Say the Word Read online

  That had my attention. I swiveled my head around to look at him.

  “Ah, now I’ve intrigued you.” He smiled over at me. “Relax, I’m not a stalker. You’re in my Latin class right?”

  I nodded, my eyes still narrowed on him.

  “Kind of hard to miss a name like ‘Lux,’” he pointed out, shrugging. “Especially in Latin.”

  I didn’t respond, and he fell silent. We drove for about five minutes, the rain falling on the windshield in a soothing patter that soon had me fighting off waves of drowsiness. I’d gotten only a few hours of sleep the night before, as I’d been up most of the night working a late shift at Minnie’s, the local diner where I picked up a few shifts each week. By the time I’d dragged myself home, it had been past midnight, and I’d still had two hours of homework to get through before finally collapsing into bed.

  “Not a big talker, huh?”

  My eyes, which were drooping down to half-mast, snapped back open at the sound of his voice. “Sorry to disappoint,” I mumbled, moving my hands up and down to rub warmth back into my frozen arms.

  “Oh, shit, I really am an asshole,” he muttered, reaching forward to flip on the heat. Hot air exploded out of the vents, immediately warming me. Before I knew what was happening, he’d pulled off onto the shoulder, put the car in park, and was shrugging out of his tan cable knit sweater, leaving only a thin t-shirt on his torso. “Here,” he said, offering the sweater to me.

  “Oh, no.” I blushed, staring at the garment with wide eyes. “That’s not necessary, really.”

  “Just take the damn sweater, ” he ordered, clearly not used to being told no. “You’re shivering.”

  I nodded, meeting his eyes fully for the first time as I reached hesitantly across the console to take the sweater. His gaze was intent as it moved over my face, studying my features as though I were a puzzle he wanted to solve.

  I turned away, stripped off my waterlogged jacket and tossed it on top of my backpack, leaving me in a damp black t-shirt that was plastered to my torso like a second skin. Leaning back in my seat, I glanced over at him and caught him blatantly staring at my chest.

  Boys were so predictable — and apparently boobs were boobs, regardless of social class boundaries.

  Rolling my eyes, I smiled at the thought as I slipped his sweater over my head. It was still warm from his body, and it smelled like him – a heady masculine cocktail of aftershave and expensive cologne. Automatically, I inhaled deeply, committing his scent to memory. His cologne probably cost more than I made all week working at the diner, and I would’ve resented that fact on principle had it not smelled so goddamn good.

  Plus, he’d given me his sweater. I was bitchy, but not unreasonable.

  I turned to him and our eyes met, a look of understanding passing between us. “Thanks,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say. Several moments passed in silence, the air between us becoming charged, electric, with each passing second. I wanted to tear my eyes from his to break the intensity of the moment, afraid he was seeing straight through me with that unwavering stare.

  After a small eternity, Sebastian nodded, swallowing roughly before reaching across the center console. As his hand extended into my space, I forced myself not to flinch back from his touch. Our eyes still locked, I felt his fingers thread softly through the thick strands of hair at the base of my neck. His fingers skimmed the sensitive skin there, gently tugging my long hair up from where it was trapped beneath his bulky sweater. When his arm lifted, the damp waves tumbled free and fell midway down my back.

  With unhurried fingers, he skimmed through the strands from the crown of my head down to the tips of each curl, his eyes following the movement of his hand as if mesmerized. I inhaled sharply when his fingers dropped down to brush the small of my back, but didn’t pull away from his touch, entranced by the strange intimacy of a moment between strangers.

  An involuntary exhale of air slipped between my lips, breaking the silence. Sebastian abruptly dropped his hand, his eyes seemed to clear of the haze, and he cleared his throat as he turned back to face the road. Pulling off the shoulder, we drove in silence for another five minutes before he spoke again. I didn’t know what he was thinking – I wasn’t even sure what I was thinking. All I knew was that my skin still tingled where his fingers had grazed, and I could still feel the weight of his eyes tracing over my features, as though their path had burned into my skin and marked me deep beneath the surface.

