My dick throbs behind my zipper. Only a sick bastard would consider having sex with a woman in Layla’s condition. Come on, man. Rise above it.

“I think it’s ready,” Axelle says from the stove. “Mmm, smells really good.”

“It is.” I grab a couple bowls. “Family recipe.” I ladle some homemade noodle soup into the bowls, handing one to her. “Here. It’s great for hangovers.”

Her eyes go wide on me. “I’m not—”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Eat.”

She looks down at her soup, stirs it a couple times, and then moves to the kitchen table to eat.

I grab the new carton of orange juice from the fridge and fill a small glass. Advil and NyQuil in hand, I start for the hallway.

“Is she pissed?”

Axelle’s soft-spoken question has me turning back.

“You know, at me?”

“No. She’s worried.”

She nods, her eyes still glued to her soup. “She doesn’t get it.”

If anyone understands the rebellious nature of a sixteen-year-old, it’s Layla. Her story about how Axelle got here proves that. “So? Explain it. Make her get it.”

She nods again, and I move down the hall to Layla’s room. I don’t know how much Layla’s shared with Axelle about the night she became pregnant, but something tells me her daughter may find herself in the same situation if these two don’t tackle their shit soon. It’s not my business, but if I were the man in their lives, I’d lock their asses in a room, sit guard at the door, and make sure they settled the crap between them.

Stepping up to the bed, I watch her sleep. She’s curled up in a tight ball, the thin sheet doing little to mask the gentle curve of her hip. Her hair’s tossed around her face, eyelids closed, and lips parted.

Beautiful.

I set the soup and juice on her bedside table and sit on the edge of the bed. “Mouse?”

Her eyes flutter open.

“Can you sit up for me?”

She nods and scoots up. I put some pillows against the headboard and she leans against them.

Placing the bowl in her lap, she holds it with two hands.

“Noodle soup. Eat.”

I watch her bring a bite to her lips and blow on it before sliding the spoon between her lips. Stop being a perv, asshole.

“Mmm, really good.” A weak smile pulls at her lips.

“Yeah. It works, too. My mom swears by it.”

Her eyes move from the soup to my face. She raises her eyebrows.

“She made it for us when we were kids. My brother and I would pretend to be sick just so she’d make it.”

Tender eyes fix on mine, listening. I nod for her to keep eating, and she spoons another bite into her mouth.

“It would piss my dad off to no end to see his sons moaning like we were on death’s doorstep for our mom’s attention. She knew we were faking, but she always gave us what we wanted. Setting us up in front of the TV with pillows and blankets, serving us soup like we were invalids.” Warmth spreads throughout my chest.

“She sounds cool.”

My smile falls, and my pleasant thoughts turn sour. “I guess.” I pop pills from their foiled cases, avoiding her eyes. “She tried, but when my dad finally had enough of her making pussies out of his sons, he put her in her place.” I bite down hard and feel my jaw tick. All those years I watched helplessly while my mom was belittled and berated for being a mother to her boys. I’d fuck up just to get him to turn his anger from her to me. I thought that we were on the same team, that we’d have each other’s backs against my dad. But when it came down to it, she crumbled beneath his iron fist and gave away my biggest secret.

“Blake? You okay?”

Her weak voice drags me back from my thoughts. I nod and drop some pills next to her juice. “Fine.”

She stares at me through narrowed eyes as if there’s a question she’s contemplating, but instead, she takes another bite. “So, you made this for me?”

“Sure. It’s good and… you know, you’re sick.” I shrug one shoulder, a little worried that my cooking might come off as seriously desperate and pathetic. “I take it you and Axelle haven’t spoken since last night.”

Dropping her spoon into her bowl, she shakes her head.

I tell her about my brief convo with Axelle in the kitchen. “She’s a good kid. Don’t be too hard on her.”

I move the empty bowl to her bedside table and hand her the juice.

“She’s a great kid.” Her eyes sparkle more than they did earlier. She swipes at her cheek. “I just want her to be okay.”

“I know. And she will be.” The vulnerability in her eyes is almost unbearable. I run my thumb along her cheek. “But first, you need to get better.” Snagging the pills off the table, I hold them up. “Open.”

