Lead Me Not Page 5

  Because choice had been taken from me a long time ago, and there was no place for guilt in the world I lived in.

  I had walked into the room on Tuesday evening, expecting it to be the fucking mockery that it was.

  What I hadn’t been expecting was to see a girl with long blond hair and eyes that had the power to cut through me like a knife. She had knocked me sideways, leaving me scrambling to find my footing.

  I was drawn to her. I couldn’t help it. Some things were impossible to ignore—and the way my dick twitched in my pants as I stared at her long legs was one of them.

  I laid it on thick. I knew how to say and do what was necessary to get what I wanted.

  Except I got the distinct impression she wasn’t buying what I was selling. And I wasn’t sure what the hell I was supposed to do with that. It messed with my head, and it pissed me off.

  But it also made me determined.

  And whether she realized it or not, her dismissal was all the motivation I needed.

  So I watched her watching me, and I figured that maybe this support group thing wouldn’t be half bad.

  chapter

  five

  aubrey

  “are you going to answer that?” Brooks asked from my couch, where he was doing a damned good impersonation of a deadbeat beer guzzler.

  My phone vibrated on an endless loop as it danced across my coffee table. We were three hours into our weekly cram session. I was trying to study for my Developmental Psychology quiz, while Brooks made a good show of writing his paper for Behavioral Genetics.

  Brooks and I were both pretty intense when it came to our course work, though perhaps at times I put a little more emphasis on the work part than Brooks did.

  I had barely registered the fact that my phone had been going off for the past ten minutes. Brooks leaned across the coffee table and snapped his fingers an inch from my nose.

  I scowled and batted his hand away. “Stop it!” I grumbled, flipping the page in my textbook, already immersed in language acquisition in children. Riveting stuff.

  “Pick it up or turn it off, Aubrey, before I chuck it out the window,” Brooks threatened. I gave him an amused smirk, knowing the sound of his bark all too well. Brooks looked fried. His hair stood on end, and his eyes gave him more than a little bit of a harried look.

  “Okay, okay. Settle down, boy,” I teased, grabbing my phone just before it fell onto the floor.

  “Hello?” I said, without bothering to check the caller ID. Stupid Aubrey! I should have known by now to always check the caller ID.

  “Bre. Finally! I’ve been trying to call you for over an hour!” my mother chastised into the phone. I instantly cringed. Not only at the sound of my mother’s disapproving voice but at her insistence in using that nickname.

  It was a nickname that should have been buried with the person who had given it to me. But my mom continued to use it, and I knew that had everything to do with the pain it inflicted every time it was uttered.

  “Sorry, Mom. My ringer was off. What can I do for you?” I asked, abandoning any semblance of civil small talk and opting for straight to the point.

  I hadn’t spoken to my parents in four months. We had an understanding to leave each other alone, communicating only when necessary.

  I hadn’t returned home to North Carolina in over two years. It had stopped being home for me after Jayme died.

  “That’s ridiculous. What if something had happened? No one would have been able to reach you!” my mother reprimanded, digging that knife just a little deeper. She sounded concerned, but appearances were deceiving.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I repeated. But an apology would never undo the damage of the last three years.

  My mother gave a huff, obviously feeling righteous in her indignation. My mother wore martyrdom well. She was the self-sacrificing matriarch of an ungrateful family.

  The whole thing made me sick.

  “You need to come home,” my mother said without further preamble.

  My chest squeezed, and I clenched the phone so tightly in my hand that I started to cut off circulation to my fingers.

  I stayed quiet, not trusting myself to speak. I breathed in deeply through my nose. I didn’t dare look at Brooks, who I knew was watching me curiously. He had no idea of the emotional land mine I had walked into just by answering the phone. He wasn’t privy to the side of my life that I worked hard to hide from.

  “Bre! Did you hear me? This is important. I wouldn’t bother calling otherwise,” she said harshly, cutting me open with the truth of her words.

