The Fragile Line: Part One (The Fine Line #2) (5 page)

CHAPTER NINE

~Chloe~

Present Day

An hour?  I had to wait an hour?  What the hell was I going to do until he got here?  I was already feeling stupid as hell for reaching out to him in the first place.  I knew the second I hit “send” that it was a mistake.  Who just asks some random guy to come over for no reason at all?  Who does that? 

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t just some random guy, but other than seeing him this morning, we hadn’t spoked in two months.  He did say I could call him, but I doubt he was actually expecting me to.  At the very least, I could’ve asked him to fix my dishwasher or used some other excuse rather than my lame “come over” message.

Wow, my game was completely off today.  My exhaustion, mixed with my thoughts of Logan and Ryan, had worn on me in a major way, and I couldn’t think straight to save my life.  I wish I could stop thinking all together so that I could actually get some sleep.  God, I just wanted to sleep. 

I tried again, to close my eyes, but the thoughts behind them kept poking at me.  Tormenting me.  Forcing my lids back open.  Finally, I grabbed my tablet, got out of bed, and walked to the main living area of my apartment. 

The place was little, but all I really needed.  The kitchen consisted of a tiny, enclosed space, so small that if I extended both arms, I could touch the cabinets on both sides.  A barely-there dining area outside of the kitchen shared space with the living room. 

The décor consisted of mismatched furniture, mostly from what I had obtained at Goodwill and other thrift stores.  Leaving home and moving across town right after high school graduation three years ago had gotten me away from a situation that had thoroughly devastated me, and I had no regrets about it, but I’d be lying if I said paying the bills every month was easy. 

Waitressing—the only job I had ever known—had its ups and downs.  I loved the flexible schedule that it allowed but hated the inconsistent paychecks.  I started at Ricci’s in high school, and after everything went down with Ryan, I jumped at the opportunity to get away from it all when I saw a “For Rent” sign at the apartment building behind the restaurant. 

Soon after moving in, though, I realized that Ricci’s wasn’t going to cut it for making rent and bill payments every month, so I got a job at Luciano’s, a more upscale, downtown Italian restaurant.  That’s where I’ve worked ever since.

I peeked into the kitchen space and briefly considered tackling the mountain of dishes in the sink before quickly deciding against it.  Dishes are my nemesis.  They are best avoided.  Especially now that my dishwasher was broken. 

Instead, I took my tablet to the couch and browsed YouTube, finally landing on
The Tonight Show
page.  Jimmy Fallon always had a way of taking my mind away from reality.  After several Hashtag clips, Thank You Note clips, Lip Sync clips, and interviews with famous people, my apartment buzzer finally sounded, startling me from my mindless YouTube escape zone.

I set my tablet on the coffee table, and my nerves instantly took hold.  What was I going to say to him?  What if he asks why I wanted him to come over?   I don’t even have an answer for that.  My feet dropped to the soft carpeting, and I sighed.  No matter what, there was no way today could get any worse, so I had nothing to lose.  I went to the door and pressed the intercom button. “Come on up.”

He knocked on my door a few moments later.  I unfastened the chain lock and opened it.  “Hey.”

“Pink!” he grinned.  That’s when I remembered why I wanted him here.  Because with that one word, he made me feel normal.  Made me feel like it was okay to smile.   

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked, as he whisked past me, the faint smell of soap, deodorant, and bread following him.  He sat down on the couch, making himself at home like he had been here a thousand times before, and set the brown bag he brought in with him onto the coffee table. 

“You got Ricci’s?” I closed the door and took a seat next to him.

“Yeah.  I haven’t been there since we went, and I was hungry so…here,” he reached into the bag and pulled out a to-go container. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

I meant to say something.  Anything.  But nothing came out.  People don’t do things for me.  They just don’t.  I’ve made a point to not be in a place where people do things for me.  I didn’t want anyone to have any expectations of me and vice versa.  I had forgotten how nice it was to have support when you need it.  It felt incredible, like a reunion with a long-lost friend.  

