Closer Page 3

  “I don’t think so,” Maby says, lifting the black fedora from Husher’s head and placing it over her short textured haircut. She stands beside her guy, only as tall as his shoulders. “You lost too many beer pong games to go behind the wheel.”

  We’ve been friends long enough to know Teller’s never sober if he doesn’t need to be. No one bothers to ask him if he’s okay to drive, and he doesn’t offer. Instead, he swallows the last swig from his beer and tosses it. The bottle smashes against the bottom of the empty trashcan, shattering glass for the second time tonight.

  “We should leave, anyway.” I stand and take Joseph’s hand. “I have to be at the hospital tomorrow afternoon for a twelve-hour shift.”

  The entire first year of college went by before I decided what I wanted to do with my future. Teller had tons of influence on my decision to earn a degree in science and becoming a registered nurse. The classes he took intrigued me, and how hard he worked to get through medical school. A doctorate was out of the question for myself, but the medical field was my calling. I’ve worked pediatrics for the last two years and can’t imagine doing anything different.

  “It’s not even midnight,” Teller protests. Kristi hangs from his arm like a fucking ornament. She’s not fooling anyone with that head of blonde hair and those dark eyebrows, or that fake beauty mark she wears on her face like a knock-off Marilyn Monroe.

  I see you, bitch.

  “Do you want a ride back to the apartment?” I ask Emerson, slipping my feet into a beat-up pair of Vans. We moved from Venice to Hollywood as soon as we started making better money. The place we share with Nicolette is a short drive to the hospital, but well worth the couple of hours I sit in traffic each week. Nothing beats the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.

  “No,” Joe says quickly.

  My head snaps in his direction defensively. “Why?”

  Joe’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. Everyone looks to him, and he shrugs. “There’s something at my place I want to show you.”

  “You’re not leaving, Ella,” Teller says, rounding the bar. Kristi’s a half step behind him, not bothering with pretenses and chopping me up with her eyes-like-knives. Unlike Teller and Joe, Kristi and I have never gotten along. It’s for Teller’s sake that I don’t backhand her on a regular basis.

  “We’re outta of here, Tell. See you tomorrow, man.” Joseph’s accent slips as it does sometimes, causing here to sound like hea, and man to sound like mahn. He hooks his arm around my neck and pulls me close, kissing my temple.

  “Gabriella, I don’t want you driving. Call a cab or something,” Emerson says. “Or we can stay here tonight. There are more than enough rooms.”

  “Sleepover!” Maby calls out. Husher’s hat falls from her head.

  Joe has a tight grip around me, and Kristi pulls on Teller’s arm, begging, “Let’s go to bed. Let’s watch a movie. Let’s—”

  Teller and I make eye contact from across the kitchen, and my stomach tightens with longing that never completely goes away. Collapsing into his arms would be thoughtless, and breaking Kristi’s fingers for touching him would be a dream come true. But there’s a reason why Teller and I don’t sleep in the same bed anymore, despite what his piercing green eyes do to the part of my aching heart that will only ever belong to him.

  “We’re good, Em,” Joe says. He hugs me tighter, stingy for my affection, like he can feel my body wants to stray. “I didn’t drink at all.”

  “Pussy,” Emerson whispers jokingly, but smiles, satisfied I’ll be escorted home safely. My brother squeezes my hand. “Call me tomorrow, sissy.”

  “Wait,” Teller calls out as we head toward the front door. Kristi follows right behind him. “You can go get beer.”

  Joseph shakes his head. His arm’s still around my shoulders, and I find myself swallowing panic as claustrophobia creeps up my esophagus with legs of a spider. Bowing from under his hold, needing some breathing space, I take a step back. He looks to me with furrowed eyebrows and his extended hand, to which I don’t accept right away.

  “I have to get her home,” Joe says, opening the oversized door once I slip my hand into his.

  “Let them go,” Kristi whispers, gluing herself to Teller’s side. She runs her hand up his chest and kisses his sharp jawline. “Come on, baby. I want to go to bed.”

