Free Before & After by Nazarea Andrews Page B

"This has to be more than good sex and superficial
conversation, Peyton. As fucking awesome as that is, I can't just do
that." I wait for her to say something—any fucking thing—to stop me. But
she doesn't.
    She
sits there in silence and watches me as I walk out of the deli.

 
 
    Chapter 12 : After
    Love--to me--
    Is challenges and partners
    And stories that make my heart skip
    It's laughter
and plans,
    And dreaming.
    ( Rike’s poems to Peyton)

 
    I’m
worried about what I’m wearing.
    Which,
all things considered, is the stupidest thing in the world to worry about. But
it’s ten and Rike will be here soon, and I want to look cute.
    I’m
in a wheelchair, and can’t remember who the hell I am and I’m rocking a cast on
my leg and arm, and I’m more concerned about what an idiot boy who wants in my
pants will think than where I fucking come from.
    “ It’s official, Collins. You’re a fucking idiot,” I mutter,
brushing a lock out of my eyes.
    I’ve
put on makeup and my hair, though a bit scraggly, looks cute in its choppy
piece around my face. For the first time in weeks, I feel vaguely human instead
of like some desert island inhabitant.
    It
probably won’t last long. I grab my notebook and the phone, and shove them into
my purse, and a knock on the door has my heart jumping into my throat. I blink
and it comes again. This time it’s the kick I need to push myself forward and
swing the door open for Rike.
    He’s
got two cups of coffee, and his grin is lazy as it tracks over me. “Why did the
chicken cross the basketball court?”
    I
tilt my head, a smile rising, “Why?”
    “He
heard the ref calling fowl.”
    I
laugh, a surprised burst of noise, and he grins at me. “Good morning,
sweetheart,” he murmurs, and the nerves in my belly dip.
    “You
ready?” I ask, and his smirk deepens as he nods.
    “Take
these,” he says, handing me the coffees and scooting around me. I catch the
smell of him—crisp and soapy, with a hint of lead and smoke.
    “Do
you smoke?” I blurt as he pushes me out of the room.
    He
laughs softly, but doesn’t answer my question until we’re at the elevator and
he can look at me. “No. I used to. But now it’s mostly just the smell of it in
my clothes from gigs.”
    I
frown. “Gigs?”
    He
hesitates. “I’ll show you, in the truck.”
    Curiosity
mingles with nerves, and I nod, ducking and sniffing the coffee. It smell
amazing and I make a tiny noise, almost a whimper.
    “It’s
for you, Peyton. Although. Next time I hear that noise, I’d like to be balls
deep inside you.” I flush and Rike laughs. “God, that’s new.”
    The
little admission overrides my embarrassment, and my gaze snaps to his. “Is it?”
    His
gaze brightens, and he leans down as the door opens. Murmurs, “The first time I
made you come, it was against my fingers on stage at Barrie’s.”
    I
bite my lip, trying very hard to stay still as that mental image works over me.
“I find that highly unlikely,” I say finally and he laughs at the unsteady note
in my voice. Bastard.
    “Sweetheart,
you were always a dirty girl with an exhibitionist streak. It’s one of the
things I loved about you.”
    I
flinch at that word. And he catches it. It seems like he catches everything.
    Tommy
is at the check-in counter, and he grins when he sees Rike pushing me through.
“He gonna bring you home, Pey ?”
    I
nod, and he waves amicably as we exit the hotel. There’s a giant, hulking red
truck, all shiny lines and clean leather interior, and Rike pushes me up to it.
Eyes the truck and me. “I’m going to lift you in. Is that ok?”
    When
I'm settled and he's got my wheelchair in the back, he climbs in and reclaims
his coffee. I'm quiet while he drives, watching him and taking in the truck.
    It's
clean, almost obsessively so. There is a notebook in the back, with two drum
sticks and an open guitar case. I swivel to look at him, lifting my eyebrows.
    He
grins. "We play. Scott more than me—his record