Shredded

Chapter 20 Ophelia

It’s a little after four-thirty in the morning when I finish folding the last of my laundry and start the long trek back up to my room with my laundry basket in front of my face. This is the perfect time to wash clothes—everyone’s asleep and I had all the machines to myself—but at the same time, it’s going to be a long day. The two hours of sleep I managed to grab aren’t going to do me much good come afternoon rush at the coffee bar.

I’m on the stairs, on the landing halfway between the second floor and the third, laundry basket in front of my face, when I bump into a solid wall of … something. For a second I freak out as images of Harvey flip through my head at lightning speed. But before I can do more than register my fear, two strong, cold hands reach out and grab my shoulders to steady me. And though I still can’t see who it is, I can tell from the way he’s touching me that it’s Z in front of me.

“Hey, Ophelia. You okay?” The heavy basket is gently removed from my arms and I find myself staring into the concerned blue of Z’s midnight eyes.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. Which is true, as long as you don’t count the fact that my heart is beating like a metronome on high. It’s as though being this close to him actually causes my body to completely wig out.

“You sure?” He’s got the basket balanced in one hand and the other wraps around my elbow as he guides me up the last of the stairs. “I didn’t hurt you?”

I smile at him. “I’m good, Z.”

He came. He came. I can’t believe he came. I can’t believe he came. Even though I didn’t want him to, even though I told him I needed space. He came anyway.

The words are a happy mantra inside me as we walk the short distance down the hallway to my door. He came. He came. He came.

When we get to my room, we pause awkwardly while I fumble my key out of my sweatpants pocket. Once I get the door opened, he hands me my basket and takes a few steps back, like he can’t get out of here fast enough.

That’s when it occurs to me that maybe he’s not here for me. Maybe he was leaving one of the other girls’ rooms and I just happened to be coming up the stairs at the worst possible time. Maybe I ran into him because he was here, having sex, with somebody else.

Just the thought makes me sick. So sick that it’s all I can do not to burst into tears before I can even fumble the door shut. But I’ve cried enough over this guy. Cried more over him in the last week than I have over Remi in the last eleven months. There’s something wrong there, and it’s about time I put it to rights. About time I stop worrying about Z Michaels and start worrying about me.

Except now that I look at him, really look at him, he doesn’t look like he’s just crawled out of anyone’s bed. He’s dripping wet and shivering so badly that I can almost hear his teeth knocking together from where I’m standing.

I drop the basket inside the door of my apartment, then reach for him. “What happened to you?” I demand, pulling him inside and locking the door behind him. For the first time, I register just how cold his body is.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I ask, brow raised. “Is that why you look like you’re one very small step away from hypothermia?”

I walk over to the thermostat, turn it up to eighty. Then I come back and fumble his jacket off his shoulders. “You need to get out of your clothes. They’re soaking wet.”

He smiles at me as I pull his T-shirt up and over his head. It’s nowhere near as wet as his jeans and jacket, but still, he can’t stay in it. Not when he’s halfway to frostbite already.

“It seems I spend half my time getting you out of your clothes,” I tell him, tossing the shirt onto a nearby chair before starting on his belt buckle. He tries to fumble it off himself, but his fingers are so cold that they aren’t cooperating. “If you’re so anxious to be naked around me, you should just ask. It’ll save you a hell of a lot of wear and tear on your body.”

He grins, and it’s the same here-let-me-help-you-out-of-your-panties grin that he first leveled at me. It works way better now than it did the night we met.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks around his chattering teeth.

I raise a brow at him. “I thought you had plenty of fun the last two nights.”

He strips off his jeans with a little help from me, then pulls me flush against him. “I did. Want to go for three?”

“What I want,” I tell him as I shove him toward the bathroom clad only in his boxer shorts, “is for you to take a hot shower. Get warmed up and then we’ll talk.”

“I’d get warmer faster if you took a shower with me.”

“Maybe you would,” I tell him, “but I’m going to take the time to once again throw your clothes in the dryer.”

“I’ve already seen you naked, you know.”

“I know. But whether or not you see me naked again is totally up to my discretion, and at this point I haven’t made up my mind.”

“Come closer,” he tells me with a wicked look that even his chattering teeth can’t dilute. “I bet I could convince you.”

I bet he could, too, which is exactly why I’m staying on this side of the apartment.

