Beholden: A Small-Town Standalone Romance (Carmel Cove Book 1) Page 5

  And this—I looked down at the bulge in the front of my pants—was how my body decided to repay him.

  Groaning, my fist slammed into the side of my truck like that would stop my dick from hardening or convince my eyes to look away.

  If Larry knew, he’d smite me. Then he’d kill me.

  What happened next wasn’t exactly in that order, but with a miserable groan, Laurel turned to the side, her arm falling from the edge of the seat to swing right into my already painfully hard nuts.

  And if doubling over in white-hot pain wasn’t enough satisfaction for that man, Laurel’s head tipped to the side as she vomited down onto my shoes—shoes I would have to put on again for the funeral tomorrow.

  “Point taken, Larry,” I rasped weakly, looking up to the clear night sky, the stars twinkling with laughter like he really was watching.

  I barely got a minute to recover from the assault before she angled farther out of the door.

  “Shit.” I caught her and pulled her out into my arms.

  “Where am I?” she murmured again, wiping her face of I-didn’t-want-to-know-what on my shirt—also to be worn at the funeral tomorrow.

  “Home,” I bit out again, fumbling for the spare key that Larry always kept hidden underneath the coffee bean container disguised as a planter.

  “Don’t want a home,” she murmured again and I winced at the hurt-filled sentiment. I opened the door and carried her down the step, tossing my keys onto the dining room table. “Hate the word home. Homes are hollow. Hollow hurts.”

  Christ.

  The strain on my chest had nothing to do with her weight in my arms or maneuvering her through the door.

  I wondered if Larry had known. All the times when he brought her up, when the look of it-was-for-the-best regret came over his face, I wondered if he knew how she hurt.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” I said hoarsely, turning on the dim light in the bedroom.

  I felt like Peter Pan capturing Tinker Bell, her sprite-like form and whimsical hair, caged in my arms. Maybe her magic would help me finally catch all my shadows that had been eluding me.

  All I’d ever wanted was a home and this girl wanted to give hers away. I prayed that sober Laurel was less stubborn than her pap because she needed to stay. She couldn’t just give all this up and walk away. I wouldn’t let her.

  “Have to pee.”

  Biting back a curse, I walked over to the bathroom door and carefully set her down on her—bare—feet. Dammit. Where were her shoes?

  “You okay?” I asked, holding her by the waist to make sure she was steady all the while trying to ignore how I was holding her very soft, warm waist the same way I would if I were going to kiss her.

  I wasn’t.

  But I wanted to.

  “I know how to pee, Model Magic,” she retorted with an exaggerated eye roll.

  “Model… magic?” I stared dumbfounded only to be answered by the slam of the door in my face.

  Running a hand through my hair, I let out a long, strained groan and went to the kitchen in search of paper towels to wipe off my shoes. Maybe Diane would know what to do with them after tomorrow.

  Grabbing a handful, I walked back to the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed to wait for Laurel to finish, not trusting her to make it the five steps from the bathroom to the bed without falling and hurting herself.

  My whole body ached like I’d run a marathon. The viewing had been more of an emotional strain than I ever could’ve anticipated. The only thing I saw in Larry’s urn was his face when I found him in the garage, lifeless and bleeding from the self-inflicted gunshot wound… and all the ways I hadn’t done enough to prevent it.

  All the ways I’d failed him.

  I shuddered and willed those thoughts from my mind; those demons were only allowed to haunt me when I was alone.

  But Laurel, she was here, and I had a chance to make this right. I could prevent her from leaving. I could prevent her from giving this town one more loss it wasn’t ready to deal with.

  I could and I would. I promise, Larry.

  As if bidden by my thoughts, the bathroom door opened and my redheaded pixie stepped out.

  Wearing nothing but her underwear.

  “Jesus Chri—where are your clothes?” I stood rapidly and demanded even as my gaze roamed down her body. Black bra and matching black underwear were hard to miss against skin that was the color of moonlight and starred with freckles.