  “Why?” I finally asked, clearing my throat around the huge lump that had formed there.

  My mother’s annoyed snort was loud in my ear. “Are you serious? Do I really need to remind you of what next weekend is?” she declared hatefully.

  The lump dissolved around the flood of my anger. Fuck, no, I hadn’t forgotten! Forgetting would never be an option for me. She wasn’t the only person who had lost Jayme. But my parents acted as though they alone grieved the loss of the fifteen-year-old girl who had disappeared from our lives too soon.

  “No, Mom. I didn’t forget,” I replied through gritted teeth. I wanted to yell and rage at her cold disregard for my feelings. But Aubrey Duncan was a master at containing emotion. I had to be. It was the only way I got by.

  “The local teen center is doing a memorial in Jayme Marie’s memory, and they want us there. Your father is planning to say something. The newspaper will be there, as well as a local TV crew. The entire family should be present for it.” My mom’s words were final, not allowing any argument.

  I was expected to obey, no questions asked.

  But I wouldn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  As much as a part of me wanted to repair the gaping hole in my family, I couldn’t return to Marshall Creek. I couldn’t go back to the two-story brick house where I had grown up. I couldn’t walk past the closed door that would never open again.

  No way.

  “I can’t make it,” I said quietly, already bracing myself for the fallout.

  “You can’t make it?” my mother asked angrily.

  I shook my head, even though my mother couldn’t see me.

  “You’re telling me that you won’t come home for a memorial in memory of your baby sister? You can’t take a couple of days out of your life to honor your sister? You of all people should understand how important this is! You owe this to her!” My mother’s voice cracked as it rose to a shrill screech.

  I closed my eyes and tried not to let the hatred overtake me. Hatred for my mother, who would never allow me to forget how I had failed Jayme. Hatred for the drugs that had taken my sister before her time. Hatred for the fucking asshole who had given them to her.

  And most of all, hatred for myself.

  That hatred was a ferocious thing that smoldered in my belly. It was always there. It never went away. And my mother knew just how to stoke it into a full-blown forest fire.

  “I have to go, Mom,” I said, not bothering to try to explain myself to her, to tell her that returning to Marshall Creek was like ripping a bandage off a wound that was only now starting to heal. There was no point. My mother wouldn’t have listened.

  And maybe I was being selfish. Maybe I should make myself go home. But I just knew it would never accomplish what I would want it to. I wouldn’t be able to go there and honor Jayme the way she deserved. Because that memorial was about my parents and their refusal to let go, not the reality of the person my sister had been.

  “I can’t believe how selfish you are, Bre,” my mother spat out. The mechanical click indicated she had ended the call.

  I dropped the phone back on the coffee table and gathered up my textbooks and notes, shoving them into my backpack.

  “What was that about, Aubrey?” Brooks asked, concerned.

  “Nothing,” I replied shortly, grabbing handfuls of pencils and highlighters and throwing them into the bag.

  Brooks’s hand gri
pped my wrist, stilling me. “That didn’t seem like nothing. You look like you’re about to go throw yourself off a bridge. What the fuck was that about?” he asked firmly.

  I gave a humorless laugh. “Sheesh, Brooks, let’s hope I never need you to talk me off a ledge. Your suicidal de-escalation techniques suck.”

  I slung my backpack up on my shoulder and grabbed my keys.

  “And you’re seriously evading. You’re going to be a counselor, Aubrey. You know how important it is to talk about stuff and not bottle it up. That’s what leads someone to take an Uzi into a McDonald’s. Friends don’t let friends become mass shooters,” Brooks remarked drolly.

  I rolled my eyes. “Why don’t you try out the free psychotherapy on someone who needs it,” I barked, trying really hard not to take my frustrated bitterness out on him. But he was there, and my hostility was about to go thermonuclear.

  “Okay, so a heart-to-heart is out of the question. Just tell me where the hell you’re going. You’re freaking me out a little here,” Brooks said.

