If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(37)

I laugh and follow her as she walks from the studio. My eyes are once again focused on her perfect ass.

“Obviously,” I tell her. “You’ve shown that you can’t be trusted to think clearly in these situations.”

She turns and rolls her eyes. “Oh, yes. That was entirely my fault.”

I chuckle. “You were the one who suggested that I paint,” I remind her and she laughs. I decide that her laughter is my new favorite sound in the world.

“True,” she acknowledges. “But that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” She glances at me impishly. “It was better.”

********

After we both shower, I have to admit to Mila that I had forgotten to bring the Chinese food.

“I’m sorry, “I tell her with a grin. “I can’t be trusted to think about more than one thing at once. And I was focusing on being on time.”

She smiles and reaches for the phone.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. “I’ve got them on speed-dial.”

After the food arrives, I show her how to use chop-sticks and laugh at her attempts. She ends up eating with a fork, her lip puffed out in a pout.

“I’ll master that,” she vows. “Someday.”

I smile and we eat and then she talks me into watching a chick flick. I honestly have no idea how that happened, except that I am coming to realize that it exceptionally hard to say no to her.

The movie doesn’t end until far past midnight and we are cuddled together on the couch, warm and comfortable.

“I don’t want to get up,” she tells me as the credits roll. “I want to stay right here, with you. Can we sleep like this tonight?”

Her eyes are wide, as though she’s asking me for the biggest favor in the world. My arms are around her and she is settled against my chest, her slender back draped against me. I smile down at her.

“Go to sleep, Red. I’ll be right here in the morning.”

She smiles and closes her eyes, nestling against me. I fall asleep, more contented that I’ve been in my entire life.

And then I dream.

Once again, I dream about my mother and even in my dream, I am wondering what the f*ck is up with this. I deliberately don’t think about my mom—because it’s just too painful. But here I am dreaming about her again-and I can’t force myself to wake.

I am somewhere dark. And I’m afraid. I don’t know why and I can’t see anything, but I can hear my mom’s voice. She’s begging. And I hear my name.

I try to open my eyes, to wake myself, to end the sound of her voice, but I can’t. And deep down, I feel a sense of intense horror, although I don’t know why.

“Not him!” she cries out and I know it is her voice because I’ll never forget the sound of it. “Not him!”

And then I see her arms, stretching out, reaching for me and I am clutched to her even though I can’t see anything. Everything is black and I am more frightened than I have ever been in my life. I am crying and she is crying and suddenly her arms are Mila’s.

I look up and I can see again. Mila is covered in light, in a thousand glistening sunbeams. And she’s smiling at me.

“Pax,” she whispers. “I’m here. It’s alright. Everything is going to be alright.”

And then my eyes are open and I’m awake and I find that Mila is really here and she is really whispering those words to me.

“It’s okay,” she croons to me, stroking the hair away from my forehead. I realize that I am drenched in sweat. “Everything is okay.”

I look at her, at the tenderness on her face and my gut clenches. I just dreamed that my mother turned into Mila. I’m seriously f*cked up.

“Babe,” I tell her when I can finally speak, when my gut unclenches enough to allow me to form the words. “I think I’ll take the name of your therapist now.”





[page]Chapter Thirteen


Pax



I lie awake, staring at Mila’s painting of me. She finished it a couple days after she started it and I had brought it to my house and hung it next to my bed. It’s amazing, but it’s a bit too personal to hang in the living room. Even though it’s an abstract, you can still tell that I’m naked.

The bronzes and golds of my body are contoured into curved muscles, tightly coiled. My tats are blurs of color, more conceptual than real. My eyes are closed and my head is bowed as though I’m thinking. It’s incredible and I’m touched as hell that she actually finished it for me. Nobody has ever done something like that for me before.

I study it, wondering what the Painted Me is thinking.

The Real Me is thinking that I’m f*cking hungry.

I swing my legs out of bed and make my way to the kitchen to grab a slice of cold pizza for breakfast. Mila and I had ordered it last night after our third “official” date. This time, we had watched a movie here at my place, and this time, the movie was my choice. It was no chick flick. It was completely made up of gunfire and gore. A man’s movie. Mila watched it like a trooper, thumping her chest and pretending to scratch her imaginary balls.

I am chuckling at the memory when my phone rings. My mouth is full of pizza, but I answer it anyway because I see Mila’s name.

“Hey,” she says and she sounds a bit breathless. I immediately imagine her breathing like that into my ear with her legs wrapped around my hips. And just like that, I’m hard as hell.