Layla Page 3

  I agree with her. I much prefer the idea of going all in. I’ve always wanted someone I could instantly click with and then just fucking drown in.

  I don’t know if Layla could be that person, but it sure felt like it when we reached the bottom of the pool. That was the most intense kiss I’ve ever experienced.

  Layla takes our wet clothes out of my hands and walks them to her bathroom. She tosses them into the shower, and then on her way back into her bedroom, she says, “You should quit the band.”

  She has to be the most unpredictable person I’ve ever met. Even the simplest sentences catch me off guard. “Why?”

  “Because you’re miserable.”

  She’s right, I am. We both make our way to the bed. “What do you do for a living?” I ask her.

  “I don’t have a job. I got fired last week.”

  She sits down and leans against the headboard. I lie on the pillow on my side, looking up at her. My face is near her hip, and it’s both odd and sexy being this close to her thigh. I press my lips against it. “Why’d you get fired?”

  “They wouldn’t let me off for Aspen’s wedding, so I didn’t show up to work.” She scoots down the bed and mirrors my position. “Your boxers are still wet. We should probably take off the rest of our clothes.”

  She’s forward, but I like it.

  I grab her by the waist and pull her on top of me. I place her so perfectly against me she gasps. I’m taller than her, so her face doesn’t reach mine, but I want to kiss her. She must want to kiss me, too, because she crawls up my body until our mouths connect.

  There aren’t many items of clothing to remove between us as it is, so it only seems like seconds before we’re naked under the covers and almost past the point of caring about a condom. But I don’t know this girl and she doesn’t know me, so I wait for her to fumble around the dark bedroom until she finds her purse. Once she retrieves a condom and hands it to me, I reach under the covers and begin putting it on.

  “I think you’re right,” I say.

  “About what?”

  I roll on top of her and she spreads her legs apart, fitting me between them. “I should quit the band.”

  She nods in agreement. “You’d be happier playing your own music, even if you don’t make money from it.” She kisses me, but only briefly before pulling back. “Get a job you can tolerate. Release your music on the side. It’s better to be poor and fulfilled than . . . poor and empty. I was gonna say rich and empty, but I don’t think you’re rich, or you wouldn’t be playing for that band.”

  I would tell her I’m not poor, but admitting that I play for the band willingly and not out of necessity is kind of embarrassing, so I’d rather not say anything at all.

  “If you’re destined to be poor, it’s better to be the happy kind of poor,” she adds.

  She’s right. I kiss her neck, then her breast. Then my mouth is resting against hers again. “I think I’m glad I met you.”

  She pulls back a little, then smiles up at me. “You think? Or you are?”

  “I am. I am very glad I met you.”

  She trails her fingers over my mouth. “I’m very glad I met you.”

  We kiss some more, and it’s full of lazy anticipation, as if we know we have all night and there’s no rush. But I already put on the condom, and she’s already guiding me into her.

  I still take my time with her. So much time.

  Minutes feel like they matter more when they’re spent with her.

  She’s on her stomach, and I’m trailing unworthy fingers up the smooth curve of her spine.

  I reach the base of her neck and then sweep my fingers into her hair and begin caressing the back of her head.

  “I’d kill for a taco right now,” she says.

  I’ve never wanted inside a girl’s mind more than I want inside Layla’s. Her mind doesn’t work like other minds work. There’s no filter between her brain and her mouth, and there’s no conscience telling her she should feel bad for whatever it is she might have said. She just says things unapologetically and without any remorse. Even when her words sting.

  I didn’t know brutal honesty was sexy until tonight.

  I told her a few minutes ago she was the best sex I ever had. I expected her to return the compliment, but she just smiled and said, “We always think that when we’re in it. But then someone new comes along, and we forget how good we thought it was before, and the cycle starts all over again.”

  I laughed. I thought she was joking, but she wasn’t. And then I thought about what she had said, and she was right. I lost my virginity at fifteen. I thought it was the best thing I would ever experience. But then Victoria Jared came along when I was seventeen, and she was the best sex I’d ever had. And then Sarah Kisner, and the girl who snuck into my dorm freshman year, and two or three after that, and then Sable. Each time, the aftermath made me think that was as good as it would get. But maybe they were all equally as good as the one before.

  None of them compare to Layla. I’m certain of that. As certain as I was all the times before Layla.

  “Are you religious?” Layla asks.

  Her thoughts are as sporadic and intense as her actions. I think that’s why I’m so intrigued by her. One minute she’s on her back screaming my name as she digs her nails into my shoulders. The next minute she’s on her stomach, telling me how badly she’s craving a taco. The next minute she forgets about the tacos and wants to know if I’m religious. I love it. Most people are predictable. Every word and action from Layla is like being handed a gift-wrapped surprise.

  “I’m not religious. Are you?”

  She shrugs. “I believe in life after death, but I’m not sure I’m religious.”

  “I think existence is simply luck of the draw. We’re here for a while, and then we’re not.”

  “That’s depressing,” she says.