  I leaned down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Stop being such a worrywart. I’m fine. I just forgot that I need to grab a book from the library for my Social Psychology paper that’s due in a few weeks. I’ll only be an hour or so. You can hang if you want. Renee won’t be back until later,” I told him, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.

  I just needed to get out of there. I needed to walk, clear my head. My mother’s accusations bounced around in my mind and threatened to pry the lid off my carefully contained memories.

  I had to move. I had to keep busy. My equilibrium demanded it. And sitting and studying with Brooks wouldn’t cut it. I required a change of scenery. I had developed carefully constructed coping mechanisms over the years for combating the nastiness that swirled in my head.

  “Fine, whatever,” Brooks said, grabbing his stuff. I knew he was pissed at me. This wasn’t the first time he had tried to climb over my wall. It had been a frequent source of conflict when we were dating. He just didn’t understand that no one could get over that massive barrier I had created. He needed to stop trying.

  “I’ll call you later. Maybe we can grab some dinner,” I suggested, offering the only olive branch I could give him. I didn’t want him to be upset with me. He was one of my best friends, one of my only friends, and even though I couldn’t let him in the way he wanted, he was still important to me. And I needed him to know that.

  Brooks stiffened, and he turned away from me. “I’ll probably be busy,” he answered brusquely, heading for the door.

  I grabbed his hand before he could leave my apartment. “Brooks, I am who I am. You know that. Don’t get angry because I can’t be the person you want me to be,” I pleaded tiredly.

  His shoulders drooped, and he covered my hand with his and gave me a squeeze before leaving.

  The emotional exhaustion threatened to undo me. So without another thought to Brooks or my mother, I hurried out of my building and onto the sidewalk. The routine movements of walking the familiar path toward campus did exactly what I needed them to do. I felt the tangled knots loosen and the aching in my heart lessen.

  I went to the library, found the book I needed. I purposefully fit all my displaced pieces back to where they were supposed to be. I went into the bathroom and smoothed my hair and fixed my makeup.

  Leaving the library, I cut across campus toward the commons. I noticed a couple of guys with buckets of white paint by the wall with the graffiti. I slowed my steps and watched as they took giant rollers and started covering the vibrant colors, drowning them with muting neutrality.

  I walked closer, feeling sort of sad to see the Compulsion picture disappear. I stopped and stared at the men as they slowly and systematically erased all signs that the artwork had ever been there.

  “Hey, Maxx! Where are those drop cloths? I’m getting paint everywhere,” one of the guys called out.

  I froze. Maxx? What were the chances?

  One of the painters turned to the speaker, and I could see clearly that it was indeed Maxx Demelo. And just because my day couldn’t get any worse, I noticed the pile of cloth by my feet.

  I thought seriously about running, because that couldn’t be any more embarrassing than getting caught standing there staring at him like a moron.

  Come on, feet, move!

  But some masochistic part of me seemed to enjoy the sense of impending mortification.

  Maxx turned around and started to walk in my direction. It was obvious he hadn’t noticed me yet. I still had a chance to get away if I wanted to.

  But I didn’t. Because I sucked like that.

  He was dressed in worn jeans and an old gray Longwood University sweatshirt. His blond hair was sweaty and matted to the sides of his face. He had white paint smeared across his forehead.

  He looked gorgeous, and he walked like he knew it.

  His arrogance was obvious in his every movement, and it annoyed me. I hated his confidence. I hated that he clearly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought. I hated that he seemed to possess every characteristic that I wished for myself.

  And then he looked up and met my eyes. His lips quirked up into a self-satisfied grin as though my being there fit into some great plan of his.

  “Hi, Aubrey,” he said, stooping down to pick up the pile of drop cloths.

  I thought about ignoring him. But that would be rude. And he was in the support group I was co-facilitating. I was supposed to create rapport—which was difficult when he seemed to bring out this primal instinct to scream at him.