She licks her lips and they part slightly. Her tongue rests against her lower lip, and I fight the urge to lean in and suck it into my mouth. Blinking away my inappropriate thoughts, I drop the pills onto her tongue and watch her throat work as she gulps them down. The simple movement reminds me of what it felt like to run my lips against her neck. So soft and sweet.

“I hope you don’t get it,” she says, yanking me from my memory.

“Huh?” Damn, I sound like a dumbass.

“My cold. We um… you know, kissed yesterday. Remember?”

Do I remember? Fuck yeah, I remember.

I rub my hand over my face with a groan. That kiss.

“Don’t worry, Blake. I’m a big girl. You don’t have to worry about me getting, you know, clingy, or having expectations.” She slumps down onto her pillow and pulls her comforter up to her chin. “It was a mistake.”

What the hell?That’s not what I’m worried about. I don’t think I’d mind her having expectations. Nope, wouldn’t mind at all. But a mistake? She regrets it.

My chest cramps, pain blooming behind my ribs. “Doc Z has me on every herbal concoction there is. I think I’ll be cool.”

That’s all I have to say? How about, fuck no, it wasn’t a mistake. And expect it to happen again. Soon.

I don’t know what this feeling is. It’s so new, foreign. Is it… rejection?

Fuck this. Why the hell do I care if she regrets our kiss? This was never supposed to be anything more than attraction and a little harmless flirting. My head feels like it’s about to explode. I need to get the fuck out of here. I busy myself with gathering up her dishes.

She sinks deeper into the bed. “Blake?”

“Hmm?” Snap out of it, pussy.

“I owe you. A lot.”

“Sure, Mouse. I’ll let you know when it’s time to pay up.”

She flashes a tiny smile. “Thanks.” Her eyes drift shut, and she snuggles under her comforter.

I click off the light and rush out of the room like I’m being chased. Axelle’s in the living room watching TV. I clean up quickly, throwing the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and the leftover soup in the fridge. I decide against a last peek in on Layla and grab my keys. “I’m out, kiddo. You gonna be okay?”

She nods a few times and waves goodbye. Not hung-over, my ass.

“Lock up behind me.”

She nods again. Shit, what is it with teenagers and eye contact?

“Axelle.”

Her eyes dart to mine.

“Lock up.”

“I will.” She doesn’t move.

“Now. Up.”

She groans and pushes off the couch.

Fuckin’ teenagers. How does Layla do it? “Good girl.”

After leaving the apartment, I stand outside the door until I hear all the locks click. Shaking my head, I walk to my car, wondering for the dozenth time in as many days what in the motherfucking hell is wrong with me.

Fourteen

Layla

“Mom?” Elle’s voice pulls me from sleep.

I sit up and swallow, relieved that the burning ache in my throat has died down. “Hey, what time is it?”

“Seven-fifteen.” She’s dressed for school with her backpack on. “I was just leaving and wanted to say bye.”

“Do you have a minute?” I pat the spot next to me and smooth the knotted bed sheets.

She sits, and from the way she’s hanging her head, my guess is she knows what’s coming.

“Elle, I’m sorry.”

Her wide eyes flash to mine.

“Things have been difficult for you. I know that. I just wish I knew how to fix it.”

She drops her gaze to her lap.

“You know, when I was your age, I got drunk at parties.”

“You did?”

I hate telling her what a fuck-up I was, but pretending to be someone I wasn’t is what got us here in the first place. “Yeah. I wanted to stand out, be different, make my own rules.” I shrug. “Thing is, drinking never gave me any of those things. It only led me to make horrible choices that hurt my parents, and myself.”

She nods behind the thick veil of her hair, but doesn’t offer anything else.

“You remember Raven from the garage?”

Her head tilts back, and she looks at me. “Yeah.”

“She has a place, I guess, where we can go. Talk to some people that might be able to help.”

“That’s my punishment?” A grimace tightens her pretty face. “You’re sending me to therapy?”

“No, not you. Us. Together. And it’s not punishment.” I know from experience that when parents pull in the reins, it only makes the child fight harder to get free. “I think it might help.” I want her to be on board, so I throw out a last ditch effort to win her over on the idea. “Blake said it might help.”

“Really?” The wonder in her voice makes me smile. “He said that?”

“He did.”