Love Turns With Twisted Fates (Truth About Love Book 2) Page 3
“Yeah, what was that about?” He doesn’t answer, but snickers instead. When we’re at my car, I notice he’s at the driver’s side with me. I turn to face him and my breath is robbed from my lungs and I gasp.
His eyes are smoldering even under the yellow glow of the parking lot lights. There’s an intensity there that catches me off guard. He doesn’t let me wonder for long. “Hey, Izzy,” I love the way my name rolls of his tongue, “can I kiss you?”
“I, uh…” stumbling over my words, I relent with a nod. No use fighting something I want.
He doesn’t hesitate. His right hand reaches up for the back of my neck with a light grip, his other circles around my waist, drawing me closer. He leans the rest of the way down to reach my mouth with his. With a squeeze of his hand at my neck, he closes the distance between our lips and robs me of all common sense as he gently parts them. He keeps it soft and swoon worthy with every plunge of his tongue, swirling it in a dance with my own. Melting into him, I fist my hands into his t-shirt.
When it’s over, it’s too soon and too late. I need more, but I’m already sunk. I know I said he’d be good for a night or two, but kiss me like that and I’ll beg for forever. Still holding me close, he slips his left hand into the back pocket of my jeans to grab my phone.
Panting, I breathlessly ask him what he’s doing with my phone. The next thing I know his phone is ringing and he’s plugging away at the buttons on both our phones.
“I need to get back before curfew, but I’m gonna call you, okay?”
“Curfew?”
“Big day tomorrow, I go to bed by midnight.” He gives me an impish grin. “I made a promise to my grandfather to take school and all that entails seriously.”
“Wanna ride?” The faux pas is off my tongue and past my lips before I realize what I’ve offered.
“Not tonight, Izzy,” he says with a wink. “Rain check?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say with a sigh. He opens my door for me and I instinctively lower myself in.
“I’ll call you,” he squats down to my eye level. He places a chaste kiss on my lips and they instantly ache for more—now, but he pulls away. “Mmmm,” he hums his approval. “Bella mía.”
My beautiful.
And with that one sentiment, he pushes up and shuts my door. He’s off and gone, before I can wrap my head around what he’s said, done. Leaving me breathless and flummoxed, I aimlessly start my car. It’s only when I’m on the freeway headed away from the campus that I realize instead of going back to the library, I went on autopilot and headed home.
As I pull onto my street, my phone rings and I send it to voicemail. The beep on my phone says whomever it was left a voice message. It’s probably Mazzy, wondering how my research was coming. In a few moments, I’ve pulled into my driveway and I’m gathering my bag from the back and my phone off the passenger seat. I press the voicemail button to listen to the new message.
“Hey, Izzy,” it’s Diego. “Thanks for the first date. Can’t wait to take you out on our second.” I have to give it to him. He sure knows how to make me laugh. My phone starts ringing before I can finish listening to his message. I’ve unlocked the door and am dropping my bags in the entryway, when I look to see that it’s Diego calling…again.
“Hello?” my voice full of confusion and disbelief. Isn’t there some etiquette about waiting a period of time before calling?
“Are you at the library?” sounding completely at ease and not at all concerned with etiquette.
“Actually,” sounding less nervous and more embarrassed, “there was this guy and a kiss.” Getting more flustered with my confession, I stumble over my words, “I, uh, was headed home before I remembered where I was supposed to go.”
And he laughs.
Oh hell. That laugh that makes my insides turn to mush is going to be the death of my resolve where men being even a small part of my life are concerned. “Must’ve been some guy, some kiss.”
I make my way down the stairs to the indoor/outdoor den. Wanting to feel the coolness of the air off the Pacific Ocean, I open the sliding wall and grab a throw from the stack on the ottoman. I curl up on the chaise lounge facing the ocean, tucked beneath the blanket with my phone pressed to my ear.
“You could say that,” I laugh lightly. “You’re not going to ask me about the guy or the kiss?”