I reach into the laundry basket and toss him a warm, fresh towel. He catches it gratefully and holds it against his chest as he shivers. Poor baby.

“Go take that shower,” I order him. “We’ll talk more when you get out.”

While Z is dousing himself with the hottest water the human body can take, I run down and—for the second time this week—throw his clothes in the dryer. Then I go back upstairs and try to figure out what I can feed the guy. After that kind of exposure, he needs calories and lots of them. Unfortunately, my very limited pantry doesn’t have much. And what it does have is pretty much chick food—some apples, half a box of cereal, some peanut butter. Nothing, I’m sure, that would appeal to a twenty-one-year-old male athlete.

I do have some leftovers from dinner the night before last—Chinese food—so I dump it on a couple of plates and heat it up in the microwave.

By the time it’s ready, Z is out of the shower and lounging on my bed, dressed in nothing but the fluffy hot-pink robe I picked up on clearance last year. I’m not sure what it says about either one of us that it looks better on him than it ever did on me.

He sits up when he sees me, but stays on the bed. I don’t know if that’s because he wants to give me space and that’s pretty much the farthest he can get away from me and still be in the room or if it’s just because he’s a shit and he wants to remind me of everything we’ve done on that bed in the last two days.

If that’s his goal, it’s working. Because, pink fluffy robe or not, all I see is Z kneeling between my legs, his eyes dark and intense as he goes down on me. The memory has me blushing, and I can tell he notices because he straightens up, his eyes going sharp with purpose.

Plus there’s an awareness in the room, an electricity that seems to permeate the air whenever we’re in the same place. I’ve felt it every time we’re together, and this morning is no different. In fact, right now the pull is so powerful that it’s all I can do not to climb on and take him inside me.

But what happened yesterday hasn’t been resolved—I’m not sure it can be resolved—and I decide that until it is, I’m staying safely on my side of the room.

That’s when Z—fucking gorgeous, sexy, irresistible Z—holds out a hand to me and says, “Come here.”

I start to do just that, my body so enthralled by him that it responds without conscious instruction from my brain. I take three full steps before I manage to stop myself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I do.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Of course you do. But that’s not exactly the point, is it?”

“I guess not.” He sits up then. “Why were you doing laundry at four in the morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Why were you wandering the halls here at four in the morning?”

“I couldn’t get you out of my mind, so I went for a walk.” He tries to say it like it doesn’t matter, but I can see the vulnerability in his eyes, and it gets to me even though I shouldn’t let it. “I ended up here.”

“A walk?” I eye him skeptically. “A walk doesn’t end up with you soaking wet like that.”

He shrugs. “Maybe it was more of a hike.”

“You think so?” My sarcasm is out in full form today, but after those videos I’ve seen of him, all I can picture is him scaling the side of a mountain in the middle of the night. The thought terrifies me.

“That’s not important.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Why?” he asks, and for the first time he looks totally exasperated. “Why does it matter how I got here as long as I got here? Can we at least talk about what’s got you so upset?”

“Somehow you’ve never struck me as the talking type.”

“I’m not the talking type. Which should tell you everything you need to know about me being here. I l—” My heart drops to my toes at the first sound of that l. He regroups though, and says, “I like you, Ophelia. I really like you, and that’s not something I say very often, either. So can we please just talk?”

I don’t want to.

I really, really don’t want to.

I’ve only just started to truly heal from everything that happened in New Orleans, from everything that happened to Remi and me, and the last thing I want to do is rip the scab off it now. But at the same time, I know that Z’s right. That I owe him as much. Because he likes me and is good to me and, most important, because I really like him, too.

“I heated up some food from the other night,” I tell him, trying to buy some time while I get my thoughts in order. “Why don’t you come get a plate?”

“Seriously?” He climbs off the bed and stalks toward me. It’s a total testament to his masculinity that not only can he pull off the stalk while wearing a hot-pink bathrobe, but he can actually look threatening doing it. “I pour my heart out to you and you offer me Chinese food?”

“In my defense, it’s really good Chinese food.”

He doesn’t so much as crack a smile at my joke. He just looks at me, and it’s like those crazy beautiful eyes of his can see inside me. More, it’s like they’re letting me see inside him for the first time. And I realize, suddenly, that I hurt him. Not with the Chinese food, but by shutting him out earlier when I had my little freak-out.

