Fragile Lives: A small-town, age-gap, brother’s best friend romance (Little Hope series Book 4)
Fragile Lives: Chapter 12

I watch her leave in this snowstorm that’s only getting worse and worse by the minute. I look up at the sky—it’s low and heavy. The snow won’t stop falling for many hours. Even though she has a pretty decent sedan and Leila is a careful driver—when she’s not taking off in a huff—I don’t trust these mountains. I love them, but I don’t trust them.

I look toward where she disappeared and sigh. She said it herself—she’s not my problem. And it’s not like I can follow her just so I can stop her car, drag her out, and throw her over my shoulder. And then lock her here with me…Even though the idea begins sounding better and better with every passing second…

No, don’t go there. I shake my head, throwing the crazy idea out of my head, repeating what she said herself—she is not my problem.

Trying to convince myself that it’s true, I turn to walk back into the house. I left this morning to go to Little Hope for more booze, a necessity for the storm, but ran into this old guy at the grocery store. Everyone knows he has dementia, but I replace him extremely intelligent on a different level than anyone else. So, I took him to dinner at Marina’s place and asked her to call his son to come pick him up as we were chatting. When his son showed up, we ended up chatting even longer, and that’s how I found myself home later than I anticipated.

When I saw her car parked by my new house, I knew trouble was waiting. Ever since I met her, she brings nothing but disturbance to my brain and weird aches to my chest. This was no exception. The moment I saw the car, the dull pain started in the middle of my chest and moved to my stomach. And then she added a literal fuckin’ bruise to the bunch.

On cue, my shoulder reminds me of the pain with a dull throb, and I rub it. Shaking my head, I remember how vicious she was when she attacked me and how fucking hard I got in an instant.

And how embarrassed.

I touch the doorknob when I hear a horrible sound I’ve heard before—metal hitting something hard. Most likely a tree.

And my blood runs cold. I whip around but don’t see anything. The driveway is long and curves a few times on the way.

Fuck.

I sprint to the back of the house where I have a snowmobile covered with protective gear. I keep the keys in the ignition because I honestly don’t expect visitors here—I doubt anyone but bears will go so far into these woods.

It starts on the first try, saving me from beating the shit out of it with my fist in rage, and I drive toward where the sound came from, dreading what I might replace. Squeezing everything this snowmobile can give, I reach her car in a minute, wrapped around a tree. Smoke is coming from under the hood.

I stop on the road and run to the car, attempting to rip open the drivers-side door. Thank God most of the damage is on the passenger side. I try the handle, but it’s locked, so I knock on the window.

“Leila. Leila!”

But she doesn’t hear me. Her head is hanging to the right, and she doesn’t move. I don’t think anymore. I can’t. Instead, I smash the window with my fist, hoping the flying glass won’t hurt her. Then I unlock the door from the inside and open it with a screech.

“Leila,” I breathe out. “Are you okay?”

Of course, she is not okay, you moron. She’s not responsive.

I bring my shaking fingers to her neck and let out a loud sigh of relief when I replace a pulse.

“Thank God,” I mumble and start inspecting her arms and torso under her coat for damage.

When I touch her ribs, she lets out a groan and opens her eyes.

“What—” She stops midsentence and looks around. “Oh fuck. That’s embarrassing.”

I let out a loud chuckle while continuing to check her for injuries. “What is?”

“Getting hit by a standing tree while driving twenty-five miles an hour.”

“It’s not.” I wink when she looks at me with a doubtful look. “Alright, maybe a little.”

I touch her ribs again, and she mumbles, “Ouch.”

“Might be broken.”

“Nah, I think it’s just a bruise from the seatbelt.” She wiggles her body a little and winces, “Yeah, just a bruise.”

“Okay. Can you get out yourself, or do you need help?” Please tell me you don’t. Please tell me you are okay.

“I’m good.” Her next wince makes me wince too as if I’m feeling her pain myself. Such a weird sensation. “Actually, I think I might need your help.” Her big eyes shift their attention to my face, and something inside me breaks.

