Burning Through Gravity Page 5

  I scoop a handful of melted ice cream from the carton and smear it from her chest to her thighs.

  “Oh?” She lets out a belly laugh, and I drink it in, thirsty for more. “Is that how this is going down?” She retaliates by slathering me with twice as much, and, before I know it, we’re wrestling, slipping over the white shag rug and leaving muddy chocolate tracks in our wake.

  “Your brother is going to kill us.” She whispers hot in my ear as I pin her with her arms knifed out, holding her thighs open with my knees. Her hair is slicked to her face with a mixture of sweat and ice cream. Her teeth electrify the night with their bluish-white glow. My heart stops in my chest a moment as if giving homage to her beauty. I’ve slept with beautiful girls before, hell, I’ve slept with an army of them, but something about this one feels different, special, and I can’t pinpoint why.

  “My brother will have a new rug and a freezer full of ice cream by the time he comes back from New York.”

  A sweet smile presses from her lips. It’s the first all night. There’s not one trace of the sarcasm queen she uses as a shield.

  “You are thoughtful.” She grazes her teeth over her lip and lets it out painfully slow. My hard-on blooms back to life, full force, just witnessing the event.

  “And you’re anything but horrible.” I sink a kiss over her mouth, thick and sweet as honey. We roll around that sticky rug like bear cubs, like tigers fighting to the death. We crash around that tiny beach house. The sound of our wild fucking rises through the night like a primal cry for help—like a love song.

  I’ve slept with my fair share of women, thought I knew what it felt like to run a victory lap long into the night, but Stevie and I are rewriting the rules. I knew the second she gave me that crooked grin the playbook was tossed out the window. There was a distant glint in her eye that said she could take or leave me, and, at the end of the day, it was her indifference that made me want her that much more. I had a dozen women I could have brought here tonight, hell, I could have brought Evelyn, almost did. But I’m damn glad I didn’t—catastrophe avoided. I’m glad the birthday girl decided to glance my way. Odd, though. It’s not something too many girls would consider on their special day. But she did, and I couldn’t be happier.

  One night turns into two, then three. I convince her to stay an entire week, then half of the next. Nothing but nonstop love making, swimming at midnight in the icy Pacific, building sandcastles under the three quarter moon—her perfect ass planted over my body 24/7. I’ve had her in the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room, on the sand, the porch, the hood of the car for kicks. And I love having her every fucking minute. This girl never complains, she never says no. I’ve never met anyone like her.

  “School starts next week.” She gives my ear a quick tug as the evening sky turns a velvet shade of burgundy. We plant ourselves on the porch just watching time slip by quick as the wind. “Our honeymoon is coming to a close, sweetheart.” She drips with irony, and I eat it all up. I’m used to girls being on their best behavior around me. Either too sickly sweet or just plain faking nice. Not Stevie. She’s a pistol that’s not afraid to dole out a whipping twice daily. And, for the love of God, am I ever whipped.

  “I like to think of it as—to be continued.” I brush a quick kiss off her lips as I pour us each a glass of champagne we picked up at the local supermarket. We made a midnight run after that first night and stocked up like we were preparing for the apocalypse. Nothing like grocery store sushi and chocolate bars to meet our nutritional needs—of course, we can’t forget the endless supply of ramen noodles. We swept the store clean of all of the above. The California rolls were nothing but fake crab and gelatinous rice, just a notch above the shit they serve at the gas station. I’ll have to take Stevie out for something more authentic once we reenter the land of the living—maybe fly her to Japan for lunch. “I guess next comes the real world for you and me.” I’ve been wanting to discuss it. Hell, I’ve been wanting to discuss a lot of things, but my balls don’t seem up for the challenge. They’re too afraid to ruin a good thing, and I can’t say I blame them. This has definitely been a good thing.

  “You think we can handle that?” She nods out at the ocean as if it represented society as a whole. The angry, mocking sea—hostile as most of L.A. with its constant churning waves like a steady stream of gossip that never ends.