  “I think…” she began, turning back to the bathroom and allowing me to correct myself—black bra and matching black thong—before shrugging, “Did I throw up on them?” Her head cocked. “I think I threw up on them.”

  Fuck. “Right, yeah, you did a little, but—”

  “I’m not sleeping in puke,” she cut me off and unsteadily sauntered toward me.

  Groaning, I tried not to look. I tried to quell the strain against the front of my pants while she passed by in my periphery. Do not touch.

  Don’t even think about it…

  She almost made it to the side of the bed before her sway tipped the scales from upright to topple.

  Fuck. I wasn’t going to survive long enough with this girl to convince her to stay.

  My arms shot out and hauled her back steady against my chest, all those warm and soft curves from earlier back to torture me. Only naked this time.

  “Why do you keep catching me?” she muttered as she leaned against my chest, my grip on her upper arms steadying her.

  “Because you keep falling.” Why I didn’t let go right away or sit her on the bed… those were questions I hoped weren’t coming next.

  Her head tilted and need shot straight to my dick as pale blue orbs looked up at me—barren on the surface but promise held deep underneath.

  “I don’t drink,” she mumbled, her eyes swimming as she swayed closer to me.

  “I figured.” My voice was hoarse.

  I felt every movement, every breath as it pushed her breasts against my chest. I felt the soft skin of her arms underneath my fingers and wondered if her nipples were just as velvety. I saw the dark spark of lust in her eyes and the way she licked her lips as she stared at mine. The pink tip of her tongue a cruel tease on my cock that wanted to be licked too. Mostly, I felt the way she leaned into me and not just with desire, but because without all her walls, the weight of her worries was too much for her to bear.

  “Don’t want to be here,” she continued softly, a wash of despair falling over her beautiful face.

  God, I’d do anything to take it away. In the same way I’d do anything to bring Larry back.

  Laurel Ocean had always been an enigma. She’d left Carmel at eighteen for school after her parents died. I knew Larry had paid for it. I didn’t know why she’d never come back. I didn’t know why she didn’t keep in contact with her grandfather or the rest of her family.

  I wanted to know. I needed to know.

  I’d never had a family. Larry… the people I’d met here… were the closest I’d ever come. I needed to know because I couldn’t fucking fathom why you’d turn away from that—from people who loved you.

  Her eyes flitted shut and she sagged against me only to jerk back the next second awake again.

  She was going to have a helluva hangover tomorrow.

  “Why?” I rasped. This might be the only time I’d get an honest answer from her.

  She looked at me like her answer was as obvious as gravity. Tipping her head to the side, a sad smile tugged on lips that were too beautiful to say something so despairing.

  “Every time I come here, I lose something. Don’t want to lose anything anymore.”

  My jaw tightened and desire dulled against the utter bleakness in her voice.

  Beautiful and beholden.

  That was how she looked in the bar. She came here out of obligation, knowing this town would take something else from her before she left, only the hollowness in her eyes confessed she didn’t have anything left to give.

  I w
anted to hold her. I wanted to show her that there was something here for her to fight for. She may have lost her grandfather, but there was still a family—a community here that would give her something and not take anything away.

  I felt her uneven breaths, her softness molding against me. My cock throbbed against her thigh, imagining her bare skin against it.

  Wide eyes fluttered to mine.

  “Are you going to kiss me?”

  There are moments in life where the smallest thing—an action, a word—course-corrects the path you’d been on. And with that question, everything about the path I’d been taking suddenly shifted.

  The turns, the choices, the desires… they now all pointed to this woman.

  Finding her secrets. Healing her hurts.

  Making her mine.

  I dragged in a heady breath. Her pink, lush lips remained parted as the words floated unevenly in the air between us. It couldn’t have been more of an invitation if there’d been an RSVP line attached at the end—one that my dick was ready and waiting to sign.

