Page 34 of Beautiful Lies
“Cocky asshole,” she muttered. I chuckled under my breath as she pulled on her helmet and climbed on, her arms circling my waist without my having to prompt her. She once told me that she loved having the power of the Harley between her legs. It always got her wet. I tried not to think about that as I drove her home, knowing damn well she wouldn’t invite me up to her apartment.
9
Ava
It was just Sunday brunch. Nothing to get worked up about, I thought, as I stepped outside my apartment building into a cloudy, gray October day. Connor was leaning against the pillar of my red brick pre-war apartment building, watching the world go by on Bedford Avenue. He was one of those guys who was born to lean. Like a James Dean character. A rebel without a cause. The bad boy girls wanted to fix.
Connor’s gaze swept over me, taking in every detail from the top of my head to the baggy gray sweater, tartan pleated mini skirt, thigh-high ribbed socks and Doc Marten boots. Harajuku girl meets bag lady. My eyes skimmed over his fitted black Henley under a black leather motorcycle jacket and back to his face. I was tempted to run my fingers over the stubble on his chiseled jaw. Drag my hand down his hard chest and feel the warmth of his skin under the fabric of his shirt. Lick the hollow at the base of his neck. Instead, I pressed my lips together and clasped my hands behind my back.
“Your mom got hold of you,” he guessed, looking at my hair.
I shrugged. “It was time for a change.”
After my mom’s constant nagging and non-stop texts, I’d gone to her salon yesterday. It had been a mistake, not because of my hair color, but because of the conversation.
Connor wrapped a lock of my white-blonde hair around his fingers, his gaze fixated on my mouth. “I love those cherry-red lips.” My tongue darted out, and I swept it across my lower lip, watching his eyes darken. “You look like someone I used to know.”
“Was she raw and gritty and dirty?”
“Sometimes. But in the very best way,” he said, his gaze lingering on my mouth.
My cheeks flushed with heat. I glanced over my shoulder at the front door, entertaining the notion of returning to the safety of my apartment. He grabbed my hand and guided me to his parked Harley, my stomach doing somersaults.
Helmet on, I climbed onto the back of the bike behind Connor. Closing my eyes, I let out a breath as I wrapped my arms around his waist. It felt good, just like it had three nights ago. And dangerous. And familiar. I could feel his muscles flexing against my arms, the tautness of his stomach. As he took off down the street, the power surged between my legs, and I felt wild and free.
Part of me wanted him to head out of Brooklyn, onto the open road and just keep driving, up the road hugging the Hudson River or to the end of the world. That was what we used to call Montauk, the easternmost tip of the Hamptons. The other part of me was scared he would take me away and I’d lose my bearings. Conflicted, as always, when it came to us.
Yesterday, while my mom was performing her magic on my hair, I’d gotten a text from Connor. She saw it. My mom didn’t miss a trick.
“Ava Christensen, don’t you dare let that boy back into your life. You’re well and truly rid of him.”
I tossed my phone in my bag, safe from her prying eyes. “We’re just friends.”
“You can’t be friends with someone like him.”
“What do you mean … someone like him?” I asked, my hackles rising. How weird that I fought him, yet I defended him to my mother. I always had.
“No mother wants to see their daughter with a drug addict,” she hissed, keeping her voice low so the other customers and stylists wouldn’t overhear those dirty words coming out of her mouth.Drug addict. “I warned him to stay away from you. He promised me he would. Broke up with you and everything … but I should have known better than to trust that boy. He just can’t leave well enough alone, can he?”
“That was you? He broke up with me because of you?” Four and a half years ago. He’d been trying to get clean. Hehadgotten clean. Then he broke up with me and went right back to the drugs. And my mother had been behind that?
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“That he didn’t deserve you. That he wasn’t good enough for you and he never would be.” There was no hint of guilt or remorse in her voice.
“All his life he’d been told he wasn’t good enough.” I pictured his graffiti, my hands holding his heart. “How could you have said those things to him? He was trying to get clean, but you—”
“Oh no, missy. Don’t you dare blame his weakness on me. I did what any good mother would do. Your father and I were worried sick about you. Because of him, you couldn’t even enjoy your college experience.”
“It wasn’t your decision to make.”
“He knew he never deserved you. He admitted it.”
“All his life he was told he wasn’t good enough. You know what Seamus did to—”
“I never believed that for a minute. Seamus Vincent was a good cop. God rest his soul. And because of Connor, he’s dead.”
“Good. He got what he deserved.”
