Rebel Heart Read online

  “Yeah, she’s my tutor,” I say slowly.

  Dad grits his teeth, but nods. “One: it’s ‘yes sir’ not ‘yeah.’ And two: in order to make sure you’re making wise decisions, I’ve arranged for Amanda to join us for dinner toni—”

  I leap from the where I’m seated on the couch. “I just said I had somewhere I needed to be! Do you ever listen?”

  With sharp precision, he reaches out and strikes his open palm across my cheek. “Do. Not. Interrupt. Me!” he yells, spittle flying from his lips.

  I stagger back from him, shocked that he physically laid his hands on me. All my life, he’s wielded words as his weapon of choice, but I guess there truly is a first time for everything. Or, hell, maybe this was a long time coming. As long as he’s hitting me and not Mom. My cheek stings, but I refuse to show any outward appearance of pain.

  “Now, as I was saying, I’ve invited Amanda to join us for dinner tonight. You will join us. You will have a good attitude. And you will enjoy her company. She’s charming and has a remarkable pedigree.”

  Charming is the last word I’d ever use to describe Amanda Burkett. Instead, words like psycho and stage five clinger come to mind. I twist my neck from side-to-side, finding satisfaction in the cracking sound it makes as some of the tension leaves my body. “Great. Let me just step out and make a quick phone call.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I stalk through the house and out the front door. Only, instead of crossing the threshold to freedom, I come face-to-face with the devil herself.

  “Brocky!” Amanda shrieks in that whiny voice she uses when she wants to sound seductive. I cringe at the shrill timbre and take her in. She’s dressed in a pressed white blouse with a modest, square neckline that’s tucked into the wide band of her pastel patterned skirt that flares around her slim calves. Her feet are clad in some ropey wedge sandals, and pearls adorn her ears and neck. She looks like Susie-freaking-Homemaker. A perfect, demure debutante—a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  She links her arm with mine and drags me back into the house, walking through it like she owns it. Then again, I’d bet my left nut she’s actively planning on owning it one day—as my wife. Fat fucking chance.

  “Amanda,” I say her name sternly, halting our progress. “I was headed outside to make a call.”

  She parts her pale pink slicked lips to reply, but my father speaks over her. “My darling girl.” He leans down and air kisses her cheek. “So glad you could join us this evening. Your company is always an honor.”

  She giggles and blushes. “Oh, Mr. Larson, you sure have a way with words.” Yeah, the fuck he does—his smooth words keep everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. And apparently when his words fail, his palm fucking seals the deal.

  “Are you kids ready to eat? The chef has prepared a proper feast.”

  “Actually, I still need to make that phone call,” I inform him, deeply regretting leaving my phone in the car thinking I’d only be here briefly.

  “Nonsense. Any phone call you need to make can wait until after dinner. Wouldn’t want to eat cold food.”

  “Your dad’s right, Brocky.” She clasps my hand in hers and all but drags me behind her to the dining room. Ugh. Neither of them is right. I’m already on thin ice with Abby Jane and ditching her tonight will probably send me through the ice and into the freezing water.

  The only upside to this shit-tastic evening is seeing my mom seated on the far side of the table, just to the right of where my father will sit at the head of the table. “Brock,” she coos, sounding frustrated and happy all at once.

  I rush to her side and wrap my arms around her. “How are you?” I whisper in her ear, but she doesn’t reply. Instead, she pulls back ever so slightly and studies my face before echoing the question back to me. “I’m okay, Mom. Promise.”

  Ever the diplomat—even if sometimes, thanks to my dad, she’s more like a doormat—she gently addresses Amanda next. “Hello, so nice to see you. I trust your parents are well?”

  Amanda takes the seat next to my mother and launches into a no-details-spared update of her parents. I claim the chair to the left of my father and across from the women, content to let Amanda ramble if it means I don’t have to engage.

