Anything Between Us (Starving Artists Book 3) Read online

  But this woman … She seems to want it. And she came here, to this bar, on this night, to get it. So many questions spill into my thoughts, tumbling over each other, but the only one that actually escapes my mouth is:

  “Why me?”

  “Does it matter to you?” She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me, slow and deep, kindling the fire inside me. She pulls her hand from my pants and puts it over mine, guiding it between her legs. She whimpers when my fingers meet slick, hot flesh.

  I curse and spin us around, so she’s the one with her back to the wall and I’m looming over her, caging her body with my arms. Maybe trying to scare her a little, though I’m not sure why. But she’s right there, unafraid, giving me a knowing smile, those black eyes deep and fathomless.

  “Does it?” she asks again. She’s still holding that condom against my chest. An invitation. A question. A challenge.

  I push her against the wall and give her my answer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sasha

  It’s past two by the time I pull into the driveway. Though we’ve barely edged into September and the nights are still warm, I pull my flimsy scarf from the passenger seat and wrap it around my neck and shoulders. All the lights in the house are off, thank God. And when I slowly twist the key and open the front door, I immediately hear Dad’s snores coming from his room down the hall. The sound is pure relief to me.

  A light switches on in the living room. Aunt Cathy stretches and glances at the wall clock. She smooths her hand over her graying blonde bob—I got my darker coloring from my mom’s side of the family. “Half Scottish, half Greek, and a name that’s neither,” Dad used to say. It always pissed off my mom, who took it personally, seeing as she’s the one who picked my name. Then again, it seemed like everything Dad used to say pissed her off.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you’d be late,” Aunt Cathy says, though there’s no judgment there. She feels too sorry for me for that. “How was your night?”

  “I had fun,” I say, giving her a bright smile. She knows about my tradition, but only the sanitized version. It saves me a lot of questions and annoyance.

  She gives me a look, more maternal than my own mother could ever swing. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Do you want to stay? I can pull out the sofa bed and make it up for you.”

  She shakes her head and pushes herself out of the recliner where she’d been snoozing. “I’d better get home. Bob needs his coffee in the morning. Apparently, I’m the only one who can make it just right. Do you need anything before I go?” She walks toward me, rubbing at a kink in her back, tilting her head like she’s trying to find the weak spot in my armor. “Want to talk?”

  I almost groan. “I’m really tired.”

  “Early day tomorrow?”

  “A class at noon. Basic pottery for nine- to twelve-year-olds.” I actually look forward to it. Most of them are still too young to be cynical.

  “Doesn’t sound too bad,” she says as she reaches the front door. As she hugs me, I’m glad I thought to pack those wet wipes in my car, so I smell a little less primal than when I left the bar. “If you need me to do this again, anytime—”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  She pats my shoulder. “You have to get out more! You’re still young!”

  I doubt she’d be saying that if she knew what I do during my once-a-year outing. I grit my teeth as her hand brushes over a bruise beneath my scarf. It was rough this time. Wild and mindless and perfect. “I’m doing fine, Aunt Cathy. I really am. And I appreciate you taking care of Dad tonight. Was he okay?”

  She gives his closed bedroom door a rueful look. “He thought I was Mira once or twice.”

  “Yeah. He thinks I’m Mom sometimes, too.”

  “You can’t go on forever like this,” she says abruptly. There’s a set in her jaw that wasn’t there before. “It’s going to be more than either of you can handle now that he’s at this point. I did it with our mother until I just couldn’t anymore, and he’s going to be the same.”

  It winds around my throat like a noose, this truth, but I can’t deal with it tonight. Especially not tonight. “We’re fine,” I say, my voice cracking over the lie. “And right now? I need to go to bed.” I open the front door.

  Wearing a sorrowful look, she watches my fingers white-knuckle the doorknob. “The whole family’s here for you, Sasha. You don’t have to do this yourself. You’re such a lovely young woman. You could find a man. You could get married. You could have a life.”

  “And put Dad in a home? He’s not even sixty.”

  “It’s such a cruel disease,” she murmurs, her eyes going glassy. “So incredibly cruel.”