“Both sound pretty amazing if they distracted you.”
“Uh, huh. Pretty proud of yourself aren’t you?”
“I’ve got skills, Izzy. You’ll see…” he trails off. “That was nothing.”
It’s so much easier to be bold when distance spans between us. “What makes you think I want to see your skills?” I taunt.
I should’ve expected what came next. “I believe the better question is: Who wouldn’t want to see my skills?” I let out an exasperated laugh, finishing with a hum snuggling tighter with my blanket. “I like that sound coming from you. What are you doing?”
“I’m curled up on a lounge with a blanket looking at the reflection of the moon on the ocean.” A comfortable quietude follows as the tide rises, perceptibly reaching for the moon. After some time, I look to my phone to see if we were still connected. I break the silence with his name, “Diego?”
“Hmmm?” he hums in question.
“What are you doing?”
Instead of answering my question, he asks me about following school sports. I explain that while I enjoy some professional sports, I was never one to follow. “My dad was a die-hard Raiders fan, especially when they were in Los Angeles, but our thing was always music.”
“Izzy, that’s the second time you talked about your parents in the past tense tonight.” Perceptive, isn’t he?
With a sigh, I give him the short of it: a few years ago, my parents died in an accident. No need to sullen the mood with the details. I also left out the part where, because of their deaths, I decided that life was too volatile to fall in love. “But let’s not talk about that, I’m not ready to chase you off yet.”
His laugh isn’t quite as hearty as I’ve grown accustomed to hearing. “Ohhhh,” he draws out the word. “Izzy, bella, you underestimate my tenacity to obtain what I want.”
“I haven’t decided if I want you yet,” the squeak in my voice betraying my lie. “Let’s play a game of twenty questions and I’ll decide at the end.”
“I’m game, but be prepared…I’ve got a dirty mind and I’m not afraid to speak it,” he teases.
He can’t see it, but I roll my eyes anyway. “How old are you?” Might as well start with the questions he didn’t answer earlier.
“I’ll be nineteen in a little over a month,” he answers with unexpected ease. “How ol—”
“Why didn’t you answer that question earlier?” I interrupt.
“Is that your second question, Izzy?” A million more questions race through my mind. He’s young.
Shit!
I grunt in frustration, “No.”
“How old are you, Izzy?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Okay.” The curiosity getting the better of me. “That is my second question. Why didn’t you answer with your age earlier?”
“Ha ha. Izzy, I’m not old enough to legally drink. That’s not exactly a selling point. While it doesn’t bother me that you’re older, I certainly wasn’t ready to send you running for the hills.”
I snort. “And now you can be honest, because?” I draw out the last word and form it as a question.
“What was it you said earlier?” He pauses. I’m sure it’s more for dramatic effect and less for actually trying to remember. “Oh yeah, ‘There was this guy and a kiss.’ I think it’s safe to say my age won’t be an issue anymore.”
I laugh at his arrogance. “My turn,” he quips. “Do you have something against jocks?”
“Uhh, no. Not necessarily. It’s just been my observation that they’re as badly behaved as rockers.” If my answer creates more questions, he doesn’t ask.
I answer without hesitation, remembering my younger years when Dad tried to get me into soccer. “Easy. It’s soccer. Of all the sports my dad tried to get me into, soccer was the only one that made pulling my fingernails off with pliers sound fun.” On the other end of the line, it sounds like Diego is choking. When he stops, I continue, “My dad tried to take me to a game once. The day before the game, I fractured my wrist boxing. Dad insisted I did it to get out of going to the game.” I chuckle at the memory. “I’m pretty sure I muttered something like, ‘I wish’ and chocked it up to fate working in mysterious ways.”
“You could say that again,” Diego interrupts.
I laughed at his comment. “My dad claimed that if breaking my wrist was fate stepping in, than fate sure was twisted.”
Diego’s laugh is infectious, rumbling through the phone. “You have no idea how true that is, Izzy.”