  I tried to slow my racing heart as I watched the trees fly by outside the passenger window. Soft classical music – an intriguing choice for a high school boy – whispered through his speakers and lulled us back into safer waters.

  “So are you going to tell me where I’m driving anytime soon or do I have to guess?” He laughed, trying to lighten the inexplicably heavy mood. “Not that I mind, really. Just wondering whether you had a destination, or were out walking in the rain for fun.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, slapping my forehead with an open palm. I could feel my cheeks heating as an embarrassed blush overtook my face. “I’m sorry, I’m an idiot. Can you please drop me off at Jackson Medical Center?”

  He looked over at me curiously but didn’t question my odd choice of destination. With a nod, he merged onto Main Street – which, in the one-horse town that was Jackson, housed every restaurant and shop on a single strip – and we wound through the streets toward the local hospital.

  “What song is this?” I whispered, not wanting to break the silence but desperate to know the name of the hauntingly beautiful melody coming from his speakers.

  “It’s by a composer named Tomaso Vitali — it’s the Vitali Chaconne,” he said, looking over at me with raised eyebrows. “You like classical music?”

  “Not particularly,” I murmured, straining to listen as the violin crescendoed in an achingly sweet climax of strings. I’d never heard anything like it before. “But this is… I don’t have words for what this is,” I whispered, utterly overtaken by the music.

  “I know what you mean. I feel the same way.” Sebastian cleared his throat roughly. “Some people don’t get music. How it can take you away from a place or a moment you don’t want to be anymore, and transport you somewhere else entirely. Somewhere better.” He blushed, as if embarrassed by his own admission or worried that he’d revealed something too personal.

  “Do you play?” I asked.

  “Every day,” he admitted, laughing softly.

  “What instrument?”

  “Piano,” he said, smiling to himself. “My mother would’ve preferred violin, but she thought I wouldn’t have the discipline for it.”

  Somehow I doubted that. Sebastian didn’t strike me as the undisciplined type, but I wasn’t about to question him.

  “I’d love to learn, someday,” I mused softly, knowing that it wasn’t a possibility. Music lessons were expensive and, even if I won the lottery and could somehow purchase a piano, the giant instrument would take up the entirety of my tiny bedroom. I grinned as the ridiculous image of me sleeping on top of a grand piano each night popped into my head – my pillow and blanket sliding against the glossy black wood as I tried to get comfortable.

  “I could teach you,” Sebastian offered casually, as though that was an actual possibility. I could only imagine what his popular posse would think of him hanging out with Lux Kincaid. I held in my snort and managed to nod.

  “Mhm, maybe,” I muttered noncommittally, looking out the window.

  Was I actually having a normal conversation with the senator’s son? I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around that fact. I didn’t look back at him until we were pulling to a stop in front of the hospital entrance.

  “So… I guess this is it.” Sebastian shifted the car into park and turned to face at me.

  “Guess so,” I said, gripping the door handle like a lifeline. I didn’t know what to say to this beautiful boy, who talked about music and made me smile when nothing in my life seemed worth being happy about. “Than
ks for nearly running me over. It was real fun.”

  “Anytime. It was my pleasure.” He laughed.

  “Goodbye, Sebastian,” I said, getting out of the car.

  “See you in class, Lux.”

  Sure, he’d see me. But we both knew we’d never talk like this again. We were from different worlds, and the reality was that the white-trash girl in the ripped up jeans simply didn’t mix well with mansions and Mercedes. It was a shame, I thought, walking through the doors. For a moment, there, I could’ve sworn we’d connected on a basic human level. Sitting in his car in the rain, everything else had fallen away and we’d seemed like the only two in the world.

  I knew better than to think it could last. Tomorrow in class, he’d ignore my presence and it would be as if it had never happened. All would be right in the world. I ignored the pang of loneliness in my chest, forcing a smile on my face as I thought ahead to Jamie.

