Grit (Dirty #6) Read online

  My fingertips trail down her neck, her shoulders, and onto her back. Slip beneath her top, caressing whatever parts of her I can.

  “Do they feel better yet?” she asks. She presses a kiss to the head of my dick as she meets my gaze. “Because I need you to be inside of me immediately.”

  I don’t answer her with words. I grasp her upper arms, sliding her until she’s hovering above me. Her legs rest on either side of my hips, lining us up perfectly. She’s hot and damp through her shorts, letting me know how much she needs me.

  She removes her tank top as I tug and twist her shorts until they’re far enough out of the way. I thrust upward entering her in one motion.

  Rocky sighs contentedly as she takes over, gliding up and down my length. I love watching her. The look of satisfaction on her face. The parted lips. The desire in her eyes. The natural blush of exertion. My gaze is fixed on her, only slipping to watch myself disappear inside her. My favorite place to be.

  She’s close. I can feel her tighten around me. I skim my fingers up to her neck, drawing her to me. She follows effortlessly, nuzzling into my shoulder. I kiss her head, breathing in the vanilla scent of her hair. A twinge of pain shoots through my chest. There was a time I only felt this ache because I wasn’t ready to let go of my first love—to let Rocky in. It’s getting to be less about Livie and more… Now, it’s more difficult to explain. Now, I’m terrified of the fact that Rocky smells like home. Terrified that I’ll lose her too. Because I will lose her. One day, she won’t be here anymore and I have no say over that. No control. No power to stop it. Helplessness lays over me like a blanket, smothering me.

  I can’t go through that again.

  A flash of her black and silver handgun flickers through my mind. I hate that she needs it. That she still lives in fear. I know it will never, ever go away.

  Her lips find mine, kissing me back into the moment. “Stay with me,” she breathes into my mouth.

  My arms lock around her back, holding her against me. My grip is hard. Harsh. Unrelenting. But she doesn’t complain. It’s unspoken, but she knows I need to cling to her. To know she’s here. Safe. With me.

  Mine, though I never claim her as such. Mine, though I never allow her to claim me.

  But she is mine. And though she doesn’t know it, I want to be hers. I just don’t know how.

  Nine

  Rocky

  I’m startled awake. My heart hammers in my chest as I hold my breath, listening, trying to understand what roused me. The mattress bounces. A sound shatters the silence, and though I know it’s Link, it isn’t his voice. It’s an awful noise, full of torment, remorse, and sorrow. A guttural cry that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

  It’s happening again.

  More and more frequently these past few days.

  I roll into him, wrapping my arms and legs around his body to keep him still, and then I whisper into his ear. Soft, slow, soothing words I’m not sure he even understands in the dark depths of his mind.

  I tell him it’s not real. I tell him everything is all right. I tell him he’s just dreaming.

  I repeat it over and over until his breathing slows and his muscles loosen. I repeat it until the creases in his forehead ease and his face is peaceful once again. My fingers brush over his lips, smoothing the last remnants of a frown.

  When the morning comes, I won’t mention it, just as I haven’t mentioned it any of the other times. If he remembers, he won’t bring it up either. He never has—not once in the past few weeks.

  I don’t know what nightmares plague him. I’m not sure I even want to know. The only thing I’m sure of is he’s in pain and I’m unable to help him.

  There will be no more sleep for me tonight. The sheets are damp with sweat, but I ignore it. I stay where I am, clinging to the man who taught me how to live again. How to trust, love—and I wish I could take all his pain away. Absorb his agony into my flesh, freeing him from his mental prison.

  I wish a lot of things that will never come true.

  The muted cadence of Link’s breathing is comforting. My body is worn-out, fatigued from the daily self-defense lessons. I should be able to close my eyes and drift to sleep, but I can’t.

  Some nights, all I can do is think.

  Some nights, all I can do is cry.

  I want a drink. I want a lot of drinks. I know Link cares about me. He tells me. He shows me. I feel it. But it’s so damn hard to come second to his dead girlfriend. He dreams of her, and I lay in bed with him, holding him. Comforting him. He makes love to me, but it’s her name on his chest. Over his heart. In my face.

  I’m selfish. So fucking selfish. I can’t help it. I want all of him. I want him to myself. I don’t want to share him with a ghost.

  ~*~

  On my lunch break, I take advantage of Link’s distraction with a client and leave the gym premises for once, taking a chilly walk to the boutique down the road.

  Though my mom raised me like a lady, I’ve never been all that lady-like. Then, after the attack, I had zero interest in looking pretty. It’s been that way since.

  Until now.

  We’re going out tonight. It’s a group outing, but this is the first time Link and I have ever really gone out. I want to look nice for him.

  I find a rack of dresses and start finger-walking through the hangers. I wear a lot of skirts—not because I’m trying to be feminine, but because I haven’t bought many new clothes since my mom did most of my shopping in high school—but I don’t wear dresses very often. Especially not dresses like these, meant for dancing and club hopping.

  I don’t know where to begin.

  The woman behind the counter eyes me a couple of times. I don’t want her to come over and, like, talk to me. Even though my cheeks are still cold and I can hardly feel my frozen fingers, perspiration begins to bead across my forehead. I must look like a sweaty deer caught in headlights.

