Start With Me: A Novel (Start Again Series Book 3) Page 6

  But it also means that Ryan was lying to me. I figured he was, but I don’t like that revelation. I don’t think he was doing it to be a dick. I think he was doing it to protect his brother, but from what?

  “Were you ever in love?”

  He laughs, shaking his head like I’m too much. And maybe I am. This topic of conversation certainly isn’t our usual. Certainly never something I’ve ever asked anyone before. But suddenly, I really want to know the answer.

  “You want to know if I was ever in love?”

  I nod and he rolls his eyes at me.

  “Yeah, I was in love once, cupcake. My high school girlfriend, Abby Scofield.”

  “How did you meet?” I ask, settling in a little deeper into his side.

  He shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve known her since we were kids.”

  “What’s she like?”

  Another shrug. “We were in high school.”

  I just look at him expectantly.

  “Okay, she has red hair,” he smiles, but it’s hesitant, maybe a bit sheepish actually, “and green eyes. She’s very pretty. Sort of badass. She’s a famous author now. Writes young adult superhero books or something.”

  I angle my head so that our eyes meet. “An author is sort of awesome. Is it weird that I have way more respect for you now that I know you dated the world famous author, Abby Scofield? She sounds super cool and super hot, and I may in fact be just a touch jealous.”

  “I don’t know how to respond to that,” he says dryly as we shift on the couch, getting more comfortable in each other’s arms.

  Is it weird that we’re sort of snuggling right now? I’m not going to think too deeply on that, mostly because it’s a little chilly out here now that the sun is setting and well, Kyle is big and warm, and comfortable. And he smells really good.

  “So, you like pretty badass redheads,” I jest, but it doesn’t come out in a joking way at all. It comes out . . . needy.

  He shifts, turning so that his face is now hovering above mine. Those gorgeous marbleized eyes of swirling green and brown find sanctuary in mine. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

  The way he says that makes my girly parts tingle. I’ve never felt this sort of intensity from Kyle, and that’s probably because I never see him in the flesh. I swallow. Hard. His eyes flare as my tongue comes out to moisten my overly dry lips and then he looks up, our eyes locking on each other once again.

  I blink and he sighs.

  Moment over.

  “You ready to get going and grab some dinner?”

  Chapter 6

  Kyle

  “Tell me about your last boyfriend?” I ask, tossing my arm back over her shoulder and pulling her into my side a bit. It’s only to keep her warm. At least, that’s what I tell myself. She’s been quiet since we left the bar. Introspective and chewing on her lip like something is bothering her.

  We make our way east on 58th Street to an Asian Fusion place I like. It’s about a ten-minute walk, but I’m not in a rush and Claire doesn’t seem to be either. Things got a little intense for a moment back in the bar. She asked if I was lonely. About the women I date. I told her about Abby. Hinted at my overwhelming attraction for her.

  Then I nearly kissed her. Wanted to kiss her.

  And I don’t want to want to kiss Claire.

  She’s my friend. Probably one of my closest friends. Yes, I think she’s gorgeous. And I think she’s smart and incredible and funny and quirky in the best sort of way. But she only wants to be my friend.

  Nothing good could ever come out of me kissing her.

  I need to cut the sudden awkward tension I feel building between us.

  So, I play the game she started, throwing a version of her question right back at her.

  Claire’s eyes widen as she looks up at me, clearly not expecting that one. “My last boyfriend?”

  “Yeah. I only know about the men you’ve frequented in the last ten months. Tell me about your last boyfriend,” I say with a big shit-eating grin. “You’ve mentioned a couple of boyfriends in college before. What happened?”

  She begins to laugh, elbowing me in the side, but then it turns loud and rancorous. I don’t think that bitterness is directed at me. It might be more of a general statement.

  “Kyle, baby cakes, I had two boyfriends in college. One fucked me over and one I’m actually still very good friends with.”