  “Yes, I think we can handle it. We’re going to handle it like a boss.” I give her sides a quick pinch, and she jumps over my lap. “We got this. Besides, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  She hops up from the bench we’ve been curled up on since dinner. “There’s something I want to show you.” She disappears inside for a moment before falling back into my lap with an oversized book I bought my brother as a Christmas gift years ago. Gravity Asunder by Theresa Eaton. A compilation of dark poetry.

  “I love this book.” It’s true. I’ve devoured every last verse. I went through a dark period myself, and I felt every word this author penned. We look inside and admire the oversized photos of the galaxy—the blue pearl that is Earth, the shooting stars that accompany each poem. “I gave it to Cash as a Christmas gift.”

  “You and every third American.” She pets the glossy page as if it were a cat. “It put my mother on every bestseller list you could think of.” She expires a breath like blowing out a candle. Stevie flips through the pages as if each one were fragile as a snowflake. “Thank you for that by the way. It was her one true happy moment.”

  Holy shit.

  “Your mother wrote this?” A spear of excitement rockets through me. “I’ve practically memorized every page.”

  “She’d be glad to hear it.”

  “So I guess that makes you Stevie Eaton.”

  “Boy, you’re really taken. It’s like I’ve just ripped off a tarp revealing a shiny new Porsche where only a rusted out VW sat moments ago.” She looks up at me, slightly unimpressed. “Were my windows broken, too?” She butts her shoulder into my chest. “Yes, Eaton is my bastard name. And there’s no need to worship a false idol like my mother. She pretty much hates men.” She leafs through the book. “Her mantra is every man—a liar. Every woman who loves him—a fool. Poetic, right?”

  “She’ll like me, I promise.”

  Stevie bubbles out a laugh, and a group of seagulls take off near the shore.

  “See this?” Her finger lands on the dedication. “To Stevie and the infinite memory of Claire, my wonder twins. I will always cherish you both.” Her voice grows cold as if it were the cruelest sentence she had ever read.

  “That’s incredible. I can’t believe I have Theresa Eaton’s daughter hostage with me at the beach house.” I bury my lips in her neck. I was already smitten to hell by Stevie, but this just elevates her to superstar status. Just when I didn’t think we could get any higher, she buoys us even closer to the sun. And here I thought I hated surprises. Stevie has me spinning so fast I can’t tell what’s up or down. I’ll take Stevie and her surprises any day. And, hopefully sometime next week, she’ll let me surprise her, too. I want to ask her to move in with me. I’m about twenty minutes from Rigby, ten with no traffic. Hell, I’ll fly her to class if she wants me to.

  “Please don’t be impressed by my mother. They call her Scary Terri for a reason.” Her fingers pull back the pages, one by one, like the flashes of a supernova jagging by in dark, starry blinks. She glosses over an entire section that gives homage to her mother’s life-size sculptures and statues—all of them slightly disturbing in their own right. “The reason she said she’d cherish us both is because I was already dead to her at this point. We don’t speak much. A text every now and again and even then it feels like she’s stalking me.” She plucks her phone off the edge of the bench and pulls up a text for me to see. “This is the poetry she writes just for me. Her latest text reads, Beautiful day! Don’t you just thank God you didn’t die in the bed of your youth?”

  My mood plummets. That’s pretty insane.

  “I
’m sorry.” It’s all I can say.

  “Are you?” She looks up. Her eyes cut through the fog of grief that settled over her once she opened that book. “What’s your favorite poem?” She tosses the phone aside as her eyes fall over the glossy images once again.

  “Burning Through Gravity.” I flip right to it.

  We study the words together in silence.

  Burning through gravity like a falling star, barreling toward earth through the icy realm. Love is a rush that tears right through you, ripping through darkness, hurdling through space, crashing all around—alone and out of place. Your ego is the first to succumb before slowly everything is stripped, leaving you bare—alone in the cold cruel air. Love is a star falling from grace, burning through gravity with its disgrace. Love is a rock ready to crush. Who will be there to pick up the pieces when you’re broken and alone, Lana? Clay and wire, molding you to my heart’s desire. Love is like gravity, everywhere all at once, alarmingly simple—impossible to grasp. Love is like falling upward, burning through gravity as you catapult into the white-hot sun.

