The Failing Hours(33)

Violet





Zeke is hugging me again.

Zeke Daniels is hugging me on my front porch.

No, not a hug—an actual embrace.

I’m enveloped in his strong arms and can feel the dense muscles flexing as he reaches around me to run his hands up and down my back, comforting me.

I lean back to look up at him, the tips of his fingers finding purchase on my cheekbone, tracing my skin, the pads of his thumbs running under my eyes, wiping away whatever tears haven’t been dried up by the cotton of his t-shirt.

Whisper-light touches. Soft.

“Zeke?”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you hit that guy?”

He strokes the top of my head, fingers doing this massaging thing to my scalp. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Does that mean you would have punched him if I hadn’t been standing there?”

“Probably.” His fingers stop for a few seconds. “I really wanted to knock him on his fucking ass.”

His fingers resume their circular motions.

“W-what are you doing to my hair?” I sigh, voice wistful.

“Comforting you? I think. Obviously I’m drunk.”

He doesn’t seem drunk to me, not in the slightest, and if I’d thought for one second he was, I wouldn’t have gotten in his truck.

“You are?”

“No. But I wish I was shitfaced. Hammered.” He doesn’t crack a smile. Not even the hint of one as his lips hover near my ear. “You always smell so good, Vi. Like sunshine and shampoo and flowers. Violets.”

I take my own whiff of him, inhaling his masculinity. Inhaling the strength he exudes. It permeates, rolling off of him when he walks.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Violet?”

I nod into his chest. “I am now.”

Zeke pushes the hair out of my eyes, fingers the coronet braid cascading over my right shoulder. Rubbing the ends of it between the pads of his fingertips, he leans in and lifts it to his nose. Inhales.

“Violets,” he says, repeating his earlier sentiment.

He’s wrong though; it’s cardamom and mimosa.

I don’t correct him.

“Violet.”

I stand feebly, awkwardly in the shadows of my front porch, letting this behemoth of a man sniff my hair for the second time tonight, the tip of his nose warm when it brushes my cheek. It trails its way to the crux just below my ear. His lips press on the tender skin of my temple.

One heartbeat.

Two.

I don’t trust myself to speak.

To move.

To breathe.

I stand paralyzed, still as stone, rooted to the rough-hewn porch boards that should have been replaced years ago. Zeke’s solid hands cup my elbows then glide up my arms. Land on my shoulders. Down again.

He’s going to kiss me.

I’m going to let him.

My fingers rake through his hair, drawing his head down, meeting his eager, pliant mouth.

It settles on mine, lips pressing so tenderly there are no words to describe it—no one has ever kissed me this way. We kiss and kiss and kiss with no tongue, a union   of lips and breath and skin. Tiny tastes of each other. Nips.

His mouth pulls at my bottom lip, gently sucking, before it opens, his tongue finally—finally, thank GOD—touching mine, almost timidly. Just enough to make my nerves quiver throughout my entire body.

We stand like this, kissing on my front porch in the cold, until my mouth is swollen—until he backs away, leaving my body instantly cold from the loss of his heat, regarding me in the porch light.

Acts like a gentleman.

“Goodnight, Violet.” He swallows.

I have to force myself to speak. “Goodnight.”

I won’t lie, I’m disappointed when he steps away, backs himself down off the porch, and walks across my lawn, raking a hand through his hair. Yanks open the driver’s side door with a grunt. Guns the engine and backs down out of my driveway, starts down the street.

I wanted him to stay with me.

Instead, I stand here alone, watching as his truck slows, pulls to the shoulder of the road. Flips on his hazards and…sits there, idling.

Very weird.

Curiously, I hold sentry as he does nothing but sit in that big black truck, folding my arms across my chest to ward off the chill, a thick billow of steam rising from my lips with every cold breath.

Inside the pocket of my thick winter jacket, my phone notification chimes.

I reach into my pocket. Slide open the lock screen.



Zeke: Hey.



I look up into the night. His bright red tail lights still glow eerily at the end of my street.



Violet: Hey.

Zeke: How’s it going?



I laugh—what on earth is he doing?



Violet: Good? You?