  “Who is he?” I don’t even know which one I’m asking about. That stupid question was meant to distract me from thinking about kissing Claire, and now all I can think about is her with other men—which I hate. I’m jealous of these assholes and she’s not even with them anymore.

  “My last college boyfriend? We were together for a couple of years.”

  “Why did it end?”

  She tenses, looking away, out into the busy street. “Turns out I couldn’t give him what he wanted.” Before I can comment on that, she turns back to me with a grin that doesn’t meet her eyes. “He’s a really good guy though and we still talk with some frequency. The other boyfriend was a total asshole.”

  “Go on, cupcake” I say with a wink, using the ridiculous pet name I’ve given her. “What happened with the asshole?”

  She blows out a hot breath as I open the door to the restaurant for her. She doesn’t like talking about herself. Ever. It’s like pulling teeth every time I ask her something personal. But right now, I don’t care. And I don’t care if that makes me a dick, either. I need to hear this for some unknown masochistic reason that I can’t decipher.

  Fuck it, sometimes a man just needs to know.

  Claire does sleep around. I know this. I don’t know how often she explores that with the same man. Mostly because I don’t ask and she doesn’t offer. But oddly enough, as much as I dislike it from a very caveman standpoint, the idea of those men doesn’t bother me. They’re nameless and faceless, not only to me, but to her. She has zero emotional investment in them.

  But a past boyfriend feels different.

  I have to wonder at what exactly it was that he wanted that she couldn’t give him. And why. But I feel like if I push her on that one, she’ll shut down on me, and right now, I really want to know about the guy that hurt her.

  I give her a minute to let my request ruminate as the hostess seats us at a small L-shaped booth in the back. This place is all New York chic with dark mood lighting, wide-plank oak hardwoods, flickering tea lights on the table and a deep red lacquer bar. The wall of glass and alcohol behind the bar is also illuminated with the same deep red color. It’s meant to look erotic. Now that I think on it, I guess it does.

  After we’re handed our menus and given a moment to peruse them, I immediately lay mine flat on top of the place-setting, steeple my fingers and stare at her expectantly.

  She groans, rolling her eyes and tossing her white cloth napkin at me. “Fine. I’ll tell you.” She leans back in the blood red cushion, crossing her arms over her chest, which is meant to appear pissed off and evasive, when in reality, it looks protective. “Alexander Tate and I dated my freshman year in college.”

  She says his name like it’s cat piss on her tongue. I know the feeling.

  “Go on. What happened to Alexander?”

  “Jesus Merry Christmas, Kyle. Do we really have to play this game? If you’re so goddamn curious about the douchetard, ask Ryan for the 411.”

  I smile, simply because I can’t stop it. “You don’t like to talk about yourself much.” She rolls her eyes at me again. “So, you can dish it, but you can’t take it.”

  “Fuck off,” she says, but she’s smiling so I know she doesn’t mean it.

  “First of all, I don’t think anyone calls 411 anymore. Especially with Google and Siri and every other search engine on the planet since the advent of the smart phone.” She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Second of all, how the hell does Ryan fit into this?”

  We’re interrupted by the waiter, and Claire orders a glass of red wine and I order a beer and a plate of roast duck sp
ring rolls because damn, those sound amazing.

  After we’re left alone again, I lean back in my seat and watch her.

  She sighs again, throwing one of the fried crispy things the waiter brought over at me. “I was dating Alexander the-not-so-great while I was at Penn. He was a good boyfriend the entire time I dated him. Very loving and attentive and all that shit that girls look for in the guy they’re regularly screwing. The only problem was that while he was professing his undying love and devotion, he was also making amateur porn videos with several other women on campus.”

  My eyes may in fact have just bugged out of my head.

  “I know,” she laughs, clearly reading my expression, “and it’s not even like they were good. The videos were terrible. Cheesy as shit. I wasn’t impressed.” She shakes her head, scrunching her nose up, like the quality of the film is the only thing she objects to.

  “So, you found out he was a cheating, shitty filmmaker. Then what happened?”