  “Not really. Imagine what heaven is like. The incessant positivity, the smiles, the lack of sin. The thought of living eternally in a place full of people who spent their lives spouting off inspirational quotes sounds way more depressing to me than if it all just ends with death.”

  “I don’t know if I believe in that kind of afterlife,” Layla says. “I look at existence more as a series of realms. Maybe heaven is one of them. Maybe it isn’t.”

  “What kind of realms?”

  She rolls onto her side, and when my eyes fall to her breasts, she doesn’t try to force me to make eye contact with her. Instead, she pulls my head against her chest as she rolls onto her back. I lay my head on her chest and cup one of her breasts as she casually fingers pieces of my hair and continues talking.

  “Think of it like this,” she says. “The womb is one existence. As a fetus, we didn’t remember life before the womb, and we had no idea if there would be life after the womb. All we knew was the womb. But then we were born, and we left the womb and came into our current realm of existence. And now we can’t remember being in the womb before this life, and we have no idea what comes after this life. And when our current life ends, we’ll be in a different realm altogether, where we might not remember this realm of existence, just like we don’t recall being in the womb. It’s just different realms. One after the other after the other. Some we know for a fact exist. Some we only believe exist. There could be realms of existence we’ve never even entertained the idea of. They could be endless. I don’t think we ever really die.”

  Her explanation makes sense, or maybe I’m just feeling agreeable because my mouth is on her breast. I grab another condom as I ponder her theory. It seems more probable to me than the idea of pearly gates or fire and brimstone ever has.

  I’m still convinced that there is life and there is death and that is all there is.

  “If you’re right, then I like this realm the best,” I say, covering her body with mine.

  She parts her thighs for me and grins against my lips. “Only because you’re in it.”

  I shake my head as I push into her. “No. I lik
e it best because I’m in you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I stare at her for a few minutes, hoping she doesn’t wake up right away. Her hand is draped across my chest—a deadweight as she sleeps. I try to drag out the moment because I know how one-night stands work. I’ve had my fair share of them. I’ve snuck out of a lot of beds, but I don’t want to sneak out of this one.

  I’m hoping Layla doesn’t want me to sneak out of this one.

  She’ll wake up soon, and I know how she’ll feel as soon as she does. She’ll probably shield her eyes from the sun and roll over while she tries to remember how we got here. Who I am. How she can get rid of me.

  Her fingers are the first thing to move. She drags them from my shoulder, around to the back of my neck. She keeps her eyes closed as she pulls me against her so that she can tuck herself against me.

  I’m relieved that I’m familiar to her—that she just woke up and knows exactly where she is and who she’s with and isn’t trying to pull away.

  “What time is it?” she mutters. Her voice doesn’t float out of her throat this early in the morning. It’s a scratchy whisper and somehow even sexier than when she’s wide awake.

  “Eleven.”

  She looks up at me, her eyes puffy and smeared with mascara. “Did you know eleven in the morning is the deadliest time of day?”

  That makes me laugh. “Is that a fact?”

  She nods. “I learned that in college. More people die during brunch than any other time of day.”

  She’s a hot mess. I love it. “You are so strange.”

  “Want to take a shower with me?”

  I smile. “Fuck yeah.”

  I assumed we wouldn’t actually shower in the shower, but it was a legitimate invite.

  I’m massaging conditioner into her hair, asking her questions I normally wouldn’t ask a girl after a one-night stand. There’s just so much about her I want to know.

  “Is Aspen your only sibling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “I freaking love her,” Layla says. “I don’t really agree with her taste in husbands, but whatever works for her.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “Do you know what his name is?”

  “No. What’s his name?”

  “Chad Kyle.”

  “No way,” I whisper.

  “I’m serious. That’s his actual name.”

  “Is it fitting or unfortunate?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s fitting,” she says. “He’s such a typical Chad. Frat boy, country club membership, a quarter-ton pickup, and a dog named Bo.”

  “That explains why he likes Garrett’s Band.” I grab the handheld showerhead and begin rinsing her hair. When it’s wet, her hair goes down to the middle of her back. I’ve never washed a girl’s hair before, but it’s kind of sensual. So is the shape of her head. It fits perfectly against my palm. “Your head is sexy.”

  “How can a head be sexy?”

  I cover her eyes with my free hand so soap doesn’t run into them. “I don’t know. But yours is. Or maybe it’s just you.” When I’m finished rinsing out her hair, I put the showerhead back on the holder. She spins around, and I pull her to me as the stream of hot water beats down on us. “I had fun last night.”

  She smiles. “Me too.”

  “The band is leaving in half an hour.”

  “I am too.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Chicago,” she says. “I still live with my parents. Moved back in with them after college. I’m not sure where I want to end up yet. Definitely not Chicago.”

  “Why don’t you like Chicago?”

  “I do. I just don’t want to live where I grew up. I want to experience the entire spectrum. City, country, condo, cabin in the woods . . .” She twists her hair to squeeze out the excess water. “Where do you live? Nashville?”

  “Close to it. Nashville is pricey and I don’t like roommates, so I lease a place in Franklin. If you’re from Chicago, why did your sister get married in the middle of Kansas?”

