is a darker shade, clinging to her face in tangles. Her hair almost touches her hip—she has nice hips from what I can see, the way her jeans hug her tight. My book is suddenly forgotten.
"No, I... I was just thinking," she muses, peering up at me through her eyelashes. The way she is looking at me makes me feel like I am under a microscope. I can't help but shiver, and suddenly the room feels like it's dropped ten degrees. It's certainly not cold in this house.
"You're doing it again," I tell her, growing uncomfortable. She just shakes her head and goes into the kitchen, leaving me standing in the middle of the room like a goddamn statue. I decide to grab a shirt from my trunk.
When I am back inside, Tessa is still in the kitchen. Her fingers are gripping the handles of a cupboard, but her eyes are staring at the china cabinet at the other end of the room. Is she always staring off into space? I clear my throat, and she jumps like she's just seen a ghost.
"I thought you would be gone," she says after a moment of recollecting herself.
"I meant it as a possibility. Not a definite." I stroll past her, opening the cupboard beside her, and pull out an identical glass to the one I had earlier. I fill it from the sink and I can feel her eyes on me the entire time.
"Are you leaving at all?" She asks. I take a long sip, and then set it down between us.
"I don't have anything to do today," I answer with a shrug. She wants me to leave that bad? I don't think so... the disappointed on her face is crystal clear. I'm gonna have some fun with this while I can.
"So I'll take that as a no." Tessa sighs, resting on the palms of her hands as she leans across the countertop. She has a nice rack—I don't think she noticed it's pushed up more because of the countertop. Fuck... she actually has a decent body. My mouth feels dry all of a sudden.
"And let some stranger roam around this big house?" I shake my head, looking away from her. I don't think she did that on purpose, the look on her face tells me she doesn't even realize the effect she just had on me.
"You didn't even know I was here until last night." She says, rolling her eyes at my response. There is a hard set to her jaw, a sign of her defiant streak returning, "And I am not a stranger, I talked to your family yesterday before they left."
"They are hardly my family," I say quickly.
"Then why come here?" Oh look... another question.
"I think I will leave if you have more questions," I take one last large sip of my water, my eyes never looking away from her face until I turn and leave the room. I hear her sigh from the doorway, and then I am back in the sanctuary of my room, pulling my fingers through my hair.
xxxxx
SOME TIME LATER, I find myself back in the library. I don't know why I ever decided to leave my books back home, but I am more annoyed that they wound up here and Ken never mentioned them.
Okay, maybe he did and it was likely said in one of his voicemails I never listened to. I'm not entirely innocent here.
After almost two hours of searching the house top to bottom, I decide it must not be here. I refuse to grab the copy stored in the library for various reasons—one, it's not my copy. Two, I am not marking up my father's copy just to replace mine.
I go back to my room, but stop in the doorway. Tessa has found my room—of course she has, this girl can't seem to grasp the concept of space unless she's staring into it. And just like in the kitchen earlier, she hasn't noticed me.
"What are you doing?" I ask, the volume of my voice echoes off the walls. Out of instinct, she jumps back and bumps into me. Christ, I didn't realize I was practically on top of her. Hmm... that's a wild thought. One I can't help but entertain more of when she tells me she was looking for me. "Well you found me," I tell her, "but stay out of my room."
Technically, she didn't step foot in my room. However, it still bothers me that she opened the door without my permission. It makes me feel like I am stuck in a snow globe and she's breathing up against the glass, or some shit.
"Do you even go into your own room?" Tessa asks. What a stupid thing to ask, but today was my first time stepping foot in this room.
"Of course I do," I scoff, "But I don't stay here."
"You did last night." She points out. What a bratty little thing she is. She has no filter on that mouth of hers, and she had the nerve to call me out for shit not too long ago.
"I stayed on the couch," I retort, and I find myself highly annoyed when she rolls her eyes at me again.
"Do you always have to be so short with me?" She is clearly frustrated, and I want to know why the hell that is when she's the one asking all of these absurd questions, "you're harder to talk to than a wall, I swear." I don't give her the satisfaction of an answer—I let the silence linger between us, and I can tell it's getting on her nerves. Tessa speaks again, "Have you found what you were looking for?"
"No," I say quicker than I mean to. She only knows I'm looking for something because she has a staring problem.
"What were you looking for? Maybe I moved it." Her offer surprises me—after all the shit we've said to each other, in a short amount of time, she's still offering to help me? She must be joking, or she really is that naïve.
"Does it matter?" I ask after a moment. I don't want to tell her what I'm looking for, because she'll probably think it's stupid. Or she'll laugh in my face. Both would piss me off just the same.
She shrugs a slim shoulder, "Seems like it does. You've been searching for it since you got here... is that why you came here?" I let out an exasperated sigh, does she seriously want to help me?
"That's not the reason." I admit. I had no idea when I first arrived. "You're going to think what I'm looking for is dumb."
"I doubt that," Tessa says, placing her hands on her hips. I'm not sure if she's trying to intimidate me into telling her, but the serious look on her rather soft face tells me she's actually willing to help. What do I have to lose?
"I was looking for a book," I say after a long moment. Her expression shifts, and her eyes are swimming with more questions.
"What kind of book?"
"It's an old book. It's practically falling apart by now..." I say without thinking, and her gasp is almost immediate. You've got to be kidding me... the look on her face tells me she's put two and two together again. She knows what I'm talking about...!
"Wait here," She leaves me standing in the hallway, and I notice this must be our pattern already. She opens a door down the hall and enters the room; I hadn't thought to go in there, I didn't want to piss her off worse than rummaging through her bookbag. When she returns, the book in question is in her hands. I recognize the damaged spine and the wrinkled papers.
"You had it?" I ask. That means she's read it—she knows this book is mine. She must think I'm soft, all of the lines I've highlighted and marked up inside it.
"I didn't know it was yours," She says, "I found it in the library last night. On the table. I love this book... I just took it so I had something to do." I hear no judgment in her voice, and I'm caught off guard again. It irks me that this girl is so unpredictable.
She just said she loves this book. So then she and I have something in common...
"You opened it?" I ask her, my eyes searching hers for her answer. She must know what I am thinking. I don't like that at all... somehow she's pried into my mind in yet another way. This isn't her fault though... I can't treat her like it is.
"Yes," Tessa says, nearly holding her breath. I can only nod. I am reminded of how worked up she left me the first time, but this time it's worse. I leave her standing there in the hallway as I leave the house, tossing the book onto the passenger's seat of my car. I pull my phone out and call the only person who can give me what I need without asking a damn thing.
Molly.