Was there really such things as true friends?  Or just people who pretend to care so they can get what they want?  The latter seems more likely.  Gifts are only for getting something in return.  In my moment of weakness, I almost forgot that simple fact. 

What did he want from me?

He picked up on my silence and turned his attention from the food to me.  I’m not sure what he saw in my expression, but when our eyes met, his features softened.  “It’s just food, Chloe.  You don’t have to eat it.  I just didn’t want to be rude and eat in front of you.  I’ll take it home and have it later if you don’t want it.”

I think that was the first time he had ever called me by my real name.  It sounded incredible on his voice. 

“I—um—hang on.” I mentally kicked myself for stuttering.

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and kept his eyes on me while I walked to the coat hook between the entrance door and the kitchen space and grabbed the handbag that hung from it.  I sifted through the contents and found my wallet.  I took what I knew to be the exact cost plus tax of the dish, rounded up to the nearest dollar, and walked it over to Matt. 

When I tried to hand it to him, he opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself when I pressed my lips together and shook my head no.  He hesitated, almost as if it would pain him to take it from me.  He stared at me, trying to read my expression, but I didn’t want to explain my actions to him, so I stayed silent.  Finally, he took the cash and stuffed it into his front pocket.  I wondered, briefly, if he knew how much it meant to me that he didn’t make a big deal out of it.

Continuing to empty the contents of the paper bag—two salads, his dish, two bags of bread, and some napkins—he said, “There aren’t any utensils.  You got some?”

Oh shit, I didn’t think I’d have to deal with dishes.  “Um, no.  They’re all dirty.” 

He looked at me like he was expecting me to say more.  Finally, he said something.  “Aaaand, you don’t have soap?  Or a dishrag?”

“No, I do.  I just hate doing dishes.  But I think I have some plastic forks.  And knives.” 

“You don’t have a dishwasher?” he called out as I entered the kitchen to search for some plasticware.

“Uh, I do have one.  It’s just broken.”  I opened the baggies and plastics drawer.  “Here!  Found some.”  I took two forks and two knives back to the living room.  “It leaks.  My dishwasher.  The door gasket is falling off, and I tried gluing it back on, but it didn’t work.”

“What kind of glue did you use?”

“I don’t know.  Just glue.  The kind you use in school.” 

“Elmer’s glue?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

His face tightened, clearly trying to mask a smile. 

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.  It’s just that you don’t need to use glue on a dishwasher door gasket.  Chances are, it’s just not lined up right, or it’s damaged.  It’s an easy fix.  Lemme take a look.”  He stood, taking his coat off, and headed toward the kitchen.

“No!  Wait!” I called after him.  But it was too late. 

“Holy shit, woman!”  He gaped, wide-eyed, at the dish pile while putting his coat on an empty hook.  His black t-shirt had a rock band on it that I had never heard of before.  It granted a perfect display of the sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm and the few scattered on his right.  It fit just tightly enough to show off his muscular build without him trying to overly exaggerate them.  He turned to me with raised eyebrows, and I quickly met his stare so that he wouldn’t catch me gawking at the other parts of him.  “You weren’t lying when you said you hate doing dishes.” 

I shrugged.  “Told ya.”

He fixed my dishwasher, the one I hadn’t been able to use for months, in a matter of minutes.  We ate our food and talked about nothing important.  Movies and music mostly.  He used every opportunity he could to throw the word “Pink” into the conversation, but he stopped when he noticed me getting annoyed.  Afterward, he talked me into doing dishes.  We fit everything into the dishwasher that we could.  As for the rest?  He washed; I dried.  It took an hour to finish.

And during all of it, I felt okay.  Kind of good, even.  Still exhausted, but at least I forgot everything else for a while. 

“You look like hell, Pink. I should go so you can get some rest,” he said, as he dried his hands on a dishtowel.