  I resolutely did not look back as the automatic glass doors slid shut behind me and, thus, had no way of knowing that Sebastian’s watchful eyes followed my retreating form until I rounded a corner and faded from his view.

  Chapter Five

  Now

  Without turning around, I knew he was in the room with me. I’d know that husky voice anywhere, no matter how many years passed. It still sent chills racing down my spine.

  Ignoring the spilled lettuce at my feet, I promptly ducked behind the closest rack of designer clothing. The makeup artists were all staring at me like I was a crazy person – which, lets be honest, I pretty much was – but I didn’t care. There was no freaking way I was coming face to face with Sebastian today. Actually, not ever. But most certainly not today, when my hair was slipping into my eyes, my blouse was wrinkled with perspiration and humidity, and I had gum on my favorite pair of heels.

  I could, however, spy on him from behind this conveniently placed rack of clothing before making my escape to the elevator unnoticed. In retrospect, I should’ve walked away. No — I should’ve run away. I should’ve done the practical thing: high-tailed it for the elevator immediately and gone on with my blissfully uncomplicated life.

  I’ve never been exceedingly practical.

  And, obviously, I had to get a glimpse of him. Maybe he’d gotten fat and his hairline was receding. A girl could dream, right?

  Crouched low, I reached shaky hands into the rack of hanging clothes and slid the dresses blocking my view apart to create a small opening I could peer through. And there he was.

  His back was to me as he snapped photos of Cara. He was a photographer now, I gathered astutely, though I couldn’t believe he was doing a shoot for Luster, of all places. It seemed so at odds with everything I knew about him – superficial, materialistic, girly.

  Well, people change. His looks certainly had, at the very least.

  When I’d last seen him, he’d been eighteen and – while not lean – he’d had the lithe, athletic build of a soccer player. That boy was gone, replaced by a man with broad shoulders and defined biceps that strained against the confines of his dark green henley as he lifted his camera to eye level. His hair was the same burnished gold color, but he wore it a little longer than he had in high school.

  Damn.

  Did it make me a bad person for wishing — just a little, teensy bit — that he’d let himself go? Maybe gotten a beer-belly or started wearing socks and sandals at the same time? It would make it a hell of a lot easier to look at him. Was that so much to ask, in the grand scheme of things?

  Apparently.

  From what I could see from his profile and build, he looked good. Great. Goddamn delicious. And I had to stare at him armed with the knowledge that I’d walked away from the literal embodiment of perfection.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  All sorts of questions raced through my mind as spied on him through the rack of designer dresses. Was he married? Did he have children? A house and a Golden Retriever in his backyard, where he played catch with a son whose mother wasn’t me?

  The hole where my heart used to reside ached, a seven-year-old wound made fresh. Whatever scar tissue had managed to heal over in the time since I’d last seen him was ripped off and I was eighteen once more, weeping into the pillow of my childhood bed. When I’d walked away from him that day, I’d honestly never expected to see Sebastian again. And though it nearly killed me, I’d never tried to contact him in the years since. I’d never even let myself Google him, knowing that his image would likely appear alongside his father’s.

  He’d never reached out to me either, which hurt irrationally. I’d ripped his heart to shreds, yet for years after our breakup some small, insistent, deranged part of my brain had expected Sebastian to come for me. To force me to see reason – hell, to at least try to get me back. I’d wanted him to fight for me, even knowing full well that we couldn’t be together.

  I was an idiot.

  I also needed wine. And maybe chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. Possibly a marathon of Johnny Depp movies as well. Screw going back to work. I had stops to make on the way home, followed by plans which included getting very familiar with my living room sofa and not moving for at least three days.

  I had no right to want him, no right to even look at him anymore, but when Cara Stein sauntered toward him and smeared a frosting-covered finger down his cheek before leaning in to lick it clean, I wanted to rip her beautiful face right off.

  So, he was dating a model. Or screwing one, at the very least. How charming.