  Fortunately, Amanda and my father monopolize the conversation until our food is served and once our plates are placed before us, their chatter tapers off. Our meal consists of baked Cornish hen in a lemon butter and thyme sauce, served alongside roasted fingerling potatoes and crisp asparagus, but I can barely taste it because I’m so damn worried about things with Abby Jane. She’s probably going to cut off my testicles and force feed them to me.

  Unfortunately, the meal’s over too soon and conversation picks right back up. “Amanda,” my father says. “Tell me, do you have any plans this weekend?”

  She bats her lashes at him and my food churns in my gut. “No sir, I don’t.”

  “Wonderful, because before you arrived, Brock was telling me how much he’d love to take you for dinner.” The fuck I was! The words are on the tip of my tongue, tasting like bile, but I swallow them down.

  Amanda swings her bright blue gaze over to me. “You were?” She sounds breathless. I swear, if I could kill my dad right now, I would. I mean, not literally, but, you know.

  I once again crack my neck, followed by my knuckles. Anything to buy myself some time to regain my inner composure. “Absolutely,” I say through gritted teeth—so much for composure—even though I have no plans on following through. I’ll figure out some way to cancel later.

  Hours after arriving, dinner is finally over, and I’m free to leave. Finally free to call Abs and beg her forgiveness. I walk Amanda to her car with the intention of canceling our plans, but my words seem to go in one ear and out the other. “Amanda, did you hear me?”

  She sighs softly and places her hand on my chest. “I heard you, Brock. You’re too busy for dinner this weekend. But that’s plumb silly. We both have to eat. To save you some time, I’ll drive myself and meet you. Saturday, seven-thirty, at Thyme.” She rises to her tippy toes and presses her lips to my cheek before getting into her sparkly new Benz and driving away, not giving me another chance to rebuff her.

  Why can’t this girl take no for an answer? And better yet, why is she so fucking obsessed with me?

  AJ

  Even though I managed to get through most of the weekend and Monday without thinking about Brock, today he has been the only thing occupying my mind. My thoughts today have ranged from regret over how we left things to lust because he’s just so…something…so sexy and masculine and sure of himself. I’ve thought of telling him we should put our shit aside and just get through our sessions just as much as I’ve considered telling him we should casually hook up all the while, just to scratch the itch.

  But now that I’ve been sitting here in the library for over half an hour working alone while waiting for him to show—all thoughts of forgiveness and reconciliation are long fucking gone. I’ve texted him no less than five times, my messages ranging from a simple “Where are you?” to “Are you okay?” to “I swear to God, you better have a good reason for not showing.” Yet all of them have gone unanswered. For a split second I worry that maybe he was in an accident or something, but I shake it off. I’m sure he’s fucking fine and just being a dick.

  Apparently, my time is worthless to him, and I should’ve trusted my gut instincts. He’s nothing more than a spoiled little prick who thinks the world revolves around him. All he had to do was text me and let me know he couldn’t make it.

  Or call. An email. A goddamn carrier pigeon. Anything. But nope. Not a word. He hasn’t bothered to do any of the following. Guess I know what I’m worth to him now. And as much as I hate to admit it…it kind of hurts.

  I decide to call him before I pack up and leave. Straight to voicemail. Shocking. After the beep, I leave him a message telling him exactly how I feel. I tell him he’s a self-obsessed jackass, and that our tutoring sessions are as good as done and
not to bother calling back.

  The satisfaction of chewing out his voicemail only lasts about five minutes before the melancholy sets in, because if I’m being honest, Brock was starting to grow on me—like mold, but still. And truthfully, I enjoyed our bickering. I loved seeing glimpses of the boy I called my best friend for so long. But I made it the past eight years without him by my side, and I damn sure know I’ll make it now, too.

  Angrily, I shove my shit into my bag and stomp out to my car. I sling my bag onto the passenger floorboard and sink down into the driver’s seat, relishing the way the worn leather feels against my skin. I crank the ignition and drive the few blocks back to my apartment, fighting tears the whole way.

  Finally, once I’m safely inside, I let them fall. Fuck him. Fuck him for throwing me away all over again and fuck me for caring so much.