  “Rocky?”

  I turn at the sound of my name. My eyes meet a pair of kind, blue eyes lined with smile creases. A whooshing sound fills my eardrums. My head feels fuzzy and light. I blink. And blink again.

  But she’s still there. Her smile fading, slowly being replaced with an expression of concern.

  Is this real? Am I really looking at my art teacher from senior year—the one who helped me after Garrett raped me in the locker room during a pep rally? I haven’t seen her since that day.

  It all comes rushing back, flooding me with memories and emotions I don’t want.

  Garrett’s hands wrapping around me, holding me against him, pushing me into the wall. His fingers stroking me, probing me. Violating me.

  I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  “Are you okay?”

  I try to answer her, but I realize there’s no air in my lungs. I shake my head, trying to suck in a breath. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it pulsing in every inch of my body. My fingers and toes tingle. There’s so much pressure in my head.

  “Breathe, sweetie. Just breathe.” Those are the same words she spoke to me that day. Does she know that? Does she remember?

  I shake my head again, this time in panic. I can’t fucking breathe.

  Mrs. Haring places her hand on my arm and squeezes gently. “Have I aged that poorly?”

  It’s so unexpected that I almost laugh, and that’s all I need to finally take in a lungful of oxygen.

  “There we go. Take another one.” She squeezes my wrist again, encouraging me.

  “I think I’m okay now. You just caught me off guard.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I don’t tell her how most things scare me. I force a smile. “It was more of a surprise. A good one.”

  She glances at the line of dresses behind me. “I think this one will look nice on you,” she says, her voice calm, reassuring. She takes one off the stand with her free arm and holds it in front of me. “It will look lovely with your skin tone. What do you think?”

  She cat
ches me by surprise once again and it takes me a moment to register her change of subject. My eyes shift, trailing over the red garment. It’s a great dress, but not one I’d anticipate my fifty-something-year-old teacher choosing.

  “I like it.”

  She puts the hanger in my hand and gestures toward the front of the store. “They have a shade of lipstick that will match this perfectly by the register.”

  “Oh, okay,” I utter. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Now, make on old woman’s day. Tell me you’re still painting.”

  My pulse flutters. “I am.” I don’t mention this being a new thing. I keep it to myself how I was unable to create anything of my own for years.

  She drops her hand and moves around me. “Good. Good. You were so talented. I knew you’d do great things with it. It was nice seeing you again, Rocky. Take care.”

  “You too,” I murmur, distracted by her previous statement. I had plans once upon a time. I wanted to move to New York and attend college. Major in art. I wanted my work in museums one day.

  I’m not doing great things with my talent. I’m not really doing anything with it. I let Garrett Marshall take my dreams from me. How did I let that happen?

  I really need a drink. I need lots and lots of drinks.

  Ten

  Link

  Rocky and I decide to bypass the gym and meet everyone at the club. I’ve never stepped foot inside a nightclub in my life, and I detest it instantly. It’s loud, it’s dark, and there are drunken and grinding bodies everywhere.

  I glance at Rocky’s dress. Everything I liked about it while we were still in her house is exactly what I hate about it now that we’re out. There are already eyes on her because she’s gorgeous and alluring and sexy as hell. I’m not okay with men staring at her like they want to fuck her. I’m not okay with it at all.

  “How long do we have to stay to make everyone happy?” I have to shout over the music in order for her to hear me. This pisses me off more; it’s a safety issue. What if she needs me—calls for me—but I can’t hear her over the techno bullshit pounding in my skull? I’m keeping her in my line of sight all night.

  Rocky’s lips pucker as she contemplates my question. That red lipstick looks so damn inviting. I’d rather be home finding out what it looks like on my skin. My eyes flick around, taking in our surroundings once again. I bet half these guys are thinking the exact same thing. I place my hand on her back, my way of letting everyone know she’s with me.

  “An hour?” she asks, then nods as if answering herself. “Yeah, I think an hour would be good.” She edges through the torrent of bodies, making her way to the bar. “But, I need a drink if I’m going to be able to deal with this. What do you want?” she calls.

  I shake my head. I’m not drinking. I just want to put my hour in with a clear head and get the hell out of here. She raises her brows, but I hold firm. “I’m good.”

  “I need a shot of tequila and a beer, whatever you have on draft.” My hand is still on her back, so when she turns back to me, it puts us chest to chest.

  Her fingers slide over my shirt to my tie. She touches the knot, straightening it. “Have I told you how nice you look?”

  I lower my head, bringing my mouth directly to her ear and release a slow breath. “I’d rather you show me how nice you think I look.”

  She leans back, meeting my eyes, and smiles playfully. “The bathroom here is probably too packed for that.”

  The memory of going down on Rocky in the bathroom of our neighborhood bar flashes through my mind. My cock twitches behind my zipper. I’m going to be walking around sporting a chub. I push myself against her, letting her know what that little comment did to me.

  Her lashes flutter. She wets her lips. Fuck, I want to taste that damn red lipstick. Badly.