  “Chad Kyle is from Wichita,” she says, slipping her arms around my waist. She looks up at my hair, then at my face, and sighs. “Do you know how lucky you are to be a man? You all look the same at the end of a shower. Maybe even a little sexier. Showers transform women. Leave us with flat hair, makeup smeared down our cheeks, concealer down the drain.”

  She talks like there’s some drastic difference between the Layla I met at the wedding and the Layla standing in front of me right now. If anything, this version of her is better. Naked, arms wrapped around me, covered in water. I like this version of her a lot. I lean forward and kiss her neck, gripping her ass with both hands.

  She tilts her head to the side, giving me more access to her neck. “I think I could make a good country girl,” she says. “I’d love to live here. It’s beautiful. I could be happy running a bed and breakfast.”

  For a brief second, I forgot what we were even talking about because she has a two-track mind. Luckily one of them is on me. She lets herself fall against the wall of the shower as my hands roam over her body—my lips over her skin.

  “I really love it here,” she says quietly. “I like the seclusion. The quiet. No neighbors. Just transient guests I’d never really have to get to know.”

  I slide my tongue up her neck and then into her mouth. It’s a deep, short kiss before I pull away. “It’s the heart of the country,” I say. “There’s no better place on earth than right here.”

  In this moment, I absolutely mean that. No better place than right here, right now. She pulls my mouth back to hers, and neither of us flinches when someone knocks on the bedroom door. We’re too preoccupied to care.

  “Layla!” Aspen yells.

  Layla groans at the sound of her voice, but she continues to kiss me while ignoring the knock. The pounding just becomes more incessant. “Layla, open up!”

  Layla sighs, and I stop kissing her so she can get out of the shower. She wraps herself in a towel before walking out and closing the bathroom door. I’m left with a painfully hollow feeling in my stomach.

  This can’t be how we say goodbye. I just need one more day with her. One more conversation. One more shower. I can already feel the longing that’ll fill me all the way back to Tennessee.

  I turn off the water and grab my towel as Layla lets Aspen into the bedroom. I can hear every word when Aspen says, “Did you sleep with the bass player?” Their voices carry straight into the bathroom.

  “Who’s asking?” Layla says.

  “Me. I’m asking.”

  “In that case, yes. Twice. Would have been three times if you hadn’t interrupted us.”

  That makes me laugh.

  “His band is looking for him. They’re leaving.”

  “We’ll be down in a few minutes,” Layla says.

  I hear the bedroom door open up again; then Aspen says, “Mom knows. She overheard one of them say, ‘He shacked up with the bride’s sister.’”

  I freeze at that comment. Why didn’t I think about that? This is a wedding; of course their family is here. Shit. Were we loud last night?

  “I’m twenty-two,” Layla says. “I don’t care if Mom knows.”

  “Just warning you,” her sister responds. “I’m off to Hawaii. I’ll text you when we land.”

  “Have fun, Mrs. Kyle.”

  When the bedroom door closes, I immediately open the bathroom door. Layla spins around, and the movement causes her towel to slip. She wraps it back around her as I drag my eyes up the length of her. She is so effortlessly sexy.

  I tap my fist against the doorframe. “Let’s stay.” I’m casual about it, but that invite is anything but casual. Those two words are probably the most serious to ever leave my mouth.

  “Stay where? Here?”

  “Yeah. Let’s see if we can keep the room for another night.”

  I like the look on her face—like she’s contemplating the idea. “But your band is leaving. You said you hav
e a show tomorrow.”

  “We decided last night that I should quit.”

  “Oh. I thought it was a suggestion. Not a decision.”

  I walk over to her and pull on the end of her towel tucked between her cleavage. It falls to the floor. She’s grinning when my mouth meets hers. I can feel in the way she wraps herself around me that no part of her wants to leave. When she returns my kiss, that dreaded sense of longing that already formed in my chest instantly melts away.

  “Okay,” she whispers.

  THE INTERVIEW

  I’ve been talking for half an hour straight, and the man hasn’t spoken a word. I would continue, but Layla hasn’t let up this whole time. I need to make sure she’s okay.

  Or at least as okay as she can be while being held against her will by her own boyfriend.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to him, scooting my chair back. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He hits the stop button with an understanding nod.

  I walk up the stairs—again—to plead with Layla to trust me long enough to find answers. When I open the door, she’s on her knees on the bed, doing her best to slip her hands out of the rope that’s connecting her wrists to the bedpost.

  “Layla,” I say, defeated. “Can you please stop?”

  She yanks her arms in the opposite direction of the bedpost in an attempt to break the rope. I wince. That had to hurt. I walk over to the bed and check her wrists. They’re raw from all the times she’s tried to break free. Her wrists are starting to bleed.

  She mutters something unintelligible, so I remove the duct tape from her mouth.

  She sucks in a huge gulp of air. “Please untie me,” she pleads. Her eyes are bloodshot and sad. Mascara is smeared down her left cheek. It kills me seeing her like this. I don’t want this for her, but I have no other choice. At least it feels like I have no other choice.

  “I can’t. You know that.”

  “Please,” she says. “It hurts.”