  That last thought is sobering, and I steel my resolve. He doesn’t care about me? Then I don’t care about him. As childish and petty as that sounds, I really don’t care, because from here on out, I’m only looking out for numero uno—me.

  Buzz. Buuuuuzzzzz. Buzz.

  The sound of my phone vibrating against my nightstand wakes me out of a dead sleep. I peel one eyelid open and check the time, shocked to see it’s only seven. Jesus! I don’t even remember falling asleep; I guess I passed out when I snuggled up in bed to read.

  Even though it’s a perfectly acceptable time to text, I’m pissed that it woke me up. Obviously my body needed the sleep. I stretch and stand from the bed—whoever’s blowing up my phone can wait—and pad into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and a Nutella Uncrustable.

  I step back into my bedroom and set my sandwich and glass on the nightstand next to my still buzzing phone. Agitated, I snatch it up and unlock it with my index finger. I have four missed calls from Brock, along with a slew of texts. Too bad it’s too late, Jockstrap.

  I drag down my notifications bar and read the preview of his last message. And while I can’t see more than Abby Jane, please let me expla…I already know it’s probably nothing more than him trying to pass off some half-assed apology. Yeah, not gonna happen. I tap Reply and quickly inform him that he can fuck right off before deleting our text thread and setting my phone to the Do Not Disturb setting.

  The guilt for deleting our thread without ever reading his texts sets in almost immediately. God, I hate being so wishy-washy. One of the things I’ve always prided myself on was knowing what I wanted or felt and sticking to my guns about it. But since Brock’s reentered my life, I’ve turned into a second-guesser, and it’s got to stop.

  I’m seated at the kitchen bar studying Wednesday night when my phone rings. It’s Brock. Exasperated with his incessant calling, I answer. “What?”

  “How nice of you to finally answer.”

  “What? You don’t like being kept waiting? Huh, imagine that.”

  “Jesus. I’m trying to apologize. Hell, I’ve been trying to apologize.” He sounds as annoyed as I feel.

  I pause for dramatic effect. “I’m waiting, Jockstrap.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry for standing you up. Family shit came up, and I didn’t have my phone on me. Truly, Abs, I’m sorry.”

  I can hear sincerity in his voice, and I believe him that something came up, but I’m still butthurt. “Great. Thanks for letting me know. Have a nice life.”

  “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “No,” I say, drawing out the word. “Nope.”

  Indignant, he asks, “What do you mean no?”

  Why do people have such a hard time with the word no? “I mean I’m not tutoring you anymore. Let’s be honest, you don’t even need it, and we can’t seem to be civil for more than seven minutes at a time.”

  “That’s not gonna work for me, Abby Jane. Plus, I happen to remember something about tutoring me for a letter of recommendation? Geez, I’d sure hate it if you didn’t get that letter….” He pauses, letting his words sink in.

  He wouldn’t…

  “See you tomorrow or else, Abs. Your choice,” he says before ending the call. That rat bastard…he would!

  BROCK

  I get to the library fifteen minutes before our usual time and park myself on the top step. I’m not giving Abby Jane the chance to back out of this. Then again, she could always stand me up, but I’ve just gotta hope she wants the recommendation letter badly enough to show.

  Guess I didn’t need to worry after all, because at five o’clock on the dot, Abby Jane whips her beast of a car into a spot across the street. I stand as she approaches, ready to greet her, but she brushes right past me and into the library. Much to my shock, she takes us back to a small, private table. Interesting development. We both take our time getting situated, but we’re only delaying the inevitable. This conversation we’re about to have has been a long time coming.

  I’m the first to break the uneasy silence. “Abs, let’s talk…please?”

  She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Talk.”

  Sexy, difficult woman. “Look, you know my dad’s an ass. He forced me to stay for dinner, and I didn’t have my phone on me. I should have tried harder to reach out to you. I’m sorry, okay? Please forgive me.”