I lean over her and unbuckle the seatbelt. Then I place one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and carefully pull her out of the car.

“Oh!” she exclaims. “I didn’t mean like…you know, carrying me. I meant like to give me your hand or something,” she mumbles but still clutches her arms around my neck.

“It’s not a problem. Better be safe than sorry.”

“I’m okay, really,” she argues weakly.

“Okay.”

“Really.”

“Yep.” I walk to the snowmobile, holding her small body in my arms. She weighs nothing, even in the amount of ridiculous clothes she’s wearing. This red, puffy coat completely hides her body from view, like seriously. It’s the same one she wore at the bridge, and it annoys the hell out of me because it makes her even more noticeable and hard to ignore. If I wanted to ignore her, that is.

I place her on top of the snowmobile and ask, “Do you think you can ride behind me?”

She lets out a loud snort and winces instantly. “Of course, I can. Or did you want to put me in front of you like a child?” Her forehead wrinkles as she pouts her lips. “I’m not a child.”

Do you think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed that?

I ignore her tantrum and jump on the seat in front of her.

“Hold onto me,” I say, turning my head slightly.

When I feel her arms fully wrapped around my torso, I take off. The ride back is twice as long since I’m carrying precious cargo. Alex and Kenneth will kill me if anything happens to her.

Back at the cabin, I jump off and offer her my hand. She takes it and carefully climbs off, wincing on the way. I want to scoop her up and carry her inside, but my adrenaline begins wearing off, and I don’t know how much of a good idea so much physical contact with her can be at the moment. I might just wrap her in a hug and not let go until my heart settles. I gesture for her to head inside the house instead of following my instinct of securing her in my arms.

After stepping inside, she timidly leans on the door and looks around. She doesn’t seem like the sure woman from ten minutes ago who wielded a whole cast iron skillet. Instead, she behaves like an unwelcome guest. I made her feel that way, but I had my reasons to. She took me by surprise. It’s like when you dream of seeing someone—and maybe even rub one or two out at the thought of them as well—and then they suddenly show up at your doorstep, surprising the ever-loving shit out of you. You begin thinking that you drank too much and that it finally caught up to you, so you go insane.

“Are you going to keep standing there all night?” I ask casually, trying not to sound like a prick.

She shifts her attention from the floor to me. “I was hoping I could use your phone.”

“There’s no reception here.”

“At all?” she asks, confused.

“At all.” I poke the inside of my cheek with my tongue. “No phone, and electricity is a rare occurrence. The power went down twice in the past couple of days. I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Her voice falls. “When I came here, I was so excited that I didn’t even check it.”

“Why did you need a phone anyway?”

“To call a tow company,” she says as she keeps looking around.

“When the snow stops, I’ll drive you down the road. You can get a bar or two closer to the highway.”

“But what should I do now?” She finally looks at me.

I meet her stare—yeah, we’re in a pickle here. To say the place is small would be an understatement. Three hundred square feet, if that. One queen bed with two nightstands, one tiny sofa, two worn out chairs, and a small breakfast table with two stools. I longingly look at the closet I haven’t dug into yet, hoping it has an air mattress or something similar because I don’t fancy freezing my ass off on the floor. Please, let it have an air mattress.

“What you were planning to do here when you showed up, I guess.” I shrug, pretending that staying with her in close quarters like this doesn’t bother me. It does. More than I care to admit. And my heart sure as fuck shouldn’t be racing so much in excitement.

She looks around again and then at me. “But—” Her throat moves in a swallow, and I follow her slender neck, or what I can see of it before disappearing under her monstrous coat. “But I wasn’t planning on having you around.”

“I wasn’t planning on it either, but here we are.” I gesture for her to come to the table and sit. “C’mere, I need to check your wound.”

“My wound?” she parrots, confused.

I reply by touching my temple. She repeats the same motion with her hand and replaces blood on her fingers. “Oh. Oh! Shit, I’m bleeding.”