“My turn,” I taunt. “You said you were here on a scholarship. What sport do you play?”
His laugh is a full roar with just a hint of something else. Unease? “Oh, Izzy…” he says my name like a plea and my mind wanders to what that would sound and feel like tangled in the sheets with him. “You’re so sure I’m a jock.”
“Oh my gawd! You do look in the mirror, right?” I ask, the incredulity in my voice unmistakable. “You’re built like a fucking brick house, you were working out late tonight, and you eat enough to make the average active person fat. Not to mention you said something about curfew and a bid day tomorrow. So yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re a jock.” I pause to consider the possibilities. “If I had to guess, I’d say football or baseball, tight end or short stop.”
“Well, you’re kinda wrong and kinda right.” I wait for him to continue. “I don’t play baseball, I have a tight end and there’s nothing short about me.”
“Ha. So you play football!” I get a little excited that I figured it out.
His nervous chuckle is not lost on me. “Yes and no.”
His answers are confounding. “All right Mr. Vague, spill!” My patience is running thin with his indirect answers.
“Well,” he starts, “I do play football,” saying it with a bit of an accent.
I consider what he’s said when he doesn’t continue right away. Oh no. I realize my slip-up as I connect what he just said to my years of studying Spanish.
“But you know it as soccer,” he puts the nail in my coffin.
“Fuck me,” I say barely audible. It’s all I can muster with my foot in my mouth. I’m not sure how long he lets me suffer in the silence before he breaks it and puts me out of misery.
“Don’t worry, Izzy. You’ll love soccer soon enough,” he really doesn’t sound put off.
“Is that so?” I toss back, slightly annoyed with his presumptuousness. “If my dad couldn’t, what makes you think you can?”
“Bella—”
“Bella?” I interrupt. That’s the third time he’s called me that.
“Bella,” he repeats. “It means beauty, beautiful in Spanish.” He then pronounces my first name as it would be pronounced in Spanish, ee-sa-bay-ya. “Izabella. The fact that beauty is in your name only further proves my point. Your beauty was literally written into your name.”
“You’re good,” I admit with a soft chuckle. “Probably so good, you’re trouble,” mumbling the rest.
“Bella, my skills off the field will have you begging to see my skills on the field and I’m all kinds of trouble.” Letting me know he caught my mumblings. “But something about you tells me you like trouble. Maybe I’m just the trouble you’re looking for.”
“Mmmm,” the sound coming off way more sexy than indifferent.
“After that sound coming from your mouth…” He pauses, probably for dramatic effect and possibly to make me nervous. I assume. I’m definitely a little nervous. “Pleasure or pain?”
I surprise myself with my immediate answer, “Both.”
Diego coughs out a laugh. “You don’t even know what I was talking about. I was wondering what you like most about getting tattooed. I noticed you had a few.”
“Both. Pretty sure that answer will ring true for a lot of things.” He falls silent and I don’t interrupt. Let him think about all the possibilities for ‘both’.
“Oh, Izzy,” I imagine him saying this in another scenario with less clothes and distance between us. I’m not sure, but I think the moan I just heard came from me. His hormone tingling laugh says he heard it, too. “Top or bottom?”
I clear my throat with an, “Excuse me?”
“Top or bottom,” he repeats, “bunk?” he finishes.
“Ah ha. Aren’t you fucking clever?” I wonder if he can hear in my voice that my smile reaches ear to ear. I hear it.
“That’s not an answer,” he chastises me.
I know he’s going to make this sexual, but as answers go, “Top.”
“That’s good ‘cause I’m a bottom guy myself—,” oh here we go. “It’s not that I don’t looooove the top, it’s just I prefer the view from the bottom.” When I’m silent, he chuckles and then continues, “And being on the bottom might seem like a lazy choice for a guy of my size,” I choke, he laughs fully aware of how he’s affecting me. “But I feel like I have more options on the bottom, in some ways more control. The bottom is there to hold the top up, stabilizing the top if necessary. It’s definitely more of a hands-on situation than being on top. Then again, I do like being on top, too.” He hums like he’s trying to think of something. “In fact, I think some of my best performances have been after spending the night on top.”