Zeke: I guess I just wanted to check in to see if you were okay after tonight. Because that’s what friends do, right?



I can’t stop the smiling, and I bite down on my bottom lip.



Violet: That’s exactly what friends do. Thanks

Zeke: Hey Vi?

Violet: Hmm?

Zeke: So this is going to sound creepy, but I’m sitting at the end of your street like a damn stalker…if I come back and get you, what are the odds you’ll come to my place?



I stare at that line, reread it twice, fingers hovering above the keypad of my cell. What are the odds you’ll come to my place?

Would I go to his place?

Yes!

I want to do more than taste his lips.

I want to feel the heat from his body over mine. Feel him inside me. Know what his body feels like without the shirt, pants, and clothes.



Zeke: Violet? You still there?

Violet: Yes.



I suck in a deep breath, curls of excitement twisting my stomach into knots, and tap out a reply.



Violet: Yes. If you come back and get me, I’ll go to your place.





Zeke shuts the front door behind him and suddenly, we’re alone in the confines of his house. Standing together at the door, he crams his hands in the pockets of his coat, uneasily shifting his weight on the heels of his black boots. Removes his hands. Shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook before reaching to help me with mine.

Together, we slide it down my shoulders and he takes it. Hangs it. We both glance at our jackets, now hanging side by side.

It’s an odd sensation, that. A new one I’ve never felt before, anticipation quaking in the pit of my stomach, sending butterflies flying. Fluttering.

Making me want to toss my cookies all over the leather boots he’s bending to untie.

My knees feel wobbly. Weak. I can barely focus, bending to unbuckle the pretty little half boots I borrowed from Winnie and sliding them off my feet. Legs bare. Too exposed and open to his roaming, expressionless, pale eyes.

I know why I agreed to come here.

I like him; I’m probably half in love with him already. Enamored. Charmed by his rough edges and jagged lines. How we’re opposites in every way that counts.

I know that’s not a reason to fall into bed with someone, but I fell into my last boyfriend’s bed for lesser reasons: loneliness. Out of curiosity. For the connection. Wanting to get the whole virgin thing over with.

I might not be completely in love with Zeke yet, but the stirrings are there, and that’s enough.

I’m not asking for a commitment—not yet anyway.

As I stare at Zeke, filling the doorway of his quaint college house—he’s huge and takes up the entire space—all my instincts tell me to trust myself on this decision.

Trust my heart for once, and not my head.

Trust that he has my best interests at heart, even if the words coming out of his mouth aren’t eloquent. Far from it.

He swears too much.

He isn’t nice.

He isn’t sweet.

He isn’t kind.

Or generous with words. Or affection.

But he’s reliable. Dependable. And he was there for me tonight. I know he was watching out for me, or he wouldn’t have seen that guy back me into a dark, back corner of the bar.

And thank god he was.

I don’t know what I would have done.

Screamed bloody murder, maybe? Would anyone have heard me over the noise? The music? The packed crowd?

Winnie says Zeke is “a project”, one that’s probably more work than he’s worth, with no guaranteeing the outcome. The thing is, I can’t fool my heart into thinking he’s not worth it, even when my head is telling me he isn’t.

I know Zeke is an asshole.

I know he’s crude and unsuitable.

Zeke might be brutal, but at least he’s brutally honest, and the next thing I know, he’s taking my hand, leading me down the hallway.

I let him lead me.

Floating down the hall to the bedroom, I’m light, a million worries lifting off my shoulders: self-doubt. Self-consciousness. The fear that he doesn’t like me back. The desperation to be loveable that took root the day my parents died and further overtook me when my aunt and uncle moved away.

The fear that I’m not sexy because I stutter.

Zeke Daniels doesn’t just want sex; he wants something more—I feel it in my heart. He’s seeking something—the same thing I am.

Something permanent.

Constant and stable, and no one will convince me otherwise.

“Violet, I wouldn’t—I don’t want you to think I have any clue what I’m doing. Because I don’t. I have no idea why the hell I stopped that car in the middle of the damn road, I just…” He releases my hand, closing the door to his bedroom.

Runs his fingers through his black hair.

“Do you know what I’m trying to tell you?”

“No.” I give my head a little shake. “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”