  I tore my eyes away, feeling physically ill and unable to look anymore. I knew I had no claim on him – we hadn’t spoken in seven freaking years. I wasn’t naive in thinking that after our breakup he’d been so devastated he’d joined a monastery and taken an oath of celibacy – though that delusion was vastly preferable to the sharp, debilitating pain I felt now as I watched him with someone else.

  So distressed by Sebastian’s presence, I didn’t put it together that the shoot was over until he began packing up his lenses and Cara turned and approached the food table, which was a few short feet away from my hiding spot. Casting a last, longing look at Sebastian’s back – god, I was pathetic – I rose and started speed-walking to the elevator.

  I was close to escape – so, so close to walking out of there without living one of my worst nightmares and coming face to face with the former love of my life. It was the one confrontation I’d have paid any amount of money to avoid. Keeping my eyes trained on the floor and my head ducked low, I reached the bank of elevators and lifted my hand to press the call button.

  Vitali’s Chaconne thrummed in my ears, keeping time with the blood that pounded through my veins in a relentless staccato. The illuminated numbers above the door showed the elevator was on the second floor. It might take several minutes for it to reach the fifteenth, especially if the lunch crowd were returning from their breaks and disembarking on every level.

  Come on, hurry up, I pleaded with my eyes trained on the number panel.

  “What the hell is this mess?!” a feminine voice shrieked. “Who did this? The salad I ordered is all over the floor!”

  Shit.

  I pressed the call button again, praying that whatever god was up there would take pity on me and let the elevator arrive before Cara spotted me.

  “Hey! You!” her voice screeched. “Bitch by the elevators!”

  Fuck. Too late.

  My eyes closed and I sighed deeply, knowing a confrontation with her was unavoidable. All I could hope for at this point was that her boyfriend wouldn’t get involved – because that would get really awkward, really fast. I listened as her heels clomped in my direction, unwilling to turn around to face her until it was absolutely necessary. I considered running for the stairwell, but I had a feeling that descending fifteen flights in Louboutins wouldn’t end well for me, and Cara would probably have security guards swarming before I made it down two levels.

  “Did you not hear me, bitch?” she snarled, her voice close now.

  I turne
d slowly to face her.

  “You spilled my salad all over the ground!” Cara stomped one heeled foot indignantly.

  I hated girls like Cara on principle – perhaps unfairly, but I never claimed to be perfect. She was exactly like the girls who’d bullied and belittled me through my high school years because I didn’t wear the right clothes or live in the right zip code. She called other women “bitch” and “skank” because it made her feel better about herself – it was classic mean-girl strategy, and I had zero tolerance for it after four years at Jackson High. I may have traded my ripped jeans and holey sweaters for designer shoes and a $100 haircut, but I’d never quite shaken the white-trash girl I’d grown up as. She was still there, beneath the refined veneer I’d meticulously crafted during my years of city living.

  And, if provoked, she’d rise to the surface quicker than Cara could say “Botox injection.”

  There was also the small, insignificant fact that she was sleeping with my Sebastian. I may or may not have been holding that against her as well.

  “You were just going to throw it up anyway,” I muttered under my breath, low enough that she couldn’t make out my words.

  “What did you say? Speak up, bitch!”

  My insult tolerance had just about expired for the day. I cocked one eyebrow and stared up at Cara.

  “What is it about women like you, that think it’s all right to call other women bitches? You’re a freaking model for god’s sake.” I snorted. “Your legs go on for miles, you have a team of professionals to make you beautiful every day, and men all over the world whack-off to your picture every night – what could you possibly gain by putting other women down? Is it because, in spite of all the glamour and fame, you’re still overcompensating for the gawky, insecure girl you were in middle school?”

  I’d been guessing about her ugly-duckling complex but, judging from the way the smile dropped off her face at my words, I’d hit the nail on the head. She stopped breathing and her face began to turn purple as she stared at me, visibly shaking with rage. Her expression told me she was about three seconds away from clawing my eyes out – though I admit, it was a little hard to take her seriously when she was covered in flour and clad only in a sheer red apron.