“You are, but it’s not a lot. You probably hit the window. Might have a concussion. Come sit here so I can check it.” I point at the stool in front of me.

“Okay.” She takes off her boots and walks to the table in white socks. I bet the soles of her feet will be dirty by the time she reaches me. I briefly glance down and feel a ping of guilt about wearing shoes when she doesn’t. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s my house—I can wear whatever I want.

She plants herself on the stool and lifts her head like a good girl so I can see. I go to wash my hands and grab a clean towel. With a newly wet cloth I clean her wounds. Like the little soldier she is, not a sound comes out of her mouth as I dab the blood away, even though a big, purple bruise begins spreading from the center of the wound. But it’s just a scratch. Thank fuck, because I only have alcohol here, no medicine. That’s about it.

I walk to the bag I just brought from the store, unscrew a bottle of bourbon, and pour it on the dry side of the towel. Returning to my little soldier, I place it on her cut without warning, waiting for a wince—that shit should sting. I can’t explain why I did it. Maybe I wanted to see her react to something. Or maybe my desire for pain has expanded to inflicting it too.

Once I’m done, I go back to the sink and take a sip from the bottle.

“Can I have some?”

“No,” I bark back and glance at her. A big mistake—her wince, and not from physical pain, is visible. “You might have a concussion. It’s not a good idea to mix it with alcohol. Alright?” I add, softer this time.

She nods, averting her attention from me, and I take another sip out of spite. Fuck it, but now she’s taking the last pleasure away from my life with her judgment. Not here, not now. I loudly take one more sip so she can hear if she refuses to watch.

And that fucking sip refuses to go down, and I nearly choke on it. My damn body refuses me, siding with the little witch. I give her the stink eye, force the gulp down my throat, and place the bottle in the cabinet. Just great, alcohol was the only thing holding me together, and now I have to give that up because her feelings are hurt. She should want me drunk and abstinent while we’re stuck here together because the things she wakes in me…she might not like them when they surface.

There’s not much to look at around here, so Leila watches the wall ahead of her, stubbornly refusing to look at me as I go through this internal crisis.

“Your brothers told me you’re super smart. So, how come you ended up here, in the middle of nowhere,” I spread my arms, “alone.”

“Alone?” she snorts and finally shifts her attention from the dot on the wall to me. “My brother also told me you’re super friendly and cool, and here I am, stuck in the cabin with an asshole.”

I smack the table with my open palm, expecting her to jump, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, her eyes are trained on me as if she’s about to jump off the stool and attack me with her little claws. Or replace the skillet again and use it on my other parts. My shoulder suddenly begins throbbing once more.

“What’s your problem?” I ask with narrowed eyes.

“My problem?” She lets out an angry chuckle. “My problem?” She stands from that stool and comes closer to me, poking her finger into my chest. I didn’t even notice that I moved toward her simultaneously, meeting her halfway. “What’s your problem, huh?”

“I don’t have a problem,” I tell her.

But she doesn’t let go and steps closer, poking her finger harder. “R-r-right.”

I grab her hand in mine and press it to my chest, stopping her poking. “I don’t have a problem.” It comes out as a hiss.

She lifts herself on her tippytoes and hisses back, “You might not have a problem with anyone else, but you sure as fuck have one with me.”

Her eyes feverishly dart between mine while the muscles in her jaw move.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” I repeat, leaning closer.

“You’re an asshole.”

“That’s not what everyone says.” The corner of my lips lift in a mocking half-smile.

She grabs the front of my shirt and uses it to leverage herself while she inches her body closer. Her eyes shine with barely restrained anger. “Exactly. You’re a coward.”

She annoys me. She drives me crazy because she makes me out to be an asshole while I’ve never been one. People like me. They gravitate toward me. Everyone likes me but her. What’s wrong with her? And this thing she makes me feel deep inside my chest? This stupid desire to…live.

“You’re the only one who has a problem with me.”

She gets in my face. “That’s because I’m the only one who sees the real you.”

I feel a tick coming, and the muscle below my right eye starts jerking.