  It is. And it’s also genetic. Last month, Dad’s neurologist asked me if I want to be tested. I laughed at her.

  “All things considered, he’s doing great, Cathy,” I say. “We have a routine that works. I’m managing it.” I cross my arms over my chest, feeling silly for making these righteous pronouncements while I stand here, not even wearing underwear.

  “You can’t say I didn’t try,” she says with a shake of her head. “I’ll see you soon?”

  I soften. “We’ll come over for dinner or something? Let me know which night is good. And thank you for tonight.” I wave as she trudges out to her car.

  Once she’s safely off to go make coffee for Uncle Bob, I stand in the doorway and strain for the whisper of the waves, my favorite sound in the world. We’re only a few blocks from the shore of Lake Michigan, but tonight the wind is quiet, and so is the lake, so I bid her a silent goodnight.

  I head upstairs for a shower. Standing in front of the mirror, I unwind the scarf, peel off my dress, and unhook my bra, letting it slide off my arms to the floor. Wincing, I examine the red-purple mark on the ridge of my shoulder. I touch my fingertip to each abrasion, his teeth marks, and I shiver, my nipples growing hard at the memory.

  Five times I’ve done this—first Friday in September. It’s never been so electric.

  I turn the water on and wait for it to warm up, still running my fingers over my body and the marks he left on me. The bruises on my thighs from his iron grip. The scrapes from the brick wall against my shoulder blades as he slammed into me. I don’t step into the shower until the whole bathroom’s steamed up, because I don’t want to wash the last traces of him off me yet.

  When I finally do step into the searing spray, I sigh. It’s another kind of good, cleansing and relaxing. But thoughts of him are still with me. The men I’ve chosen before were all swagger, no hesitation. Like they knew what I was and didn’t care who I was. An easy, no-strings-attached fuck—disposable and quick. But that’s okay. It was exactly what I wanted from them.

  This one tonight, he was different … He was insanely hot, for starters. Long and lean, blond and blue-eyed, elegant cheekbones and strong jaw. His body made me able to forgive him for the tribal tattoo around his biceps—so similar to my friend Daniel’s that I almost laughed. Guys seem to think the ladies swoon for that kind of thing, but come on. It only works if the gent’s attractive in the first place. This one was, and then some. I spotted that buzzcut, that military uprightness, squared shoulders and sharp gaze, the moment he walked in. I knew he was the one this year.

  I actually thought he might turn me down. I could tell he had things on his mind. The way he drank, the way he barely cracked a smile when his friends showed up, the way he stared down at his empty glass like he hoped it would give him some answers, I was almost surprised he even came over to me. And then he wanted to know why I’d picked him, trying to make sense of something that makes no sense whatsoever. Watching him give in to me was a turn-on like nothing I’ve ever felt. Like I was the devil on his shoulder. Or, more precisely, the devil who rode his cock until he completely lost control.

  I turn my face upward, letting the water soak my smile. I’ll be sore for days, and I want every sensation, every sting and ache. Because when they’re gone, that’s it for anoth
er year. I probably left a few marks on him, too. I wonder what he’s thinking now that it’s all over. I wonder if he still wishes he knew my name.

  I wonder why I’m wondering about his.

  I turn off the water with a hard twist. I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. Wrapping a towel around me, I pause on the landing to hear the snores coming from downstairs, and then I pad into my room. It used to be my parents’, before Mom left, before Dad’s gait got unsteady and I decided he’d be safer on the ground floor. This master bedroom’s big, taking up most of the second floor of the cottage, and one of the windows offers a tiny horizontal sliver of lake-view. Really, I have enough space up here to turn this into a pottery studio instead of renting space at the artists’ co-op in town, but I’ve found that I can concentrate better and get into the flow of things if I know my dad isn’t going to come wandering in to ask me why I’m in his bedroom or whether we have any cornflakes in the house.

  I glance over at my laptop and shed the towel in favor of a pair of panties and a T-shirt. I open the windows, letting the rush of cool air chase away the stuffiness. Then I sit down in front of the computer, because I need to get this over with.