  “Well,” she leans forward, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I was a round-eyed, baby-faced eighteen-year-old, so naturally I was heartbroken. I ended it with him and about a year or so later, I met Mike and started dating him.”

  “What does all of this have to do with Ryan?”

  “So, I was with Mike and then my senior year, Alexander started posting his crap porn online. Turns out I was in one of them.”

  “Holy fuck,” I hiss. “Did you know about it?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope,” she pops the p sound. “And I didn’t want Mike to know about it because things were really good with us at that point, before the shit hit the fan for me and I had to end it.”

  Huh?

  “I was working for Ryan, who took it upon himself to hack Alexander’s computer and delete all the videos of me—there was more than one—as well as wipe his entire system and any history of them on the internet.” She shrugs. “That may or may not have included deleting his senior thesis as well.”

  “Damn. My brother did that?”

  “He did.” She smiles widely. “That’s when I knew I loved that bastard. Ryan, not Alexander. I really didn’t like Alexander much after I found out he was sticking his dick into every hole Philadelphia had to offer him.”

  “Makes sense. And you had to break up with this Mike guy?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugs casually, but her eyes look down at the table in front of us as she absentmindedly plays with the white cloth. “That’s really all there is to it.”

  “Okay.”

  I really can’t think of anything else to say to that, because Claire is hiding something. I know it the same way I know when a client is lying to me. The way I know a witness is holding something back. I just know. I also know she’ll never tell me no matter how hard I work for it.

  But I’m not in a place to judge her either.

  I’m not exactly swimming in relationship commitment town or honesty. I mean, I haven’t told her about all my leukemia stuff, and the only woman I ever loved was my high school girlfriend. I wouldn’t even say I’ve had a serious relationship since. For a while, I was afraid of getting attached again. And by the time I was over that, I was too busy with school and then work to properly give a woman the attention and time she required.

  So, I’ve sort of been a cross between a serial monogamist and hopeless dater ever since.

  To be honest, it’s really suited me and my lifestyle well.

  Our food comes and as we eat, we morph back into friendly ground. Our intense moment of conversation forgotten. It’s easy with Claire. She doesn’t expect a lot from me.

  And maybe that sounds wrong of me to say, but it’s true.

  We get each other, and just the simple act of being around her is enough. It’s addictive and it makes me happy. That is until she says, “Tell me something, Kyle.”

  I wipe my mouth with my napkin before setting it down next to my plate and leaning forward to look at her better against the paltry lighting. “Tell you what, doll?”

  She shrugs, her finger playing with the rim of her wine glass. “Something about work. Something new and exciting in your world. Something I don’t know about you.”

  Why does it feel like she’s baiting me? Her tone and posture are casual, but her question feels loaded. Like she’s after a particular answer. Something specific, but doesn’t want to come right out and ask me. Sort of the way she was earlier this evening at the bar.

  What the hell do I want to say?

  Or more importantly, what the hell do I want to tell her? I’ve never been particularly witty, and I absolutely hate talking about myself, much the way she does. I have no idea what she knows and what she doesn’t. I don’t know the depths of what Ryan or Kate tell her. Our frequent phone and text conversations are pretty superficial. We don’t do deep dives into our inner thoughts, feelings and emotions.

  But she might already know everything about me after working with Ryan so closely for so long.

  She may know that I was a sick kid, though I don’t recall ever mentioning it. She may also know that I had another scare recently. That I certainly did not tell her, because I don’t exactly want her to know. Everything came out negative, which was a huge relief. But Dr. Winters told me very specifically that I needed to reduce stress in my life. Clearly, that hasn’t happened yet.

  People look at you and speak to you differently when they think you’re sick or something is wrong with you. The idea of Claire doing that with me was more than I could handle. So, I kept my mouth shut. Because like I said, we do superficial. She could just be after a general story, like the time I threw-up on the rollercoaster at Six Flags and it splashed back, hitting everyone sitting behind me.

  Or she may know absolutely nothing about me.

