Trace + Olivia Series Boxed Set (17 page)

Trace stood and turned to me. “Tracey-poo?” He mouthed.

I shrugged.

“Come on,” Avery ushered him to the door, “you can kiss her senseless another day.”

“Avery!” I exclaimed.

“What?!” She replied.

I shook my head.

“Bye,” Trace grinned.

“Bye,” I nodded, waving. I was afraid if I got up and walked him out, I’d end up pressed against another wall. But, then again, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Avery closed the door and let out a deep breath. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

“In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you act like that,” she motioned to where I sat on my bed, hair mused, and lips swollen. “Trace turns you into a raging ball of hormones.”

“Says the girl with a dick,” I muttered.

She grinned. “That’s true.”

“Seriously, though,” she sat down on the end of my bed, “did he explain what happened outside.”

I told her what he said and she sat there, chewing on her bottom lip. “Huh. Interesting.”

She scurried over to her own bed and I asked, “What are you thinking?”

“Guys are just so weird,” she frowned, “and confusing. Nothing they do makes sense.”

“Do you think he meant what he said?” I rolled over on my stomach, propping my chin on my hand.

“Words are one thing, Olivia. Anyone can say anything, at any time. It’s actions that matter, not words,” she warned, leveling me with her green eyes.

I pursed my lips.

“Just…don’t get too attached,” she whispered. “Attachments cause broken hearts.”

I hated to tell her, but it was too late for that.

Trace and I sat outside on one of the various benches dotting the campus grounds. It overlooked the pond and a cool wind swarmed around us. I bundled my jacket tighter against me, and Trace slung his arm across my shoulders, pulling me against his warmth.

I burrowed my cold face against his neck.

“Should we go inside? I don’t want you to get sick,” his lips brushed against my forehead.

A week had passed since the incident at the pavilion. Neither of us had mentioned it, all that needed to be said had already been spoken, and there was no point dwelling on it.

But like Avery had mentioned, actions spoke louder than words, and I could tell Trace was trying.

He showed up a few days ago, on campus, and I spotted him easily. Trace wasn’t hard to miss. He waved me over to his car and we ate lunch together, laughing at random things, and getting to know each other better. When I went to get out of his car, to head to my next class, he handed me a single pink peony. I smiled the rest of the day.

“No, I don’t want to go in,” I answered his question. “I like being outside.”

“Me too,” he replied, his lips brushing against the top of my head again.

“I don’t want to go home tomorrow,” I confessed.

“Stay here,” he played with the wavy ends of my hair.

“I can’t,” I frowned. “Residence halls close tomorrow.”

“You can stay at my place,” he replied.

I snuggled closer to his warm chest as a blast of wind hit us.

“I don’t think we know each other well enough for
that
. Besides, my dad would hunt me down, and drag me home. He’s all about
appearances
,” I sneered the word.

“When will you be back?” He asked.

“Sunday,” I ground out the word.

Because of drive time, I’d only be at my parents’ house for four days, but that was four days too long.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, letting my hair fall from his fingers. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Me too,” I replied.

He grew quiet and I listened to the steady beating of his heart against my ear.

“I think when you get back, you should get a tattoo,” he murmured, running his finger down my neck.

“Really?” I asked. “So, is that what I’m doing next? I thought you weren’t going to tell me what we’re crossing off the list.”

“Yeah, well,” he scratched his chin, “a tattoo is forever. I want you think about it while you’re on break. I want you to be one hundred percent sure of what you want.”

“How many tattoos do you have?” I asked.

He chuckled. “You mean you don’t know?”

I blushed, figuring he was talking about the day I was ogling his bare chest.

“No,” I replied, glad he couldn’t see me blush. I still hadn’t figured out a way to stop blushing.

“Well, I have
Never Regret
on the inner bicep of my left arm. A star on my wrist,” he showed that one to me. Rolling up his jacket and shirtsleeve, he showed me a cluster of overlapping triangles on the inner part of his right forearm. Some of them were colored in while others were blank. One of the triangles even had a watercolor look. They were beautiful. “There’s more, but I think, I’ll let you find those on your own,” he grinned, rolling his sleeves down.

If I had been drinking something, it would have spewed out of my mouth at his words. Trace never ceased to shock me. You’d think I’d be used to all kinds of comments, living with Avery, but no.

“What do you think I should get?” I asked.

“Whatever you want, it’s your body,” he replied. “No one else can tell you what to get. It just has to mean something to
you
.”

I mulled over his words, wondering exactly what his tattoos meant to him.

I pulled into the driveway of the large white colonial style home with black shutters.

I should have felt like I was home, since this was where my parents lived, instead I felt like I had arrived at prison.

“Four days, Olivia. Four days. You can do this,” I coached myself.

I eased out of my car, as slowly as humanly possible, and stretched after the ten-hour drive. I had stopped a few times, but I wasn’t used to being in the car for a long time, and it had taken its toll on my body.

Normal parents would have probably run out to greet their child that they hadn’t seen since August.

Not mine.

No, my mom had probably slaved away over the
perfect
dinner and was cleaning up from that, while my dad sat in his leather chair, reading the paper for the second time today.