  “Then go to bed.” Teller shakes himself free from his girl.

  “Wait a second.” Emerson’s loud voice booms from the kitchen. He appears in the hallway a second later, alleviating the tension that was about to strangle us all to death. “I’ve had a long week, Joe, and I’m not ready to call it a night. There’s a liquor store right around the corner. Do us a solid and get some beer before you go.”

  “I’ll go with you for the ride,” Husher says. Maby, the only one left enjoying the music, dances in front of him.

  “But who will dance with me?” high on life whines. Her short hair sticks out every which way, and her light skin is tinted pink from exhilaration.

  Joe releases the door handle with a heavy sign. He considers me with polite frustration, straight lips, and a heavy exhale through his nose. “Do you want to come with me while I run to the store?”

  “If you want me—”

  “Kristi can go with you,” Teller offers, meeting Joe with a stare so bold it dares him to object. He produces a money clip full of cash from the front pocket of his dark denim jeans and flips through his funds, passing Kristi three twenty-dollar bills. “Get me a pack of cigarettes, too.”

  Her jaw drops, and she blinks, once, twice, three times before accepting the money. She turns her face toward Joe, and her cheeks redden before she looks away. “Fine, but when I get back, can we please call it a night?”

  “Whatever you want,” Teller agrees with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Joe leads me outside, down the long driveway toward his car parked curbside. Teller and Kristi are a few paces back, arguing in clipped tones and quiet aggravation. The sticky night only amplifies their unease, and the quiet neighborhood carries Teller’s voice when he stops halfway down the drive and says, “Then I’ll go. They’re my cigarettes. I’ll fucking go.”

  I look over my shoulder to find Kristi tugging on Teller’s hand while she whispers apologies and promises, “I’m just tired. I’m sorry. I want to go. I don’t mind going for you, Tell.”

  Moonlight washes yellow hues from her hair, leaving it silvery-white. Her long lashes leave an exaggerated shadow across the curve of her cheekbones, and her pale-pink lips seem blood red as she smiles at my first friend. Teller’s shoulders drop, and he directs his body and consideration fully on the girl I secretly fear he might love more than me one day. He runs his tattooed hand through her long hair and presses his lips to the corner of her mouth.

  “Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be right back,” Joe says, disengaging the car alarm. The headlights illuminate the street.

  “I’ll come with you,” I say, following him to the driver’s side of the dark blue Acura. “Just let me run back in and say goodbye.”

  He leans against the vehicle and pulls me between his parted legs, circling his arms around my lower back. Joe’s calming effect is immediate, and I rest against his chest to listen to the solid drum of his heart’s lullaby.

  “Say your goodbyes when I’m gone.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay.” I sigh, wishing I felt as regretful as I sound.

  Backdropped by the inky black sky, I could drown in the depths of his eyes and the amount of devotion they hold for me. He studies my blank expression with irises the color of the bluest oceans, and I compel my lips to curve before he detects some of my attention isn’t his. If there were ever a time he could truly see me, it would be now, while his soul is exposed under the fullest moon.

  “I have something for you when we get back to my place,” he says, sweeping his thumb across my bottom lip. “Something I’ve wanted to give to you for a whil
e.”

  “Chocolate?” I ask.

  Over Joe’s shoulder, I’m tethered to Teller’s shadowy figure. Much like the first time I met him, he’s a statue of tribulation, unmoved by Kristi’s demand for attention. She crosses her arms over her chest, and then uncrosses them to pull on his hand. Teller shakes her off, whispering something I can’t hear, but it’s enough to get Kristi to stop her temper tantrum.

  I can’t look away.

  “Better than chocolate,” Joe says.

  “Sex?” I ask, driving my gaze away from Teller. Constant electricity that links me to him sizzles and pops, urging me to return my stare where it doesn’t belong. Fighting instinct is exhausting, but I return commitment with determination despite the toll it takes on my nerves. “Because if you’re offering orgasms, we can leave right now.”