“Yeah?” I lean closer, and we’re a breath away now. “And who is that?”

She bares her pearly teeth in a snarl like a wild fox I’ve seen around this place. “A lost boy who is scared to show the world the real you.” Her nose touches mine, her voice shaky with anger. “Who is scared to show everyone that you are not the freak you want everyone to see.”

My free hand jumps and snakes behind her lower back, dragging her up my body. I doubt she’s touching the floor anymore, but I don’t feel her weight on my arm—I’m too pumped.

“I am,” I spit the words in her face, “exactly the freak everyone sees,” nearly pressing my nose to hers, I add, “and worse.”

She squeezes my shirt in her fists and pulls down on it until our noses are squashed together. “You aren’t. You’re just an imposter.”

Her pupils are dilated, and I can’t even see the color of her eyes. Her chest is rising in rapid movements, pressing into me with every breath. We’re so close that when she licks her lips, her tongue accidentally touches my lower lip. It’s been many-many years since anyone did that. Many years. Besides that one kiss on the bridge…

My mouth falls open slightly, and she launches for it. Her lips cover mine, and her tongue darts inside my mouth without giving me half a second to think. Her tongue is hot. It touches mine but not timidly, no. It touches the same way she fights—angrily, passionately, and with no restraint.

One of my hands is still holding her hand between us, and I drop it. Instead, I let it snake to her back, pressing her small body into mine. This ridiculous coat is in the way, so I get rid of it in a second without breaking the kiss.

The sensation is too strong. The reaction of my body is unpredictable. It’s taut with anticipation and desire. My dick is hard in an instant, forgetting all the problems we’ve been having. My hands are shaking as I grab her ass and lift her up, encouraging her to wrap her legs around me.

And she does just that. Her strong thighs squeeze my torso while her fingers dig into my neck with the faintest feeling of pain. Her tongue is ruthless. It takes no prisoners as she explores my mouth. To be honest, I’m so out of the game, I’m embarrassed. I don’t remember how to kiss. I don’t remember how to do it right for her, but I want to hear her mew with desire. But judging by her grinding her pussy over my stomach, she’s getting what she wants anyway.

When she bites my lower lip, all common sense leaves my head, and all the blood officially rushes south. I angle my face to kiss her deeper and follow the feeling. She lets out a low moan and arches her body into mine. I squeeze her ass and start moving her over my hard dick, and even through my pants, I feel how hot she is. As I squeeze her harder, she lets her head fall back. Her mouth is slightly ajar, her cheeks are dark pink, her breathing shallow. Her fingers move from my neck and dig into my shoulders, using them for leverage.

She’s constantly licking her lips, and every time her little tongue plays peekaboo, my cock gets harder. When her fingers squeeze my shoulders tighter, I know it’s time. I bring my mouth to her neck and bite it while increasing the tempo.

And she comes apart. I watch her teeth sinking into her lower lip, silencing the moan that was about to escape. It’s enough for me.

And I reach the finish line, jerking my hips while moving her over myself.

Her head falls on my shoulder, and a sense of dread descends upon me.

I just fuckin’ humped Alex’s sister. My brother from the service. We don’t fuckin’ do that. I humped Kenneth’s sister, the one man who seems to get me. I humped the woman who’s been haunting me since the moment she found me on that fuckin’ bridge. The same person whose light draws me like a damn moth. What the fuck did I do?

I slowly let her down to the floor. Her legs are still shaky, so I hold her elbow until she’s stable again. She regains her composure, completely avoiding my eyes. Good—we’re on the same page. It’s easier this way.

“That should have never happened.”

“Tell me about it,” she mumbles under her breath, clearly not intending for me to hear. “Like I need another problem right now.”

That nips at me. “What other problems do you have?” I didn’t mean to sound like a total ass, but it came out that way anyway. I genuinely want to know what bothers her so much, and besides that, I still remember the text she received at dinner and the worry that came over her face. But of course, around her, my ability to speak normally evaporates, and I come out sounding like a complete tool.