With a sigh, I grabbed my suitcase, and glumly made my way to the front door.

I knocked on the door since I didn’t have a key.

I heard the telltale slapping of my dad’s slippers against the hardwood floors and I flinched. I had hoped my mom would get the door.

“Olivia,” he said my name like it was the dirtiest word in the dictionary. “You’re late. Based on the time when you called, and where you were at, you should’ve been here ten minutes ago,” he looked at his watch. His black wire framed glasses were perched on his nose, his gray hair was longer than the last time I saw it, and his beard thicker.

I closed my eyes. “Sorry, traffic-”

“That’s no excuse, you should have called to tell us you were running late,” he snapped, while I still stood outside.

“I know,” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I apologize.”

He stepped inside. “Stop standing outside. Your mom saved you a plate of dinner. It’s in the microwave. I expect you to eat it all and clean your plate after.”

“Sure thing,” I mumbled. My dad still treated me like I was an incompetent toddler. He even treated my mom the same way.

“What was that, Olivia?” He questioned and I felt his dark eyes searing a hole into my back.

He’d never wanted a child, he told me that all the time growing up, but he
needed
one for
appearances
. Other than that, I was a hindrance.

“Yes sir,” I managed to sound semi-polite, even though I wanted to chuck my suitcase at his bowling ball sized head.

I left my suitcase by the stairs, praying he wouldn’t yell at me for that.

I waited, but he said nothing and eventually, I heard the clacking of his slippers as he walked into the family room.

Taking a shaky breath, I stepped hesitantly into the large kitchen.

My mom was hunched over the large farmhouse sink, scrubbing away at pots, pans, and dishes by hand. We had a dishwasher but my dad wouldn’t let her use it. He claimed that they never got the dishes clean enough.

My mom looked up, sweeping a lock of dark hair from her face, forcing a smile.

She had aged so much, in a short amount of time; the toll of my father was heavy on her shoulders.

Her once bright smile was all but extinct and her shiny chestnut hair was dull and lifeless. Even her eyes, the eyes she gave me, were the same way, their copper color gone.

I hated looking at my mom and knowing what my dad had done to her. I didn’t know what to do to help her. As a child, I begged her to leave him, but she was scared. I knew that’s why most people stayed in abusive relationships. Fear was crippling.

“How’s school, Liv?” She whispered my nickname. My dad hated for me to be called anything but Olivia.

“It’s great,” I sighed, reaching into the sudsy water to help her clean.

“You don’t need to help me,” she scrubbed at a dish that looked pristine to me “Eat something. I’m sure you’re hungry,” she nodded towards the microwave.

“I’m fine, let me help you,” I pleaded.

She didn’t reply and I took that as my cue to continue cleaning.

I helped her dry off the dishes and put them away.

“I better get in there with your dad,” she said when the last dish was put away, her voice was barely above a whisper.

I nodded. He’d come looking for her soon. After she finished cleaning the dishes he expected her to sit in the family room with him.

I warmed up my dinner and the smell of homemade food elicited a growl from my stomach.

I sat down at the dining room table with my plate.

The table was so clean that I was pretty sure those CSI guys wouldn’t be able to find a fingerprint on it.

I ate my dinner slowly, because if my dad thought I had eaten too fast, I’d be scolded for that.

He was always looking for things to complain about.

A piece of lint.

A pea in his carrots.

You name it and he’d find a way to whine about it.

I made sure to eat every morsel on my plate, which wasn’t hard, because it was delicious, like everything my mom made. But I’m sure my dad didn’t bother to tell her it was good, he never did. He only told her what she did wrong, not what she did right, and the same with me.

He couldn’t be pleased, simple as that.

I cleaned, and dried my plate, stacking it in the cabinet. Although, I was tempted to put it in the dishwasher just for spite, but since I was afraid of his reaction, I didn’t.

I stepped into the family room, my hands clasped behind my back.

My mom didn’t look up from whatever it was she was knitting, which was normal. She was expected to be a meek submissive wife.

My dad flicked the newspaper down, eyeing me.

I knew I wasn’t allowed to speak first, so I waited for him to address me.

“Yes?” He finally spoke, his voice booming.

“I finished my dinner and cleaned my plate. I’d like to be excused for bed,” I said, staring him right in the eyes.

He flicked a hand, and just like that, I was dismissed.

I walked slowly until I was out of his line of vision, and grabbed my suitcase, carrying it upstairs.

I closed my bedroom door for a moment of peace. The only time I was allowed to have my door closed was when I was changing.

I checked my phone and there was a text from Trace.

Hope u got home safe. If it gets bad come home. I’ll let you sleep in my bed. I promise to sleep on the couch like a good boy. ;)

I smiled. Something I rarely did when I was stuck behind these walls.

I’m here. Getting ready for bed. Miss u.

Miss u 2. Think about that tattoo and I’ll think about mine.
He replied.

Ur getting another 1?
I asked.

U can never have 2 many tattoos.;)

I had to agree with that. I loved Trace’s tattoos.

Night, Olivia. And seriously, my place is yours if you need it.
He texted a few seconds after his previous message.