My mouth dropped open.  “Oh, that’s nice.  Thanks for the lovely flattery.  It’s really too bad we can’t all be as pretty as you, Matthew.”

His face scrunched up when I said it. “Please don’t ever call me Matthew.”

My eyes lit up, “Oh!  So, what you’re saying is…you don’t like being called
Matthew?
”

“I didn’t say that.  It just sounds wrong coming from you.  My mother is the only one who calls me that and—“

“What?  What is it,
Matthew?
”

He hung the dishtowel on the oven handle and shook his head, smiling slightly, but not because he thought it was funny.  “Nothin’.”

“No, really,
Matthew,
I’d love to hear why—”

He took a step toward me and gripped my arms, looking me dead in the eye, “Stop.  I don’t want you to call me that because I don’t want to think of my mother—when I’m with you.”

“Oh.” It was all I could think to say. 

His hands remained on my arms, strong and warm, but not too tight.  He looked down at my body, and for the first time today, I realized that the only thing that stood between me and him was the thin cotton of my t-shirt.  His grip loosened, and his hands slowly traveled up my arms and behind my neck, his eyes exploring my face and his thumbs tracing my jawline with one of them landing on my bottom lip, gently pulling it down, forcing them to part ever so slightly.

He wanted me.  It hadn’t occurred to me before this moment.  And the fact that he did stirred something in me.  The warmth of his touch traveled from my lips to my toes, causing an almost imperceptible gasp to cross my lips.

Then, just as quickly as he grabbed me, he let me go and took a step back, shaking himself out of whatever it was that just took hold of him. 

He didn’t stop staring at me, though.  “Like I said, I should go.  Where’s your men’s room?” 

I pointed. “It’s over there.  But it’s a woman’s room.”

He didn’t laugh.  He always laughed when I tried to be funny.  But he didn’t laugh this time.  He just walked away.

“But—”

He turned around, “Yeah?”

“Um—I know that you’ve already done a lot by coming here, but—uh—I’m just wondering—“

“Spit it out, Sunshine.”

And, he’s back. 

“The thing is, I can’t sleep.  And I
really, really
need to sleep.  You said it yourself, I look like hell.  I feel that way too.  Would you mind just staying here until I fall asleep?  I promise I’ll repay you somehow.”

What the hell was wrong with me?  I don’t ask people for things.  Never.  Why was I doing it now?  With him?  Must be the exhaustion setting in.

His shoulders slouched but only a little.  “I’m sorry I said that.  You do
not
look like hell, Chloe.” 
He said my name again. 
“You look the opposite of hell right now.  You look fucking incredible.  And yeah, I’ll stay, but only on one condition.” 

“What’s your condition?”

One corner of his mouth turned up in a sly grin as he slowly looked my entire body down and back up.  “You need to put a sweatshirt on.”

CHAPTER TEN

~Matt~

Present Day

I sure as hell hoped she was putting a sweatshirt on.  Seeing her in that t-shirt damn near destroyed me.  Not that I didn’t enjoy a pair of beautiful nipples hard as top hats staring in my direction; it’s just difficult to control impulses when it’s happening.  And that was one impulse I refused to act upon.  Especially with someone who was with my friend hours before. 

Supposedly.

God, those lips, though.  So full and soft.  What I wouldn’t give to have those lips on mine.  And that body?  So petite with curves in all the right places.  I bet I could lift her like she was nothing.  I bet I could maneuver her any way I wanted if we ever did the things my mind wouldn’t let me stop thinking about doing.

I splashed cold water on my face and looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Tension lined my face.  I needed to get a fucking grip. 

Why was her mirror so smudged?  I took the hand towel, and just as I was about to wipe the smudge away, I noticed that the smudge was actually letters.  F.M.L. 

