Driven By Fate(34)

“This isn’t over.” He kept his face impassive as she spun on him, tears making her eyes shine. No turning back now. “I made a mistake. I think I wanted to show you my worst and have you choose me anyway.” His chest burned a little less as the realization left him. “The f*cked up part is, you did. You didn’t answer the phone call. I wish I’d done the same.”

Her shoulders lifted in an uneven shrug. “It’s too late.”

“I won’t let it be.” He let his determination show. “I wasn’t prepared for you to accept this, to love it. And you did. Fuck me, you did.” He closed half the distance separating them. “If I’d gone about this the right way, your hips would be slamming against that leather rest right about now. You’d be f*cking transcendent, Francesca. You’d be killing me. And I’d be welcoming it.” He managed to stay in place even though her still-present anger had been tempered with arousal, brought forth by his frankness. If he went closer, pushed her against the door now, there was every chance she’d relent and allow him the pissed-off, messy sex they both needed. But it wouldn’t be right. She needed time and he had no choice but to give it, damn his impatience. “Expect me very soon, Francesca.”

The slam of the door was her only response.





Chapter Twelve


Frankie skidded on the asphalt in her rollerblades, kicking gravel onto the sidewalk. The hockey stick in her hands felt heavier than usual, the helmet making her neck sore under the strain to keep her head upright. Sleep, she just wanted to sleep, but she’d always played street hockey with the neighborhood guys on Sundays, a tradition they’d had since middle school. They didn’t care if she’d driven a double shift yesterday. And the day before. If she bailed, they would only call her a wuss, tell her she’d gone soft since starting school full time. As overwhelmed and exhausted as she was just then, she didn’t think she could take even some good-natured ribbing.

It had been three days since she’d walked out on Porter. No, not walked out. She’d run, put her head down and barreled out of Serve like it was on fire. If she stopped to think—or hell, sleep—she would have to acknowledge what she’d felt in that room. Before he’d purposefully hurt her or made her feel foolish. Before he’d nearly broken her with his hoarse confessions. She’d have to admit how sexually freeing it had been to be the focus of such lust, even if the scene hadn’t really been happening. This girl, the one in the hockey mask and an oversized jersey, was how people knew her. She hunkered down behind the wheel of her cab in a baseball cap and never expressed her femininity. To be thrust into the spotlight and encouraged not only to express that, but also have Porter celebrate it in his own rough way…the situation had been eye opening before it blew up in her face.

Nothing excused what he did, though, and the more time that passed without him showing up as promised, the angrier she became—at him, herself, and these new cravings that he’d sent roaring to the surface. Someone who valued their pride as much as she did shouldn’t be scoping street corners looking for him or checking her cell phone for missed calls. He didn’t deserve her time or thoughts. Yet he consumed them.

“Hey De Luca, you awake over there?” Her neighbor from across the street, Greg, broke into her thoughts with his familiar, nasal drone. “Cartwright has more game than you today. You on your period or somethin’?”

“De Luca don’t get a period,” Cartwright joked.

The eight twenty-something guys surrounding her broke into laughter. She flashed them all the middle finger. No way would she let them know how much that hurt. Especially coming from Cartwright, who’d been her first kiss. A sloppy first kiss, truth be told, but still. “If I don’t get a period, how come you’re always asking to borrow tampons, Cartwright?”

Their howling increased and it was her turn to receive the one-finger salute. This was her normal, the life into which she’d woven her orphaned ass as seamlessly as possible. Why did she suddenly feel like a frayed edge?

Needing a distraction, she slapped the puck toward Greg and the game resumed. Her heart wasn’t in it, though. She didn’t feel the usual need to prove herself, prove she had a right to be there, that she was one of the guys.

A newcomer from two blocks over sailed the puck in her direction and she lined up for a shot. Just as she reared back with her stick to take aim, a hard elbow rammed her from behind, sending her down onto her knees. The puck went skidding behind the net to a round of boos directed at Cartwright as he skated off, stick resting across his shoulders. It had been a cheap shot, but nothing new. The guys were consistently physical with each other and they made no exceptions for her. They’d started off treating her differently all those years ago, but after she’d delivered a few bruises of her own, they’d knocked off the kid-gloves treatment.

Ignoring her protesting knees—which would definitely need peroxide and Band-Aids—Frankie gained her footing and rejoined the game—

Just in time to watch Cartwright run smack into a brick wall and bounce off, flat onto his back.

No, not a brick wall. Porter. He stood in the middle of their game, black trench coat flapping in the wind. Such an odd detail to notice, but no other part of his forbidding figure moved. His eyes were turbulent. Violent. They were fixed on Cartwright who, showing a lick of sense for once, backed away in an awkward crab walk. One by one, each of the guys slowed on their skates, watching Porter cautiously. Frankie stared at them in disbelief. These childhood friends who never backed down from a fight looked…nervous. Terrified, even.