  Sure enough, the message is there, like it has been on this day for the last five years. And sure enough, my gut seizes when I see her name even though I expected it. Nancy Hoekstra is nothing if not consistent. I open it and read.

  Sasha, thank you for coming to the cemetery this afternoon. It was so good to see you. I wish it was more than once a year, but we’ll take what we can get. I hope you understand that we will always consider you our daughter, no matter what. If you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask. We will forever be indebted to you.

  I tilt my head back and let the tears slide into my hair. She and her husband have given me way too much already. And if she knew the truth, I doubt she’d never want to see me again. I let out a shuddering breath and rub the goosebumps off my arms. It always feels like this, and I don’t try to push it away. For this one day, I let myself really feel it, or else I’ll simmer until I explode.

  I close my eyes and remember what Ryan looked like the last time I saw him, on his knees, begging me with tears in his eyes. We can’t tell them, he pleaded. It’s more than they can handle right now.

  I’d never seen him cry before. It killed me to know I was the reason. Enough to make me agree to what he was asking. Enough to make me play along. Maybe enough to blind me to what was really going on.

  But not enough to keep me from realizing that what happened next was all my fault. I stand up and go over to my bedside table. I keep his picture in the drawer and force myself to look at it on this day every year. It feels heavier each time. It’s him, in his ACU, looking tanned and happy—he’d just been promoted to Specialist, and his family and I had traveled all the way to Fort Carson to celebrate with him on a weekend pass. His grin was like a sunrise, and I remember feeling so many things—pride and guilt closely entwined. I was elated to see the guy I’d been with since I was a junior in high school … and uneasy because my feelings had already started to change.

  Would he still be here if they hadn’t? I’ve asked myself this question a thousand times.

  And my answer is always the same: Yeah. He probably would.

  I blow my nose and hit Reply.

  Nancy, it was good to see you and Paul. I’m grateful that you allow me to be a part of your lives, and that you understand that more would be too hard for me. But that’s only because you’re both wonderful and generous people, and you remind me of him.

  I pause, like I always do when I get to this point. Tell them the truth, I think.

  My fingers tap on the keys, translating thought to screen. I should have been honest with you six years ago. I was the most selfish person in the world, Nancy. I guess I still am. And my selfishness is what—

  I delete those few sentences, send the angelic but pathetically dishonest email, and snap my laptop shut. “God, I hate this day,” I say with a groan, dragging myself toward the bed and slumping onto it. I’m going to be a total zombie tomorrow, and I’m wishing Aunt Cathy were here to make me coffee in the morning. Or better yet, that hottie from the bar, bringing a steaming mug up on a tray, then climbing into bed and showing me what he’s really capable of.

  That’s not how this goes, though. Instead, I set the alarm on my phone for 6:30 a.m., because Dad never sleeps later than seven, and I can’t risk him wandering out of the house while I snooze upstairs. His daytime caregiver, courtesy of the county Alzheimer’s services, arrives at 11:00 a.m. on weekends, so I’ll take care of anything Dad needs until then. After that, I’ll go to work, and maybe even grab a few precious hours in my studio before coming home. Tomorrow, I’m paying the guy under the table to stay a few extra hours—Yelena Knudsen decided to sell my stuff in her downtown boutique, so I need to deliver that order of vases, serving bowls, teapots, and mugs by tomorrow night. It had better impress her, because a regular gig in a brick and mortar like that is priceless for a working artist. Then I’ll come home, keep Dad company as he watches TV, and put him to bed, hopefully without him inviting me to join him because he thinks I’m my mom and doesn’t always remember that she divorced him seven years ago.

  Then I’ll wake up on Sunday and do it all over again. I told Cathy I was fine, and that’s true. She’s worried that I’m lonely, and that’s true, too. But I won’t be crying into my coffee or drowning my sorrows with the bottle of Jack my dad stashed behind a box of old Led Zeppelin records in the cabinet and then forgot about. Because I know something else that’s true, and it’s not that I’m a selfless daughter.