Sending me a stink eye, she goes to the sink to wash her hands. Making a dramatic show out of it, she silently shakes her hands and goes to dry them with the towel. It all takes a good two minutes, and I nearly laugh. Which, of course, would probably earn me another beating with the pan.

Trying to shift her attention to something other than hating me, I decide to go with a safer choice. “I’m gonna go get your stuff from the car. What do you need from there?”

She finally meets my eyes, instantly forgetting. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I point at the window, “it’s going to snow your car in soon, and I wouldn’t be able to get anything out of it.”

“Oh.” Her mouth forms an O, and my eyes instantly dart to it.

Fuck it.

“My duffel bag, please.”

“Alright.” I nod. “Wait here.”

“It’s not like I can go anywhere.”

Another grumpy mumble makes me almost smile. Almost.

“That you can’t,” I say with a sigh, and she shoots me an angry glare.

Barely containing laughter, I put my warmer jacket and snow glasses on.

Outside, I take a deep, cleansing breath and look up at the sky. The storm won’t be stopping anytime soon. And I mean a couple days, for sure. Down the road, off the mountain, it’s not as severe, but here it can get bad, and no one will be cleaning the roads until it’s done. I had a plow come here yesterday to clear everything before I came back, but he’s not coming again until the main road is clean.

And that’s precisely why I’m here. That was my plan—to be alone and snowed in without anyone knowing where I am.

And she ruined everything. Again. I think I’m beginning to understand that that’s my problem with her, besides the obvious issue of blood rushing south every time she’s around.

I hop on the snowmobile and drive to her car which is already covered in a decent layer of white flakes. Seeing the bent passenger side again, my heart starts beating faster, anxiety settling in the pit of my stomach. What if something had happened to her because I kicked her out? Well, I didn’t technically kick her out, but I wasn’t welcoming either, knowing well enough that the roads got bad. It just wasn’t an issue to me—I was never scared to slide off the road in some mountain and never be found. But when I imagine her at the bottom down there, I nearly get a panic attack. Even this little fender-bender could have ended up badly with her getting serious injuries. And how would I get her to the hospital? On a snowmobile all the way down there? I’d get a chopper, perhaps. But I’d need to drive to where reception is stronger, meaning I’d have to leave her alone. What if she got worse during this time? What if she needed my help and I wasn’t there? What if I fell off the road while she was waiting for me here, injured and in pain, and no one would ever know she needed help?

The overwhelming scenarios let my anxiety tightly squeeze my chest, so I get off the snowmobile and bend over, resting my hands on my knees to try to catch my breath. After a few deep inhales, I manage to get a grip on myself and walk to her car. Her duffel bag is pretty full; I assume she probably considered staying here for a few days. Why would such a young and beautiful woman like her want to be stuck alone in a tiny cabin in the woods for the New Year?

I take the keys from her car and secure her duffel bag and her purse on the snowmobile behind me. On the drive back, I wonder what I’m going to say to her and how we are going to survive these next couple of days.

I also wonder how I can sneak inside the bathroom without her seeing the wet spot on my pants, now fucking frozen from the cold. I was so eager to run away that I didn’t even take care of it while I was inside the warm house with a bathroom nearby.

But then it dawns on me…with all this commotion, I chose to ignore the fact that I was able to come without inflicting any level of pain on myself. I was just…there, watching her. And that was enough.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image of her red hair falling behind her back as her mouth opens in pure ecstasy.

I try to erase it because I have no business thinking about her that way. She’s nearly a decade younger. She’s way too pure for me. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s bright and colorful, whereas I’m only one shade of boring gray. She really doesn’t know what kind of freak I am. And she’s wrong saying I am not.

Because I’m the worst of them all.

A loud mew right on cue proves my point. I look into the woods and replace Midnight sitting by a bush and looking at me, his eyes accusing. His head tilts a little before he gets up, turns away, and walks back into the woods, angrily flicking his tail on his way. Great, somehow I managed to offend the cat too.