She felt her pulse skidding against her neck, could feel that warmth that always radiated from Kona’s huge frame as he leaned toward her, as those enormous hand lay flat against the door, right next to her cheek.
“I never said there wasn’t something here.” She pushed back when he moved, eating up the small space between them. She fought the pull that threaded them together. It took strength. It took restraint she didn’t know she had, but Keira pushed against his chest to keep him off of her. “I also never said I was interested in finding out what that something is.”
“Bullshit.” Kona’s voice was thick and Keira didn’t like how smug he sounded. That sweet, contemplative boy from a few minutes ago was gone. Now only the entitled jackass remained and the attitude quickly reminded Keira why she’d been hesitant to be alone with him.
“No, it’s not bullshit.” Keira could feel her anger sharpen like a prick of needles against her stomach. It wasn’t the first time Kona had irritated her temper; just being near him seemed to invoke some sort of raw nerve that made her anger sharp and pulled swiftly to the surface. She hated his smirk and the stupid way his expression told her he thought she was being ridiculous. Condescending, her mother would call that look and that niggling voice echoed in her head, laid fuel on the simmering spark of her temper. “Why do you do that shit?” She pushed against his chest and he seemed caught, shocked by how high her voice had risen. “You’ve got this attitude like you know what I’m thinking. Like you think I’m seconds away from ripping your clothes off.” Keira pushed him again, but Kona didn’t budge and, to annoy her more, he smiled at her. She still managed to spit out, “I’m not. Trust me, I am so not.”
“You know, when you get pissed, you turn into a wildcat.”
“I have a temper, asshole.” Another push and Kona grabbed her wrist and held her hand against his chest.
“Why am I an asshole?”
Keira jerked back, trying to take a breath so that when she spoke again, her voice would be calm, even. “I’m not interested in you like that, Kona. The girls you’re with, I’m nothing like them. I don’t do hookups.”
The smile left his face and Keira could see his disappointment. She knew this was him; the casual attitude toward sex, the quick release, the heat, the passion, that was all he wanted. He wanted to touch, to taste. Kona didn’t want to feel and for Keira, that was all that mattered.
She had felt very little for so long. Her father’s death, her mother’s cruelty, it had left her vacant and open. She wanted that void to be filled, not just tapped off and quickly emptied again. She wanted the finish line, not the chase.
In that exasperated sigh and the quick eye roll, Keira knew Kona would never give her what she needed. “Well what the hell do you do?” Back again was the straight set of his shoulders, the defensive stance of a boy ready to fight.
“I don’t do thin love, Kona. I’ve seen what it does. I’ve seen how pathetic it is my whole life.” Keira caught a quick memory of her mother and stepfather from three weeks ago, sitting at the dining room table quietly taking their meal. They never looked at each other and in six years, Keira couldn’t remember them touching once. She was baring more of herself to Kona now, slipping him secrets she knew he’d only forget, but she wanted him to understand, to see what she needed. “I don’t want easy. I want the impossible. I want love so thick, I drown in it; it’s the only thing worth having and, I’m sorry Kona, you’re a nice guy when you’re not acting like an entitled jackass, but I really don’t think you’re capable of being anything more than that.”
Kona’s reaction was swift; a jerk back from her as though she’d leveled a quick fist into his stomach and he grabbed the doorknob. Keira saw the tension instantly return to his face. She guessed the headache had reemerged, that her words had erased any comfort her fingers had given him. But Kona didn’t complain, didn’t do more than open the door, funneling his anger away from her as he stared into the hallway.
“You don’t know me, Keira, and you don’t have a fucking clue what I’m capable of.”
Dr. Steven Michaels, heart surgeon, was a nice enough man. He was intelligent. He was handsome enough and he was very safe. Keira liked to think of her stepfather as, vanilla, as beige. He was straight lines and defined boxes and expectations that one should never deviate from. Ever. “Planning,” he’d told Keira, “is the hallmark of sanity.”