  “Hi,” I replied shortly. The wind whipped my hair into my face, and I spit strands out of my mouth. Awesome. Way to look cool and collected, Aubrey!

  Maxx cocked an eyebrow and regarded me steadily. He didn’t say anything. And neither did I. I started to feel uncomfortable under the weight of his scrutiny. Again I was bothered by a niggling sense of déjà vu. I felt like I should know him, though from where, I had no idea.

  Maxx’s lips were curved in a teasing smile, as though my discomfort amused him. And still he said nothing. He acted as though he had all the time in the world to stand there and make me feel awkward.

  Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. “So you’re painting the wall, huh?” I asked. Just call me Captain Obvious.

  Maxx looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, it’s part of my community service,” he said dismissively.

  “Community service?” I asked dumbly. Maxx moved to stand next to me. He pulled out a cigarette and put it between his lips. I tried not to stare as he took a drag and blew out the lungful of smoke.

  I hated smoking. I thought it was a disgusting habit. So why did I find it sexy to see Max curl his lips around the end of the cigarette? Ugh!

  Maxx flicked ash on the ground and then unleashed a weapon most women would have a hard time resisting.

  He smiled.

  A full-mouthed curve of his lips lit up his face and made his eyes sparkle. I think I may have forgotten to breathe.

  Because damn, he was dazzling.

  “You know, being ordered by the court to pick up other people’s shit, paint walls, and otherwise make the world a better place,” he replied dryly, giving me a wink.

  “Well, it’s good to know you’re taking it seriously,” I remarked, watching him as he took another drag from his cigarette before dropping it on the ground and stomping it out.

  Maxx shrugged. “It’s just I can think of a lot of other things I’d rather be doing,” he said.

  Was I supposed to find a hidden meaning in his seemingly innocent statement? And why was I second-guessing every nuance in our conversation? It wasn’t like me to be so unsure.

  “Really,” I muttered dryly.

  Maxx chuckled and then sobered, his eyes heated and smoldering.

  “Definitely,” he said quietly, raising an eyebrow, a smirk dancing across his lips.

  He looked at me in a way that was both warm and intense, the kind of look that stripped you to the bone
and left you shivering.

  His eyes were piercing in their directness, and I knew he wasn’t fooled by my attempts at sarcasm and nonchalance. My uncomfortable attraction to him, which had begun only a few days before, practically oozed from my pores. It was mortifying.

  And I knew I needed to shut this down—for both our sakes. It wasn’t appropriate. And he was making me feel . . . disconcerted.

  “Well, I think the group is going to be really helpful. I’m sure you’ll get a lot out of it,” I said lamely, hoping he got the point. It seemed extremely important to remind us both of who I was and what my role was in his life. I needed to reinforce where I belonged. I was a counselor in training, someone whose role was to guide him on a difficult journey.

  Nothing more.

  Maxx gave me a look that was hard to decipher. “I hope you’re right,” he said, running a dirty hand across his face, leaving a smudge along the bridge of his nose.

  I had to clench my hand into a fist in order to resist the urge to wipe the smudge away. And I knew there was more than my OCD at work here.

  His words unsettled me. Was I perceiving a subtext that wasn’t there? Or was he purposefully communicating something that I had yet to figure out?

  My guess was the latter.

  He suddenly dropped his eyes, and I was surprised by the vulnerability that danced across his face.

  “I really hope you’re right,” he said softly, and I didn’t know whether the comment was for him or for me.

  I tilted my head at him, looking at him closely. He seemed lost in thought, and I wondered what had him so consumed.

  I couldn’t help but be curious about him. He made it impossible not to be. He was obviously a complicated man with a complicated past. I was simultaneously intrigued and annoyed that I was intrigued.

  There was a definite line I shouldn’t cross. So why after meeting this man once was that boundary so hard for me to remember?

  Maxx frowned and opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he looked at me, and I watched as his face smoothed over and any sign of openness was lost.