  “Charming.” It comes out ironic as she closes the book like she’s terminating their relationship. She blinks up at me with those impossibly long lashes.

  “I thought so. Who’s Lana?”

  “Probably me.” She shakes her head. “I have no clue. Personally, I think it reads disjointed, but if you know my mother that’s actually pretty linear for her. She was a physicist until my sister died. Then the lights turned out in our lives. She went dark. Her brooding made her a millionaire in the process. Some people have all the dumb luck. Too bad it didn’t rub off on her children.”

  Stevie’s eyes cloud over, and there’s nothing more I want in this moment than to pull her out of her grief.

  “You’ve got dumb luck.” I take a bite out of her bottom lip. “You met me didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.” She gives my cheek a playful bite. “It doesn’t get much dumber than you.”

  “Hey, watch it.” I sink my fingers under her arms and tickle her, teaching her a lesson until she’s crying for me to stop. “You know how to make me stop.”

  Her lips crush to mine, and we settle back over the bench, melting into one another, getting lost in those sweet moans once again, if only for a little while. I hate that we have to get back to reality when this one is so much better—so much damn sweeter than all those bitter days on the other side of these walls.

  Stevie pulls back, her lips still swollen and red from our kisses. Her fingers scratch lightly at the two weeks’ worth of scruff on my face.

  “You should take this down to nothing. My thighs are beginning to chafe.”

  “Done.” A sad smile comes and goes on my face because I’m already missing the hell out of her.

  “I think it’s time for you to take me home, Ford.”

  I shake my head, but it doesn’t stop the sun from setting, the tide from coming in and washing away the last of our sand castles.

  We head to the bedroom, and Stevie slinks back into the same clothes I found her in that night at the party.

  “You look overdressed.” I sink a kiss onto her lips and try to savor the shit out of it. “Let me help you with that.” I pull her T-shirt right off, and she acquiesces with a grin.

  “I think you’re looking a little overdressed yourself.” She gives my shorts a quick tug, and they voluntarily fall to the floor.

  “I’m not a big fan of these jeans,” I say, working like hell to peel them off her body.

  “I’m not a big fan of anything that stands between us.” Stevie jumps up on my hips, and I press her against the wall.

  Come tomorrow the entire world will stand between us. But, for now, you can’t squeeze a dime between her body and mine.

  I take her right there, hammering into her until every damn window in the place threatens to shatter. Her panting rivals my own as we fill the beach house with the sounds of our love making one last time. Our bodies thump hard against the drywall, beating against it in a long, strangulating rhythm. The neighbors probably think a series of gunshots are going off.

  It sounds more like a heartbeat to me.

  2

  Through the Stratosphere

  Stevie

  Summer cracks over our backs like a whip, tearing open our flesh and pouring in the white-hot sting of the sun.

  Kinsley and I spent the afternoon shopping for overpriced clothes, half of them I already want to donate. I let her pick out her version of power suits for my internship at our father’s social network division, Merlin. Normally I just wear jeans and T-shirts to class—my Ugg boots in the balmy California winters and my flip-flops every other season, but Kinsley insisted I elevate my wardrobe standards, this, my final year at Rigby. The only reason I went along with it was because the head of the business program, Dr. Bennett, made it clear that we were to dress the part when representing our “prestigious university.” It was all I could do not to gag. But that was last semester, and, now, I feel like I’m ready to slip into the world of shapely cut blazers and four-inch stilettos.

  Stilettos. That’s what I had on that magical night I met him.

  Ford wafts over me like my own private heat wave, and a dull smile rides on my lips. His taste still lingers over my tongue. If I close my eyes, I can still feel his passion-fueled kisses. The memory of them rips through me like a current.

  “Would you stop?” Kinsley flops back on my bed.

  My roommate graduated last year, and the new one is yet to move in. As much as we didn’t get along, I hate the thought of being alone.