  My head dipped.

  There were so many things that felt wrong about today. But this… her… it was the only thing that seemed right.

  I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to know what mesmerizing tasted like.

  She shivered ever so slightly, but it was enough to remind me where I was—and who I was with.

  Tightening my grip on her arms, I pushed her back. I couldn’t kiss her now; I wouldn’t. She hardly knew me—and if she did, well, she might rather kill me than kiss me for the role I’d played in the loss of her grandfather.

  With that sucker punch of guilt slamming into my gut, I grunted, “No, I’m going to help you into bed.”

  The unearthly trance held for another second before her head fell—whether from a nod or because she couldn’t hold it up any longer.

  “Good, because I think I might—” And then she threw up on my shoes. For the second time. Thankfully, this time there wasn’t much left in her to lose.

  I looked up at the ceiling. Was that my punishment for wanting to say yes? For wanting her?

  Ignoring the way my body throbbed, I lifted and put her in the bed. Grabbing one of the paper towels I brought in with me, I pushed back her hair from her lips and cheeks and wiped her mouth. She was completely out now. It hurt to see how, even in sleep, there was still a sadness that lingered on her face like dew on the grass after a storm.

  “I won’t let you lose anything, Laurel,” I rasped with a low voice even though she wasn’t listening. “While you’re here, I won’t let anything else be taken from you, I promise.”

  I sat there, to the detriment of my dick, until I felt sure she wasn’t going to be sick again. Then, too exhausted to remember the regrets this house held for me, I kicked off my shoes, walked out of the bedroom, and dropped onto the couch.

  Before she left, Laurel would know just how much there was here for her—and that if she still decided to go, any loss would be by choice and not by chance.

  Laurel

  It wasn’t a dump truck that rolled over my head, it was an eighteen-wheeler. Oversized. Little flags of warning waving off the sides and everything.

  I peeled my eyes open like I was pulling a Band-Aid off a raw wound. Slowly. Painfully. Too scared to rip it straight off.

  With tunnel vision, I scanned my surroundings. There was a small nightstand next to me, but it had no clock to tell me the time. A dark mahogany dresser against the far wall next to the bathroom door and, in addition to the bed, that was the extent of the furnishings and decor.

  White-washed wood walls… surfaces… everything was bare. And familiar.

  My eyes dropped to the floor, speed-bumping over the pair of dirty black shoes that were unlaced and left by the side of the bed.

  Black shoes.

  Men’s shoes.

  I sucked in a breath, my hand covering my mouth. Worse than a walk of shame, my head tipped down to confirm that I was, in fact, in just my underwear.

  Had I slept with someone?

  Oh, God.

  I couldn’t remember much after the second martini with the Friendly Giant… Mick. He’d been telling me about the town, trying to gauge how long it had been since I’d been back. I didn’t have the heart to tell him how each story only made me drink faster. But being drunk was a better alternative than having to think about my past.

  Peeking over my shoulder, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding seeing the empty and untouched space next to me.

  Whose shoes were they?

  My head pulsed like there was a rave going on in my brain. Wincing, I fought through the party I regretted RSVPing to and slid out of bed.

  Unsteadily, I made my way out of the room, stopping with a gasp in the doorway to the living room. I’d been so focused on the mystery shoes that it hadn’t hit me where I was… where I’d slept.

  My grandfather’s house.

  Suddenly, the eighteen-wheeler in my head was nothing compared to the tank that rammed into my heart, throwing all of its nostalgic firepower against an already damaged and retreating organ.

  Memories fought through the hangover fog to remind me of Sunday pasta dinners with my whole family, the days Jules and I had sleepovers in the living room snacking on jellybeans and watching the latest Mary-Kate and Ashley movie.

  Those were days when my grandmother was still alive, and Jules hadn’t been sent to boarding school. Those were the days before my parents had died.

  Those were the days before I realized love and loss would always go hand in hand.

