Broken Charms

Can't Let Go: Part Four

“I was going to kiss him, and I was going to regret it. But at that moment, I couldn't bring myself to care.”

― Michelle Hodkin, The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer

Astrid

My cheeks burned from the cold, and my lips burned from something else as I took a deep breath.

I hadn’t meant to kiss him back. I think I’d known before he’d ever touched me that he still wanted me, but a small part of me wanted the easy out that that would have provided. I wanted him to walk away because I wasn’t sure I would have the willpower to do it myself.

Then he’d kissed me, and I thought . . . a few seconds wouldn’t hurt. Just to kill the curiosity. Just long enough to blame on the alcohol, then we could pretend like it didn’t happen, and I could stop being fascinated by him.

That had been the plan. But then his hand had tightened in my hair, and I was swept away by my weakness for kisses with a little edge.  This kiss was a paradox. It was sweet and soft, like I would expect a kiss from Harry to be. But every time I’d thought of pushing him away, there had been something—a pull on my hair, a graze of teeth, a press of his hips—that had frayed my thoughts and kept me kissing him. I don’t know how he managed to be soft and rough at the same time, but I had to hand it to him, it was kind of mindblowing.

It was also the worst idea since Crocs. We were over. I didn’t love him as I once did. We were supposed to be friends. God, I was such a screwup.

The slap was an overreaction, but there had been a hurricane of emotion wreaking havoc in my chest—lust and fear and guilt—and I had just snapped.

“Should I be going after that guy?” George asked. “I’m a little unclear on your feelings at the moment.” Join the club.

“No. But thank you. He’s just a friend. We’re both a little drunk. Nothing to worry about.” Except I wasn’t drunk. Not really. I had no excuse other than stupidity for my own behavior. Well, that and how hot Harry was. Yep, we should definitely lay the blame on his hotness.

I looked at my watch and balked, I only had about a minute left in my break. I must have kissed him for longer than I thought. Harry joined the very short list of things in life that had that kind of time-bending effect on me. Or more correctly, kissing Harry joined that list, as it always had and I hadn’t noticed.

George said, “I’m going to hit the head. You want me to walk you in?” I took a deep breath and shook my head. “No, I’m good. I’ll go inside in about a minute. Go ahead, I’ll be fine.”

I stayed by the door. It was a pointless exercise. The slow inhale and exhale was doing absolutely nothing to calm me down. I used my heel to dig at a weed that had sprouted up between slabs of concrete. It was amazing how even in the middle of a city—a world of hard stone and cold metal—something living could overcome the obstacles and emerge to see the light of day. The heavy metal door swung open again, and I was standing too close. It clipped me in the shoulder, as I pitched forward. An arm caught me around the waist before I hit pavement.

“I gotcha, babe.” The guy reeked of alcohol. He pulled me up and close to his body. His head was shaved, and he had a few tattoos. He might have been my type on the surface, but his arm was tight around my waist in a way that didn’t feel at all appealing or comforting.

I feigned a smile. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m good.” His eyes were dark, and they left my face to look down at my body. His hand curved around my bare waist, and his thumb traced one of the lines of my tattoo. “I bet you are.”