  She clicks her tongue. “Do you really think he’s spending all his free time thinking of you and grinning like an idiot?”

  “Yes, I do.” I hope he can’t stop thinking of me—that he’s slowly losing his mind, that his fingers tremble to dig into my bare hips once again—that he’s experiencing a borderline unhealthy obsession. At least that way we could call it even. I flop down on the bed next to her. “In fact, I know he is because we’ve been sexting nonstop for the last three days. We’ve been having all kinds of lewd alphabet sex. The things those verbs do to me.” I let out a moan, and she smacks me on the leg. “I’m going to meet him for dinner tomorrow night.”

  Her mouth gapes. “That’s a school night.”

  “So what, Mom.” I knock my knee into hers. “I’ll be sure we’re both in bed by eight—together.” A giggle ricochets in my chest at the thought. I never giggle. I’m pleasantly repulsed by this new version of myself—the giggling fool—the grinning idiot. I wonder what Claire would think? For so long I stayed away from people—practically hid from the opposite sex. There were sweet boys who were interested, troubled boys, and everything in between, but something in me couldn’t pull the trigger. I tried—God I tried. I even gave my vagina away on a couple of occasions as if proving a point, but even then it felt like a charade. It simply felt empty.

  “I think you’ve had enough time in bed together.” She rolls onto her elbow with her blonde curls spilling every which way, her pale glossy eyes, stoned as shit. “Ten bucks says he’s married.”

  “Would you stop?” Kinsley has been a broken record ever since I made the mistake of telling her how I spent the last two weeks. She’s convinced he’s told some poor unsuspecting house-frau that he was away on business. Kinsley is a lot of things—right is usually not one of them. “Why don’t you sign up for school, and you can have that bed right over there?” I nod across the way. It’s time to steer this conversation far away from Ford. She’s been berating him for the last four hours.

  She smirks at my offer. “I’m a graduate of the Hollywood School of Hard Knocks. I’m not about to give up now.” A smile threatens to slit across her face. “Besides, I have a callback on that audition I told you about.”

  “Which one?” I can’t keep them straight. Kinsley goes out on an audition every other day. I’m afraid Hollywood U has yet to teach her the most useful lesson of all—the casting couch.

&nb
sp; Her brows rise in tandem. “The Fortune of Tomorrow.”

  “No shit? That’s my grandma’s favorite soap. It’s still on the air, right?”

  “Shut up.” She pushes her elbow into me. “Yes, it’s still on the air. And—it’s the number one soap in the 25-45 year-old demographic.”

  “Wow, was that the first line they made you memorize?”

  “No—the first line they made me memorize is Dillon Collette is freaking hot. So hot that I’m going to bake cookies off his chest the first day I meet him.” She melts into the pillow.

  “Sounds perfectly disgusting.” Ford’s chest comes to mind, and I imagine doing just that, baking cookies and eating them right off his perfect body. I moan into the idea.

  “Trust me”—she elbows me again, pulling me out of my Ford-inspired stupor—“Dillon Collette is anything but disgusting. He’s been my Hollywood crush for as long as I can remember. And, if I get the part, I’ll get to play opposite him. It’s like an honor I’m too blown away to comprehend. Too bad he’s married with five kids, or I’d volunteer as his off-screen sex slave the second the cameras stop rolling.”

  “I wouldn’t fret too much about the wife and kids. I’ve seen a few episodes. I’m sure they’ll have your characters sucking face in no time. It’s primetime porn at its finest.”

  “I’ll be playing his sister—if I get the role.”

  “Sorry.” I wince. “On the bright side, you probably won’t get this role either.” I give her a quick wink before flipping open my laptop and checking my emails. There’s about ten new messages—one from Dr. Bennett. Group assignments.

  I open it and give it a quick glance, ignoring my sister as she breezes through her lines for her callback.

  “Holy shit.” I stare in disbelief. “It looks like I’ve been moved from Merlin to Jinx.” Jinx is only the hottest social network this side of Silicon Valley. It’s one of my father’s competitors—his only competitor, and the last place on the planet I want to be.