Taming Lily (The Fowler Sisters #3)(39)

“Sixteen.” Her voice softens and I take a step closer to hear her better. “I did it to make my dad mad.”

“Did it work?”

“Oh, yeah He was furious. Grounded me and everything, though that didn’t work. I still snuck out and saw my friends.” Her cheeks color the slightest bit, and I’m surprised that I made her blush. “It was stupid. And the piercing hurt like crazy. Got infected because I didn’t take care of it at first, I was so ignorant about the entire process. Just … a really dumb move on my part.”

“Typical teenage rebellion, more like.” I pause. “Yet you kept it.”

“I like it.” She shrugs. “It’s fun to find pretty stones to wear, change them out.”

“I like it, too.” I smile. “I think it’s sexy.” Nothing I like better than teasing the dangling stones with my tongue, feeling her belly quiver when I do.

Her cheeks turn even pinker. Probably remembering how much I like to play with it. “Okay, your turn.”

“My turn?” I press a hand to my chest.

“Well, yeah. I just shared a little piece of me, so now you need to share a little piece of you.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask warily. All I asked about was her belly ring and it turned personal in a snap. Whatever she’s going to ask me has the potential to do the same. And I don’t like it.

“Your tattoo.” She reaches out and touches my arm, drifting her fingers across my biceps. “When did you get it?”

“After I came back from Afghanistan.” I take a deep breath and my lungs seize up, just like they always do when I talk about the time I served over there.

I’ve been told by enough therapists and caring family members over the years to know it’s not good to keep all the memories locked inside, but … who the hell wants to talk about death and destruction? About an unnecessary war and the killing of innocent people? Of soldiers and strong men and women who were fighting for their country?

And how I blame myself for so many of my friends’ deaths? Fuck, that’s not fun. It’s miserable. Depressing. “It’s so I never forget the friends I lost over there,” I admit, noting the slight tremor in my voice. I wonder if she noticed.

I hope she didn’t.

“Oh.” Her eyes grow sad and she touches me again, her fingers caressing my forearm. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life.” My words sound flippant, meaningless, even to my own ears, and I immediately regret them. “We should probably get going and hike back to the Jeep. It’s getting late.”

“Yeah. Okay.” She nods, her hand falling away from my arm, and I miss her touch. “Let’s go.”

She follows me back up the trail, never complaining once, though the hike is steep and the ground uneven. She doesn’t say a word, either, and after a while, her silence is unnerving. I wonder what’s going through her head. I wonder if she regrets being with me.

I also wonder why the hell I’m thinking like this when I know what I’m doing with Lily isn’t right. I should say something extra shitty to push her away. Make her regret ever meeting me.

But I don’t. I can’t make myself do it, no matter how much I know I should.

“So, where are you from?” I ask out of the blue, making her pause. I know this because I don’t hear her footsteps against the gravelly trail any longer, and I turn around to find her watching me, her mouth gaping open. “What’s wrong?” She probably didn’t like my question, but tough shit. I want to see just how forthcoming she’ll be with me.

“I—” She shakes her head, flashing me a fake smile. “Did you say something?”

“Yeah, I asked where you’re from.” I wait, anxious for the lie I’m sure is coming. No way is she going to be honest with me now. It’s like I want her to lie, just to prove to myself that I shouldn’t feel guilty for what I’m doing. I’m lying? I’m tricking her? Well, guess what, she’s doing the same thing.

“New York.” Her smile fades. “Born and bred.”

Guess she’s going for the truth. And now I feel even more like shit. “Tough city girl,” I tease, and she shakes her head, waving a hand as she starts walking again. I fall into step beside her. “Not quite sure what you see in a simple guy like me.”

“Please. You are the farthest thing from simple,” she says, incredulity in her tone. “And I wouldn’t call myself a tough city girl. More like a spoiled-rotten city girl.”

“You don’t act spoiled rotten,” I tell her, earning a surprised look. “I’m serious. You’re pretty easygoing.” I haven’t seen one sign of the spoiled, rich, horrible brat that the media portrays her as. Makes me think they’ve got it all wrong.

“Yeah, well, I am. At least, according to my family and … everyone else who knows me,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“Like your mom and dad? Wouldn’t it be their fault, if they consider you spoiled?” I ask casually, already knowing her background. Curious to see how she answers.

“My mom died when I was little.” She doesn’t so much as look at me when she says that, keeping her head bent, her eyes on the ground.

“I’m sorry.” Now it’s my turn to feel as awkward as she probably did when I told her about my tattoo.