  “That will come after,” Joe whispers, lowering his head to kiss me. His lips fall short when Teller clears his throat and closes the car door with Kristi inside.

  “Hurry back.” I move out of his arms, pushing away the small ease of relief that sneaks down my spine.

  “You’re killing me with this shit, Tell,” my guy teases as Teller comes around the back of the car and tucks me under his arm for safekeeping. “Get your hands off my girlfriend, would ya?”

  I roll my eyes, but the devil at my side pulls me closer and says in a dark tone, “Keep your hands off mine.”

  “Be ready to go when I get back,” Joe replies, breaking his eyes from Teller’s face. The engine starts, dimming the dome light from inside the Acura. Brilliance from the gages glows vibrantly, illuminating Joe’s face with neon blue. In the seat beside him, Kristi connects her phone to the Bluetooth and searches for music, like she’s purposely avoiding us.

  “Drive safe,” I offer as he shifts the car into drive.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Joe repeats.

  We wait until red taillights disappear around the corner before we exhale and walk back toward the house. Tension between us does all the talking, and our body language gets the point across better than words ever could. We’re small smiles and slighter touches, sweeping fingertips and brushing elbows. Every inhale, exhale, step, and movement is noticed, and it’s been this way since we met.

  He’s a second skin, and my counterpart.

  “Ella, don’t leave with him tonight,” Teller says right before I walk back through the front door. “Stay with me.”

  The only thing that beats the hustle of the city is Teller’s two-story house in Echo Park. If it were not for the impressive view of downtown from the front yard, it would be easy to believe this place was in the hills somewhere far from here, away from traffic, smog, and crushed Hollywood delusions. A slice of heaven hidden amid madness, the lake, the trees, and the crisp summertime air isn’t what I thought I wanted when Emerson and I moved to LA all those years ago, but it’s definitely where I can see myself ending up.

  “What’s going on with you?” I ask, turning around to face him. “Are you and Kristi in a fight or something?”

  Teller’s on the edge of the lawn, stripped of aggression and pride, offering me easy posture and an honest expression. He holds his hands out, palms up, like a prayer. Careful, like I would ever be afraid of him.

  “I can be better than before,” he says, turning his gaze toward the end of the street. Teller presses his lips together and looks back, wild-eyed, like time is running out. “We were fucked up before, but don’t leave with him. I can’t pretend like there’s nothing here, Ella. Do not leave with him.”

  We’ve never pretended. Obsession dug its claws in us, and damn anyone who told us we were wrong. Passion is a fickle bitch, up and down, up and down; passive one moment and roaring the next. It makes for a turbulent relationship that forces the people in our lives to accept it or choose sides. Because it is possible to lose yourself to desperation and not realize it until you don’t recognize your own reflection in the mirror.

  “I want to be with him,” I say. I lie.

  “It’s not the same thing,” Teller replies. His lips curve into a smirk.

  He closes the distance between us and captures me in his arms, instantly washing away traces of calm Joe left behind, trading it with fever. Dopamine rushes my system, flooding my veins with burning pleasure and deliverance. Blood reddens my cheeks, and heat blasts through the palms of my hands.

  Wanting Joe is not the same.

  Absolutely nothing compares to the dope-like feeling Teller inflicts on my senses, like a shot of adrenaline directly to my heart. I hold on to him, burying my face between his neck and shoulder, accepting that his proximity is dangerous and deadly and axis tilting. Inhaling against his skin to breathe him into me, my lips brush the sensitive skin under his unsteady pulse and he groans.

  “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers in a ragged tone. Teller turns his face, pressing his lips to my temple, gripping the back of my shirt in his fingers. “They’ll understand, Ella. They’ll know. I’ve been trying to tell you all night.”

  “Why does this feel different?” I ask through a new level of need.