  I dragged in a huge breath, the familiar scent of dark coffee beans mixing with nostalgia and twisting the knife.

  Before I could get irrevocably lost down the rabbit hole of reminiscing, my head turned and my heart skipped at what I saw.

  The perfect stranger from the viewing.

  Model Magic.

  Like one of those old slide reels, snapshots of the night before filtered into my mind. The giant leaving me with this man—the one who looked like a god and acted like my savior. Drink after drink. A ride that wasn’t called. The tall, dark stranger carrying me inside, tucking me into bed.

  And a question that could’ve led to something more…

  I shuddered. That one couldn’t have been real; it couldn’t have been more than a drunken dream.

  Tousled hair framed his sculpted face, his broad, bare chest rising and falling softly as he slept. He looked exhausted, like down to his soul exhausted. My mouth watered, seeing the smattering of dark hair decorating his muscled chest and abdomen. One arm rested on his stomach, the other draped over the side of the couch, both laced with a map of veins that led my body into dangerous territory.

  My eyes lingered a little too long at the black pants that were tight all the way down his legs, but especially by his waist. And then my perusal abruptly stopped at his feet.

  His shoeless feet.

  Anger flashed through me. How dare he undress me?

  Rounding the corner, I yanked the first kitchen utensil I could find and stalked back into the living room. My emotions and less-than-conducive hangover blinding me to the fact that I was still undressed—and that I was poking his chest with a whisk.

  “Hey.” The thin metal tines bent and caved against the solid male chest.

  Warm brown eyes shot open as I jabbed his muscled peck again.

  “Laurel.” His morning voice was like salted caramel—smooth, with just the right amount of roughness.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, poking him again.

  His eyes flicked down to my embarrassing, in hindsight, choice of weapon.

  “Eli,” he replied, dragging his gaze slowly back to mine. “Eli Downing.”

  Eli. I blinked as more tiny pieces from last night came back.

  This was the man everyone murmured about with rich reverence, who commanded so much authority and admiration. He was the one Diane insisted I meet, and who she’d sent to bring me here.

&nb
sp; Where he’d stripped me and almost kissed me.

  “How dare you?” I bristled.

  His eyebrows rose. “How dare I what?”

  “How dare you bring me here and undress me?” I poked him again. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I don’t care if you knew my grandfather, that gives you no right To. Take. Off. My. Clothes.” Each word was punctuated with another jab into a chest that seemed to grow harder with each assault.

  A fact my lower body took particular notice of.

  “Okay,” he grated, one hand shooting up to grab the whisk, his forearm flexing. “First off” —he tugged and the utensil slipped right from my grip—“what were you really planning on doing with this? Whisking me to death?”

  I glared at him and crossed my arms. Okay, I could’ve chosen a better weapon.

  The metal clattered as he dropped it onto the couch and rose in front of me.

  “Second” —his head angled just inches from mine—“you were the one who took of your clothes… clothes you’re still missing, by the way.”

  I sucked in a breath and glared at him, refusing to look down even though I felt my face heat.

  “And why would I take off my clothes? Were you really trying to get some from a drunk chick? Seriously? Picking up a chick from a viewing is low,” I accused tartly.

  His growl was feral as he advanced. “You took them off because you thought you puked all over them. You didn’t. You just puked all over me. And my goddamn dress shoes.”

  Taking a closer look now that he was right in front of me, blocking out everything else, I saw the stains just visible on the front of his black pants. It also explained why he was shirtless.

  “Oh.” I gulped.

  “Yeah, ‘oh,’” he said roughly, running a hand through his hair that seemed to move like the finest silk. “Fuck, what time is it?” He turned, digging in the couch and pulling out his cell. His eyes narrowed. “We have to be at the funeral in an hour. You should probably get dressed so we can go. I grabbed your bag from Diane’s and put it in the bedroom.”

  I nodded, too embarrassed to say anything else at the moment as I shuffled toward the door.