  “One draft and one tequila shot,” the bartender yells as he sets the drinks on the counter. I hold Rocky in place, reaching into my back pocket, pulling out my wallet. I grab a bill and hand it to the guy before slipping my fingers into both glasses.

  Without breaking our tight connection, Rocky takes the tequila from me, sucking it back like water. She breathes through her teeth, the only indication she felt the burn.

  “There you are,” Augie hollers. “Come on, we have a booth upstairs.”

  Reluctantly, I follow, keeping Rocky in front of me, my stiff dick tucked into her ass. Every step is a test of self-control. No matter how much I have her, I always want more. Not here though. Definitely not here.

  The second floor isn’t quite as bad as the first. There are a lot less people up here and the music isn’t as loud. We slip into the booth behind Augie where Joe and two young blondes are seated. Rocky’s hand folds over my thigh, her pinky running up and down the length of my now engorged shaft beneath the shelter of the table.

  Joe dips his chin at the girls. “This is Autumn and Summer,” he introduces.

  Rocky cocks her head to the side in disbelief and snorts. “Where’s Winter and Spring?”

  Augie spews beer across the table as he erupts with laughter. I don’t know which one is Autumn and which one is Summer, but one of them laughs and the other switches off between shooting daggers at Augie and giving Rocky scathing glares.

  “That’s really their names, Rock, don’t be an asshole,” Joe says. He puts his hand over his mouth, attempting to hide his amusement.

  “I’m named after a famous quote by the French Nobel Prize-winning philosopher, Albert Camus, who said: ‘Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.’”

  Ah, so the pissy one’s Autumn. I’ll remember that by her permanent scowl.

  The other girl, Summer, by process of elimination, circles her finger in the air. “We’re no relation,” she says. “I don’t have any hyper pretentious symbolism behind my name. My mom just named me Summer because that’s when I was born.”

  Rocky’s head turns, her eyes full of pleasure. “Oh, I like her.”

  “So do I,” Joe states, dropping his arm around her shoulder.

  Autumn looks around the table expectantly, fishing, I think, for someone to say they like her too. If I were closer to Augie, I’d give him a nudge and a hint, but I’m not, plus I don’t really give a shit.

  “I need so many drinks,” Rocky murmurs. I slide the beer I’m still holding in front of her. She beams at me, picking it up gratefully. She takes a long drink and sets it down on the table hard, causing the amber liquid to slosh over the side. I grab a napkin, and as I give it to her, I notice her hand is shaking. Her other hand, the one on my thigh is also trembling.

  My first instinct is that she saw someone who she didn’t want to see. My brain jumps to Bates and I have to remind myself he’s in jail. I glance at the surrounding booths, looking for Garrett. Searching for anyone who appears threatening in any way. All I see is a lot of people having a good time.

  My gaze moves to Rocky’s face, hoping for an explanation. She’s pale. Her forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. Her lips quiver.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She pushes on my leg. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “You all right?” Joe asks, his brows creased with worry. “How much have you had?”

  “That’s her first beer,” I tell him.

  Rocky cringes. “I felt nauseous the second it hit my tongue.” She shoves at me again. I slip out of the booth, moving out of her way. She rushes past me and as I’m about to go after her, I hear a string of words that stop me cold.

  “Maybe she’s pregnant.”

  Part Two

  Life is a Journey

  (Two roads diverged in the wood and I—I am still standing here, trying to decide which one to take.)

  Eleven

  Link

  “Maybe she’s pregnant.”

  My head snaps back, and though it was Autumn who said it, my eyes meet Joe’s. There is a torrent of emotions there, mild compared to the onslaught hitting me.

  He looks like he wants to say s
omething, but can’t quite locate the words. I’m in the same goddamn boat, and he isn’t whom I need to talk to about this anyway. There’s only one person who can answer my questions and I go after her.

  She can’t be pregnant. She’s on the pill.

  The pill she never forgets to take. I’ve seen her take it. Every day.

  Did she take it the day we argued about the gun?

  Missing one dose doesn’t negate all the other doses, does it?

  That was just a few days ago. She couldn’t experience symptoms this early.

  Maybe she’s just sick. People get sick all the time.

  It’s probably just a stomach bug. I’ll take her home, run her a hot bath. Make some soup.

  She’s not pregnant.

  But what if she is?

  What if she has my child growing inside of her right now?

  Rocky wouldn’t drink alcohol if she were pregnant. She’s done some reckless things, but she wouldn’t put a baby at risk.

  No, she wouldn’t do that.

  Unless she doesn’t know yet.

  I stop outside the bathroom, my hands locked on the back of my neck. My vision blurs as I stare hard at the door, waiting on her.

  Just the idea that she might be carrying my child has my insides knotted.

  I don’t even know how to take care of a baby.

  She’s not pregnant.

  She’s not.

  The bass is pounding in my head like a kick drum. I’m frozen in place, my back firm against the wall. A group of women push past me, entering the bathroom. I almost ask one of them to check on Rocky for me, but it’s too loud and they’re too quick.

  I lean forward, dropping my elbows to my knees. Fuck, I feel sick.

  The door slides open again and Rocky appears. I examine her face, hunting for any clues as to what’s wrong with her.