Fuck my life?  An unexpected thing to see from someone like her.  But the more time I spent with this girl, the more I realized that she’s not the tough, heartless bitch everyone thought she was.  Maybe she’s just lost.  A little hopeless.  And she’s a hell of a lot more fragile than she lets on, that’s for damn sure.  In fact, it’s pretty obvious that being harsh and cold was her shield.  A shield she seemed to put down around me, which was what confused me most. 

Most people take one look at me, see the height, the tats, and the cannons, and the first thing that registers in their eyes is trepidation.  My own mother says I look “mean.”  Even when I’m not trying to intimidate someone, it just happens.  But not with Pink.  She had no fear. 

I kind of liked that. 

Fuck me, I kind of liked
her
.   

I took a look at the various “girly” items scattered across her countertop.  Hairspray.  A straightening iron.  Some little paintbrush-looking things.  A black pencil.  Damn, this girl was messy.

I grabbed the pencil and pressed my index finger to the pointy end.  It left a dark black mark.  It would work perfectly.  I brought it to the mirror and started writing. 

When I came out to the living room, she was already on the couch.  In a sweatshirt, thank God.

“Here,” she said, handing me the remote as I sat down next to her.  The TV had already been turned on to the Roku homepage.  “Put on whatever you want.”

I took the remote and started clicking through Netflix options.  She took a throw pillow and laid down, her head resting on the pillow and her bare feet pressing up against the jeans of my outer thigh.  I wondered if the subtle touch had the same effect on her that it had on me. 

“Can I ask you something?” I blurted. 

“Sure.”

“What happened last night?  With Logan?”

She stayed silent, but the way her body tensed, the way she removed her feet from my leg and curled her knees closer to her chest, spoke volumes.  I almost kicked myself for asking, but I had to know. 

“I’m not judging,” I continued. “I think you’re fun as hell, actually.  And pretty cool too.  But Logan’s my friend, and he’s real torn up about it.  Maybe we could figure it out together—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Matt,” she mumbled into her pillow.  “Please.”

Shit, she wasn’t going to spill it.  And I wouldn’t force it, knowing that it would just feed into whatever complex she had about ulterior motives.  She didn’t seem to comprehend the fact that sometimes people just do things for others for the simple fact that they need help.  That the only thing needed in return is the feeling they get when they help someone. 

I knew if I pushed the issue, she’d close herself off, thinking that I was only here to get answers.  And even though answers would be a bonus, that wasn’t the real reason I came today.  The more I thought about it, the more I realized that
she
was the reason I was here.  Just her.  Her laugh.  Her touch.  Her jokes.  The way she scrunches up her nose when she’s irritated.  The way she chews her food ridiculously longer than the general population does.  Her fucking blond and pink hair.  And right now.  The way her face began to relax and her lips lightly parted, in this very moment, while she fell asleep. 

And then it hit me that all these months that I’ve been pushing the thought of her to the back of my mind was in vain.  Just one look at her this morning was all it took for the urge to be near her to come tumbling back.  No matter how wrong it was to feel this way, considering her history with Logan, and no matter how much she didn’t reciprocate the feeling, I had an undeniable
thing
for this girl. 

Which meant I was royally fucked.

I had to go.  I didn’t want to contribute to this disaster-waiting-to-happen any longer.  She appeared to be sleeping already anyway.  I turned the TV off.  Then I stood up, walked around the coffee table, and crouched down so that I was eye-level to her.  Before I realized what I was doing, my rough fingers brushed her soft, silky hair behind her ear, and I found myself savoring the contrast of it.  Savoring the sight of her smooth, milky white skin.  Savoring her scent, a mix of soap and peaches. 

“Chloe,” I whispered softly.

“Mmm.” Her eyes remained closed. 

“I need you to promise me something.”

“Hmm,” she mumbled in response.

“Just do what’s right, okay?”

Her ice-blue eyes opened then but only a little.  Just far enough to make eye contact and touch my soul for only a moment.  She indolently sighed and closed them again, falling back into her slumber.  I stood up, went to grab my coat, and left her apartment, closing the door gently behind me.