Page 27 of Cherry Beats

Presley was leaning back on the same sofa. His body slouched down as he rested one leg over the opposite knee. He was watching the TV screen intently, absorbed inA Few Good Menand sipping on his fourth bottle of Peroni, while I just found myself alternating between looking at his jacket and his strong jaw. He was far too beautiful to be sitting in the middle of my mediocre world. He wasn’t meant to be here. This wasn’t the way things were meant to go.

Fuck, I hated living in denial.

Denial was an ugly black hole, filled with fog and confusion, but it felt warm being there for a while. You felt safe until someone shone a light on all your stinking truths and exposed denial for what it was: a dismal, barren land that made you want to choke on the smoke it produced from keeping your bullshit alight.

“If you stare any harder, I’m going to think you want a closer look,” he said quietly, never taking his eyes off the movie.

“This is the stare of a concerned friend. Not a sexual predator.”

“Liar.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“I can make you full of me, too, if you’d like?” He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine.

“You can’t talk to me like that anymore,” I warned him.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” I held up my free hand and quickly downed the rest of my beer. “Do you want another drink?”

I didn’t give him time to answer before I scurried out of my chair, making short, sharp, snappy steps to the kitchenette to avoid having that particular conversation.

Presley West didn’t like being kept waiting. Not the old version, or the new.

When I’d plucked two beers out of the fridge, stood tall, and turned around again, his body was taking up the small space that led from the kitchen to the living room. My eyes drifted down to his forearms, which were folded over one another and pressed against his chest.

“Why do you seem so different?” He scowled.

“Different?”

“Colder. Flatter. No spark.”

“I still have my spark,” I assured him, turning away and dropping the bottles to the counter surface, quickly uncapping them.

“Bullshit. Is it because of me?”

“Please.” I scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”It’s all because of you, Presley. Everything I feel is because of you.

“I didn’t come here for flattery, Cherry. I get enough of that. I came here for your honesty. I’ll ask you one more time. Are you different now because of me?”

“No, Presley, for fuck’s sake.”

There was a moment’s pause, and I thought I’d silenced him, but his breath was soon against my ear, the warmth of his body not far behind.

“When you lie, you press your legs together, and you rock on your feet. When you lie, you can’t look me in the eye, and your voice breaks. When you lie, you don’t sound like you.”

“You smell like a brewery,” I said coldly, ignoring his close proximity, his shitty analysis, and the way it felt to have him so close. I busied my hands by reaching over for the dishcloth so I could wipe down the kitchen worktops.

He reached out to press his palm down on my knuckles, stopping me in my tracks. That single touch seared my skin. He didn’t smell like a brewery. He smelt like Heaven in jeans and a white T-shirt. He smelt like a rebel dream I shouldn’t want to chase to the horizon.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he whispered.

I dropped my gaze to his hand, staring at it as my breaths became heavier. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Is it so bad?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

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