And while I can handle him being annoyed with me or angry at me or even indifferent to me, I can’t stand the idea that he might be hurt by me. By something I’ve done. So I forget about trying to get the words right and settle for just getting the words out.

“You were right, earlier. You know, when you said you were paying for things that Remi had done. I don’t think I realized it, but I’ve totally been measuring you against him.”

“Let me guess.” His mouth twists in a sardonic little smile that might have hurt me if I hadn’t had my flash of insight a minute ago and realized that all he’s doing is trying to keep me from hurting him any more than I already have. “I didn’t measure up.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You don’t have to lie, Ophelia. I’ll always prefer that you tell me the truth rather than what you think I want to hear.”

“Then you need to listen to what the truth is instead of always jumping to the worst conclusions about yourself.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. I’ve known you a week and I’ve heard you do it seven or eight times already. I bet if I ask Ash or Cam they’d be able to point out a million other times when you think the worst of yourself and try to get other people to as well.”

He shifts a little, looks to the side of me instead of into my eyes, and I realize that I’ve really hit a nerve, which ends up freaking me out. What kind of a life has Z led that it’s so much easier for him to believe, really believe, the bad stuff instead of the good?

God. I sigh heavily and decide to go back to picking my words with care. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought it would be, and it’s not like I ever thought it’d be easy.

“Come here,” I tell him, walking back toward the bed and holding a hand out for him to join me.

He does as I ask, settling on the bed, and I curl up on his lap with my arms around his waist and my head on his chest. His heart is pounding fast and hard, and again I realize he really is just as nervous as I am.

“I met Remi when I was fifteen and he was seventeen,” I say, deciding it’s better to get it over with fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “I fell for him instantly. It was hard not to, when he was pretty much every teenage girl’s walking wet dream.”

Z nods, and he looks as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “I know the type.”

I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” he demands, offended.

“Of course you know the type!” I say, in between giggles. “You’re pretty much the king of it. All badass and gorgeous, with a dirty mouth and a surprisingly soft heart underneath all those tattoos and piercings. Yeah, you definitely know the type.”

He lifts a brow, half amused, half insulted. “I’m not quite sure that’s how I’d describe myself.”

“Trust me, it’s probably the best description of you that’s ever been given.” I pause, pretend to think. “Maybe I should call up Sports Illustrated and make sure they’ve got it for the article.”

He tugs at one of my curls, frowning. At first I think he’s going to argue, but then I guess he decides to focus on what’s important, because he asks, “So, Remi wasn’t one of those clean-cut college boys with his whole life mapped out in front of him?”

“God, no. Remi was a drag racer.”

“A drag racer? You dated a drag racer?”

“Yep. And a damn good one at that. Up until two days ago, he taught me everything I knew about driving.”

“A drag racer,” he says again, like he can’t get his head around it.

“Why do you look so surprised?” I demand. “I’m dating a snowboarder, aren’t I? The two aren’t that different.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” he asks. “Dating?”

I freeze, afraid I’ve put my foot in it. “I don’t know,” I tell him as I pick some fuzz off his/my bathrobe. “What do you think we’re doing?”

He puts two fingers under my chin and presses up until I have no choice but to look him in the eye. “Since I’m not the one who slammed a door in your face after telling you to get lost today, I think I’m probably not the one deciding things.”

I knew he’d call me on my shit sooner or later, and I just nod. But I look away when I admit, “I’m scared, Z. I’m really scared.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. Being vulnerable is not something I’ve ever enjoyed.

“I get it. You were in an accident with Remi and you saw him die, nearly died yourself. Of course you’d be nervous—”

“Remi had a death wish.”

He freezes midsentence, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. “What did you say?”

“He had a death wish. I wouldn’t call him actively suicidal, but he was an adrenaline junkie with a really rough past. At first I thought that was all it was. That he took things too far sometimes, looking for the rush, and bad shit happened.”

Z shifts beneath me, obviously uncomfortable all of a sudden. And that’s when I know that I’m right. That what I saw on those videos wasn’t accidental. It breaks my heart even as it gives me the strength to continue.

“But then I started noticing a pattern, you know? We were together three years, and there were definitely times when he was less careful, more stupid about what he did. Which car he’d drive, how he’d drive it.

“I’d try to talk to him about it, and he always told me I was making a big deal out of nothing. That he was fine, and could he help it if he was always looking for the next big rush?”