“Oh hell,” I blurt out as the image of us as a beautiful knot of naked limbs and sweat plays out in my mind.
“What’s wrong, Izzy? You don’t like bunk beds?”
“Oh, I like bunk beds, but I’m not opposed to the floor, the couch, or the beach. Ever have sex on the beach, Diego?”
There’s a cough and a sputter. I think he may have spit out his drink. “Fuck. Whaaa—?”
“The drink, have you had it?” Having regained my wits, I can turn the tables on him.
“I have not had one. I’d be willing to try it with you.”
“Mr. Charming,” I reprimand. “Why if we did that, I’d be breaking the law and furnishing alcohol to a minor,” I say in mock horror.
His laugh is unmistakably filled with amusement and frustration. “And you said I was trouble? Since sex is on the table, or beach. What’s your number?”
“My number?” I can’t hide my confusion. “Umm, you do realize you just called me on the only number I have, right?”
His chuckle is cute and teasing. “Not exactly the number I was talking about.”
The wheels are turning in my head, but fuck if I can think of a numbe—ohhhh. “Wow. Guess we really are going to test whether or not we want a second date.”
“Oh, we want a second date,” Diego tells me as if it’s the plain and simple truth. “And while I don’t doubt that given your fucking hotness your number could be high, I seriously doubt it could be high enough to send me away. Then again…” his voice fades with a light-hearted laugh.
I never answer the question and a hush falls over our conversation. It’s not awkward or pressured. The lull allows me to calm my breath and steady my racing heart.
When the moment passes, the conversation starts as it stopped alternating between question and answer. I learned that his mom got really sick when he was little, but never got better. He didn’t give details and I didn’t pry. He asked about my major and was clearly shocked that I was a graduate student. I asked about his major, he was undecided. We stopped keeping track of whose turn it was and we fell into an easy conversation. We kept things simple, not exposing much below the surface.
He told me about his grandfather and Sebastian and I may have choked a little at the mention of his friend. He relieved me of my guilt by accepting respons
ibility for making our running into each other tonight happen.
“How could that be possible, D?” He doesn’t call me on my nickname for him. “I didn’t plan on going to the gym tonight.”
“Nor was I planning on going to that gym.”
A silence stretches between us. I’m waiting for him to explain. I don’t see the connection.
“Every day since that night I met you when you were out with Sebastian, I’ve gone a little out of my way to cross your path, Izzy.” His soft chortle sounds a little self-deprecating. He explained that he’d tried to get someone in admissions to help find me. “But the woman was a battle axe, all by the book and snarly.” He admitted he broke down and asked Sebastian about me. I don’t know if I should feel bad or what, but apparently, Sebastian just wasn’t ‘feeling it’ with me. I feign hurt feelings, but Diego doesn’t buy it.
“Tonight, I went to the record shop Sebastian met you at. The little punk princess behind the counter is quite the fan of you.” I can hear the sarcasm in his voice. “She gave me nothing but a headache with no information. I was headed back to the campus when I ran into some of the guys from the team. Having failed at properly stalking you, I decided I could work out some frustrations. They chose the gym and to my surprise you were there.”
The other end of the line goes silent.
“You were on the elliptical when we walked in and I couldn’t stop staring.”
“I didn’t see you,” my voice a whisper.
“You know you run with your eyes closed?”
He can’t see me nod. “For a little bit. After a while, I’ll get lightheaded and fall.”
“Well, before that happened the guys I was with started giving me shit about staring at you as much as appreciating what caught my attention,” sounding a little put out and reticent. “We headed to the back where the weights were and you were out of sight.”
Now, I remember. “You were part of that noisy group of jocks.” Laughing at my earlier assessment and shocked I hadn’t noticed him.
“Sorta,” he replies.
“I thought we were done with the vague?”