  No, it’s this: I will always be alone, and that’s the only way it can be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nate

  I sit across the table from my mom, trying not to stare. She looks so different than when I left. The chemo has hollowed her eyes and cheeks, and her bald head is covered by a hot pink bandana. She’s so fucking gaunt that it scares me. When they told me that she had lung cancer in January, only a few weeks after Sam died, I felt like I was crumbling. But hey, I put on a brave face so they didn’t have one more thing to worry about, and Mom’s alive, and she’s here, and she’s eating. So everything’s fine.

  My dad made mac and cheese this evening, and Mom smiles as she takes her first bite and says, “You know, one of the great things about this situation is that I can eat whatever I want without worrying about it! The doctor says I should try to gain ten pounds before my next round of chemo.”

  Sitting next to me, Daniel clenches his jaw and bows his head. Then he lets out a rough laugh. “That’s some hardcore bright-siding, Mom.”

  Dad watches her fork a big bite into her mouth. “I added extra butter. And five kinds of cheese. And lots of those crunchy breadcrumbs on top.”

  “Panko,” Mom informs him. “It’s Japanese.”

  “Crunchy,” I say at the same time as Daniel and my dad. More laughing. God, I’ve been gone so long that I forgot how much I missed these people. When I sit here with them, I can almost pretend like things are normal, that I’m normal, like I was before my brain broke.

  Mom’s eyes are bright as they meet mine. “You look like you could stand to gain a few pounds, too, Nate. Are you—?”

  “I’m great, Mom.” I wish she’d just worry about herself.

  Daniel pats his belly, maybe drawing Mom’s attention away from me. “I think I’ve gained ten pounds since I’ve been with Stella.”

  Dad grins. “Me, too, actually. Are we seeing that lovely young lady again soon?”

  “You mean, is she coming over tomorrow with a batch of cookies or pastries?” asks Daniel. “Most likely. She takes her job as Mom’s self-appointed chief fattener very seriously.”

  “We finished the eclairs she brought over on Wednesday,” says Mom, batting her eyelashes. “Now whatever will I eat for breakfast?”

  “Nate can make you pancakes,” says Daniel. He nudges me with his elbow. “
He’s got nothing else to do, right?”

  Mom levels one of her patented mom-looks at him—this intangible mix of disapproval and affection. I’ve been the recipient of that look more times than I can count, though Daniel’s probably got me beat. “Leave your little brother alone,” she says to him now. As if I’m a helpless toddler.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do, now that you’re home?” Dad asks this hesitantly, almost like he’s scared to hear my answer—which is probably why it’s taken him over a week to bring it up.

  This isn’t what they expected. I’d planned to have a career in the army. I’d said as much a dozen times at least. It suited me fine until this year. Second of January, to be precise, and a few seconds that changed everything.

  After that, I realized that if I didn’t escape, I might blow my fucking brains out.

  It still seems like a possibility, sometimes. I haven’t been in a warzone for two months, but nothing feels safe. I keep my blinds closed at all times; I hate feeling exposed. I flinch when anyone makes even one unexpected move. And the nightmares make me feel like I’m going insane. But I can’t say that to my family, because here’s my mom, across the table from me, fighting for her life, and my dad, looking more breakable than I’ve ever seen him, and Daniel, looking like he’s so happy with his life that I can’t bear to be the downer by telling them the truth.

  The voice of my old drill sergeant rings in my head, a memory from years ago, when I was in basic training. He was right in my face when he shouted, “You’d better fucking unfuck yourself right the fuck now, Private Van Vliet, or I will fucking fuck you over.”

  I definitely need to fucking unfuck myself, for my family’s sake at the very least.

  “I’m looking for an apartment this week,” I say, rubbing at Sam’s initials on my inner forearm. The tattoo hasn’t healed yet, and it itches. It makes me think of Jen’s latest text. You said you’d be there for us and now you’re ghosting me? “I thought about applying to the fire academy, but I’ve decided that I’m going to try to get into Becker for the spring semester instead.” I add this last part louder than I need to, just to drown out my own thoughts.