Page 38 of Embracing the Beat
She nods and starts to lower herself. The sickening crack of a branch has my heart stopping. I reach for her half a second too late, and she hurtles down with a scream. But the face looking up at me in terror as she plummets to the ground doesn’t belong to seven-year-old Mikey. No, this is the grown-up Michaela I can’t get out of my head.
“Jesus H. Christ.” I shoot up in bed, heart racing, palms sweaty. My biceps burn like I was just hanging from that tree branch again instead of dreaming about it.
But it wasn’t Mikey who fell that day. It was me. After dropping her back at the tree, I started back toward Sawyer while keeping an eye on Mikey and lost my grip. It had taken almost a month for my collarbone to heal. By the time I was back to one hundred percent, the branch was gone.
And what was that shit about it being Michaela’s face looking up at me? The memory of that image causes goosebumps to shiver down my spine, despite the late August heat. I pick up my phone to check the time and lie back with a groan. At this point, I’m simply waiting for my alarm to go off since I only have a few more minutes. I won’t be falling back to sleep after that dream.
I haven’t seen much of Mikey since our conversation in the kitchen a few days ago. Not that I’m surprised, given the shit I dropped on her about Ashley. But I couldn’t stop it from breaking loose when she asked me if I was still in love with my ex-fiancée. The hug she gave me afterward was unexpected, the softness of her arms around me easing some of the anger that still coursed through me at the memory of Ashley’s betrayal.
Since that innocent touch in the kitchen, I’ve avoided touching her whenever possible. Yeah, we agreed we could be friends. And her hug had some sort of magical healing power over the gaping wound Ashley left, but considering the sparks that innocent contact created? Better to avoid touching altogether.
Instead, I’ve spent as many hours at school as I can, and returned home to either work in the basement or grade papers in my room. The nights I work in the basement are an exercise in self-control since she always offers to help. And either I put her to work or she sits on an overturned bucket and peppers me with questions.
My favorite nights are when we both work. It’s in those moments that her voice whispers across the room and wraps itself around me with songs I don’t understand but can’t help but feel. Curiosity pushes at my lips each time, begging to ask her questions about her life, how much longer she’s staying, what’s next.
But outside of our first conversation about her career, she ignores questions about her career and switches the subject. She’s cagier than Sawyer. And considering he was special ops while in the military, that’s saying something.
I haven’t asked her again how much longer she’s staying. I’m too afraid of the answer.
Occasionally, I’ve glanced up to find her watching me, desire clear on her face. Those moments are eroding my control look by look.
My alarm finally goes off, and I silence the annoying blare. If only it were so easy to silence my Michaela-centered thoughts.
Truth is, she probably knows more about me than I do about her. Maybe if I can convince her to do our cheesesteak taste test, I can get her to open up. Even the playing field a bit.
The light streaming from beneath her bedroom door as I pass is bright enough to make me pause and tap lightly.
“Mikey, are you up?” She doesn’t answer, and I try the knob, twisting it easily, and poke my head in. “Mikey?”
She’s curled up, her brow furrowed while small whimpers escape her parted lips.
Stepping into the room, I close the distance to lower myself onto the bed next to her.
“Mike,” I whisper, bringing my hand up to cup her shoulder and shaking her gently. “Mike, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”
The whimpers are now joined by tears tracking down her cheeks. Almost of their own volition, my hands shift, wiping away the moisture with my thumbs.
“Mikey, you’re having a nightmare. Wake up, baby.”
Baby? Where the hell did that come from?
She pops up as fast as I did earlier. Her eyes clear as she blinks and focuses on me, a wrinkle forming between her brows. The urge to smooth it is so strong I’ve already lifted my hand before I stop, frozen between the desire to touch her and the need to keep my distance.
“West?”
I offer her a small smile.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in, but at first I thought you were awake. Then it seemed like you were having a bad dream.”
I watch a shudder rack her body, and my protective instincts rise to the surface. And they’re not necessarily the big brother kind.
“I…” She shakes her head. “I guess I must have.”
“You guess?”
“I don’t remember,” she says quickly. Too quickly. Normally I would call out the lie, but I have my own secrets to keep. Namely how badly I want a repeat of the other night, but she’ll never know that.
“Oh. I guess I’ll let you go back to sleep then.” I stand from the bed, immediately missing the heat radiating from her, her coconut shampoo wrapping around me like an old friend.