I pause now, caught up in the memories despite myself. I loved Remi, I really did, and part of me will always miss him. But there’s another part of me, one I don’t acknowledge very often because it does no good, that’s angry at him. Furious. Because he took the easy way out and left me holding the bag.

“You don’t—you don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to.” Z sounds sincere, but I can sense the tension in his body and know that every second I delay is only making the telling of this story worse for him.

I also know he recognizes himself in it, can tell from the way he’s sitting rigid, and from the way his hands are clenched in the comforter instead of around me. My heart breaks at the knowledge, more proof that Z is like Remi in all the ways I need him not to be.

“It was December, which in New Orleans is nothing like it is here. Half the time it’s still in the seventies or eighties and humid as hell. December was always a bad month for him. I don’t know why—he never told me. But the longer the month dragged on, the crazier the stunts he pulled would become. Everyone else loved it, because they didn’t understand. They just thought he was wild and fun, and so much of what he did worked out the best possible way—because he was so talented, you know? I’ve never met anyone who could drive a car the way he could.

“Anyway, it was December twentieth and I could totally see the tension building in him. He was just snappier than usual, you know? And the stuff he was doing, the races he was driving, the risks he was taking … they were trouble. Not just dangerous, but dangerous.

“So he gets this race. Two in the morning, across the Huey Long Bridge and back. And he takes it. He fucking takes it. It was total suicide, especially since the guy he was driving against was really bad news, you know? He won, a lot, but he won because he drove dirty. No one could prove it, but we all knew it. Despite that, he’d never been able to beat Remi before. It pissed him off.

“I begged Remi not to take the race, because I knew he was going to go balls to the wall with it. He’d do anything to beat Kye. Anything. And that bridge is so narrow, so tight, it gives no room for mistakes even if you’re driving the speed limit. Going faster … I was terrified he was going to end up killing himself.”

“So you got in the car with him.” Z’s voice has no inflection at all, no blame, no judgment. But his jaw is locked up tight, and his hands … let’s just say my comforter is never going to be the same.

“It was stupid on my part. But I thought—” I break off, sigh loudly. “I don’t know what I thought, honestly.”

“You thought if you were there you could keep him from doing something totally stupid. You thought you could save his life.”

I nod, because he’s right. “That’s exactly what I thought. Remi had always been pretty protective of me. Not like you, but still. He took good care of me, and it never occurred to me that that wouldn’t matter. That he wanted to die more than he cared if I lived.”

I shake my head, start to close my eyes, but when I do I can see the wreck, hear the crunch of metal. Feel the drop, then the cool rush of water.

“You know, that’s the worst part,” I went on.

“That he tried to kill you too?” His voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.

“That I’ll never know if he did or if he just lost control. We had the race. We had it. We’d already done most of the course—the bridge, the neighborhood on the other side. All we had to do was get back across the bridge. Remi had it. I knew he had it. I could feel it. Kye wasn’t even close to us. And then, suddenly, Remi just jerks the wheel to the right. We go flying and …

“He drowned. I mean, he was really badly injured, so he might not have made it anyway. But he was trapped in the car and the water was coming in too fast. I couldn’t get him out—”

“Wait a minute. You went off the bridge with him? You were trapped in that car in the fucking Mississippi River?” Z’s hands are on my shoulders now, his face in mine, his eyes livid with so many emotions I can’t even begin to sort them all out. “He went off the bridge with you in that car with him?”

“Most days I don’t think it was on purpose.”

“Jesus Christ, Ophelia. Jesus Christ.” He pulls me to his chest, holds me so tight I can barely breathe. But I don’t complain because it turns out this is what I needed all along—even though I didn’t know it.

For so long friends back home have blamed me—for getting in the car, for letting Remi drive that race, for not doing more to stop him. Oh, they never come right out and say it, but I can hear it in their voices, see it when they look at me. They don’t understand I was doing everything I could to save him. All they know is that he’s dead, and they think that by going with him, I encouraged him to wreck.

I don’t know—maybe there’s a part of me that thinks the same thing.

But not Z. He’s swearing under his breath, slowly, steadily, furiously. Not at me, but for me. I find myself sinking even more into him. It feels so good to be held like this, like I’m the most precious thing in the world. Remi never held me like that, and neither has anyone else. Ever.

Because he’s there, and because I can, I wrap my arms around him just as tightly. And hold on with everything I’ve got.