  So, I go with something neutral. Something safe. Something not so intimate, but still personal all the same. Mostly because it’s been eating at me. And even though I refused to tell her about this before, while it was going on, I feel the need to talk about it now.

  “Do you watch the news at all?” I ask, taking her hand and moving her across the L-shaped booth until she’s tucked into my side, my chin resting on top of her head.

  She lets out an indignant snort. “Of course, I do.”

  “I was just asking, princess. No need to get your panties in a twist.” She jabs her elbow into my flank, eliciting a chuckle from me. “So, I just defended this guy. I told you about it a little. This total piece of shit, murdering, blackmailing asshole. And I got him off,” I reluctantly admit, waiting for her to pounce all over me the way most people do when you represent the most deplorable, inhuman people. But she already knows I won that case, so I don’t know why telling her that makes me uncomfortable.

  “How does that make you feel? Knowing that you did your job the way you’re supposed to, but at the same time, feeling like you did the world a disservice?”

  “I don’t know, honestly,” I breathe out, thinking on that question as I hold her in my arms. A disservice. It’s an interesting way to phrase it. “My job never bothered me before. My clients never bothered me before. I always hid snuggly behind the rationale that everyone in this country is entitled to a defense, and that if it wasn’t me representing them, it would be someone else.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “I don’t know, cupcake. I honestly don’t know.”

  “I think life is all about balance. It’s about finding a way to look at yourself in the mirror every day and not cringe at the sight. I went to an Ivy League college and graduated summa cum laude.”

  I can’t help breathing in her comforting scent. Jasmine, I think. Then I kiss her silky hair.

  “I double-majored in mechanical engineering and business,” she continues. “And I work as Ryan Grant’s executive assistant. Sure, I’m really a jack of all trades there and I’ve been with them since the inception, so I know that business inside and out. It’s why I’m here in New York. It’s why Ryan trusted me to be here,” she sighs and pauses for
a brief moment like she wants to add to that, but doesn’t.

  I hug her tighter against my chest. I can’t seem to stop myself. What is it about this woman that pulls at me on the deepest levels? “Go on,” I urge, needing her to finish her thought that seems to have stalled.

  “But the reality is, my job to an outsider would not be considered glamorous or befitting a woman of my education.” She angles her head up to meet my eyes head on, blue sapphires with hints of cerulean and deep indigo. “But I don’t give a shit, because I love what I do and who I work for, and I’m young. I’m only twenty-four going on twenty-five. My life is my own. I stopped living for other people a long time ago. So, fuck all the naysayers. Fuck all those judgmental assholes who don’t know me, or my situation. The only person that matters at the end of the day is me, and I’m happy with what I’ve got. Can you say the same for yourself?”

  “Damn, Claire,” I laugh humorlessly, shaking my head ever so slightly. “You make it all sound so simple.”

  “It is simple, Kyle.” She smiles up at me, cupping my cheek with her small warm hand. “People make way too big of a deal out of life. Out of their jobs and their overall happiness when in reality, what’s lacking, is the confidence to be happy or change their situation. Our lives might not be gifted to us in perfect packages. Sometimes we have to do what we can with the lot we’re given, and not lament the rest. And if you can’t do that, then you need make a change.”

  She spins around on the bench seat until her back presses against the table, her knees bent on the cushion of the seat. Her bare thighs press against mine as her skirt slides up just enough, and her chest and face are mere inches away from mine. My breath hitches at the intimacy of our position, and she gives me the smallest of perceptual grins, enjoying catching me off guard like this.

  “People constantly judge the shit out of me. I have bright red hair and I dress in equally bright colors. I wear shirts with ridiculous expressions on them, and I tend to say whatever is on my mind. My mouth has no filter. But I’m okay with all of that. I don’t need validation from the outside world to be content and accept who I am. But most people do. And I’m not judging that. I get it to some extent. It’s a tough nut of a world out there and it can be lonely and cruel. So, I guess what I’m asking is, where do you fit into that?”