  Her rigid posture slowly relaxes, and internally I pump my fist in victory. She’s gonna forgive me. She blows out a long breath and gives me a small smile. “Fine. But this is strike two, Jockstrap. Three and you’re out.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Abs. You know there aren’t strikes in golf, right?” She bites her lip and shrugs. Jesus. This girl. Now that I know we’re not going anywhere, I dig my phone and keys from my pockets and lay them on the table.

  “You ready?” she asks, opening her book, alerting me to the fact that in my haste to beat her here, I must have left mine in my truck.

  “Shit. Lemme run out and grab my book; I left it…”

  She cuts me off. “Sure, Brock. But please hurry. We have a lot of shit to do before finals.”

  I push back my chair, smirking at how quickly she can switch gears—from pissed to playful to strictly business in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Quickly, I dash out and grab the book, which is right where I thought it was—on my dash. I rush to get back to Abby Jane, not wanting to run the risk of upsetting her and getting more sass from that smart mouth of hers.

  Except, I guess I did take too long, because she doesn’t look content, or even sassy. She looks outright pissed. I slow my approach, and hold my book out in front of me as if it can protect me from her ire. “You good, Abs?” I ask cautiously, not knowing what has her so upset.

  She tips her chin my way in acknowledgment. “Mmm. Fine.”

  Aw, shit. She used the ‘F’ word. “Obviously you’re not. Talk to me.”

  Abby Jane pins me with an ice glare. “You sure you wanna talk to me? Or would you rather talk to Amanda.” She spits the words, anger and venom lacing her tone.

  “Wh-what?” I ask, wondering how she even knows who Amanda is. Well, I mean, obviously she knows her; our parents run in the same circles. But that doesn’t explain why she’s bringing her up now.

  “A-man-da.” She breaks the name down by syllables, and it’s then I notice my phone in her hand.

  “You went through my phone?” I ask, my own anger rising to the surface.

  “Right. Because that’s the real issue.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “And not the fact that you ditched me to eat dinner with fucking Amanda Burkett on Tuesday.”

  “That’s not what happened, Abby Jane.”

  “Oh, it’s not? So, she’s lying?”

  I scrub a hand over my face, trying to keep my cool. “Not what I said.”

  Abby Jane darts up from her chair, almost knocking it over in the process. “It can only be one or the other. She’s lying, or you are.”

  I advance toward her, backing her slowly into a stack. “No,” I grit out. “No one is lying. I was coerced into dinner at my parents’ house. They just happened to invite her to join us. A double fucking ambush and the
last thing I need is lip from you about shit you do not understand.”

  Abby Jane opens her mouth to respond, but I tunnel my fingers into her silky pink hair and silence her with a hard press of my lips to hers. She immediately melts into me, moaning into my mouth, allowing me entrance. Our tongues tangle together in a fight for dominance until I nip at her bottom lips; she tastes like minty lip balm, coffee, and something uniquely Abby Jane.

  With my fingers still in her hair, I give it a hard tug, tilting her face to deepen our kiss before trailing my hands down to her ass. I pull her hips into mine, and she doesn’t hesitate—not even for a fucking second—to lift her legs and wrap them around me. In this position, my hardness is perfectly aligned with her heat, and oh, my fucking God, when she grinds into me, I just about lose my mind.

  I can feel her heat through my goddamn khakis. “Are you wet for me, Abby Jane?” I ask against her lips before diving back into our kiss, not giving her time to answer. Because, really, we both know she is. Soaking, if I had to hazard a guess.

  As voices filter in from the other side of the stack, our kiss slows until finally Abby Jane releases her legs from around my hips, and I let her slide down my body to the floor. The caveman in me roars when she lands on unsteady feet. She tilts her gaze up to mine, and I expect to see heat, but instead, I see vulnerability.

  “Wh-what are we doing, Brock?”

  “Fuck, Abs, I don’t know.” I pull on the ends of my hair. “I know a lot has happened between us over the years—” She tries to interrupt me, but I know I was a jerk back then, and it doesn’t seem fair to move things forward with her without resolving our past. “I wish I had some grand reason behind the end of our friendship, but the truth is…I was a dick. Plain and simple.