  Teller pushes my hair away from my face before placing one hand on the back of my neck and the other one against my cheek. His green eyes are glassy under the porch light, and his eyebrows come together right before he says, “Because Joe’s going to ask—”

  Before he can finish, Teller and I look to the street as an oversized pickup comes flying down the long road, playing music so loud I can feel the bass beneath my feet. The white 4x4 barrels past the house, easily driving eighty miles an hour, blowing a gust of wind so powerful it ruffles tree branches and blows my hair from my shoulders. The driver swerves to the left and to the right, narrowly missing cars parked along the curb, showing no attempt to lower his speed.

  “Stay here,” he says, walking to the middle of the lawn, looking toward the right.

  I follow a few paces behind, stepping onto the damp grass in time to see Joe’s blue car come around the corner as the white truck gains control but doesn’t slow down. Teller runs, but only makes it as far as the sidewalk before the vehicles collide in an explosion of metal hitting metal and destruction, followed by deafening silence.

  Now

  Time comes to a complete stop, and all I can do is stare at the wreckage. White smoke stretches for the night sky, seeping from the truck’s engine, now tipped on its side. The headlights are on, illuminating the small intersection, casting jagged shadows across the surface of the street. Joe’s two-door car is flipped on its hood in someone’s front yard—a neighbor I never bothered to introduce myself to. The back tires spin, and the horn honks in one continuous sound.

  All at once, house lights flip on and front doors open. People in carelessly tied bathrobes and bedhead emerge from their homes, stopping like statues when they see what I see. It isn’t until Ella runs past me, checking my shoulder as she passes, that I get ahold of myself and chase her.

  “Don’t,” I say, catching her in my arms and spinning around. I hold her against my chest. “Don’t go over there.”

  “Oh my God!” she screams, fighting me with pointed elbows and sharp fingernails. We drop to the road on our knees, and I arc over her body to keep her from running. “Oh my God.”

  Emerson suddenly appears and lifts his sister to her feet, carrying her to the house where Maby and Nicolette stand at the end of the driveway, motionless. Husher sprints past me with his cell phone to his ear, calling off the address and stopping beside the crumbled Acura. The phone drops from his hand and breaks at his feet.

  “We need some help over here!” an older man with gray hair and bare feet shouts. He’s climbed atop the truck on his hands and knees, looking into the cab through the shattered window. “I think he’s breathing.”

  Husbands hold their wives; mothers shoo their children back inside before their innocent eyes see something that will haunt their dreams for years to come. Car alarms trigger, and every neighborhood dog howls and barks, scratching against fences
to get free. When all I want to do is cover my ears to stop the cry from approaching sirens, I move forward and announce, “I’m a doctor.”

  Obligation corrects my state of mind, and I block distraction and concentrate on what needs to be done to help anyone involved in the accident. Instead of climbing onto the truck and attempting to lift the heavy door, I break the windshield and crawl through rubble on my hands and knees. Broken bits of glass cut my palms and slice between my fingers, but it doesn’t stop me from searching for a pulse from the man trapped inside the pickup.

  The cutting scent of alcohol mixed with vomit burns my nose and stings my eyes, causing them to water. Empty beer cans that were tossed during the collision have collectively landed around the driver’s body. A glass handle of vodka broke open, soaking his hair and mixing with blood trickling from his wounds.

  “Can you hear me?” I ask, observing his visible injuries. “Open your eyes if you can hear my voice.”

  Blood seeps from a laceration at his hairline, and he’s suffered extensive road rash on his left arm from skidding across pavement once the truck flipped. Despite minor bruising, small cuts and scrapes, and a broken nose from striking the steering wheel at one point, his wounds are superficial and the motherfucker will survive.

  “Help is on its way,” I say. Passed out from booze, or knocked unconscious from the collision, he’s unresponsive. There’s nothing I can do for him as long as he’s in the truck, restrained by the seatbelt. If I stay any longer, I won’t be able to stop myself from killing him with my own bare hands.

  I crawl away from the truck to find a collection of people standing in a semicircle around the crash site. Some are on their phones with the police; others linger with their hands over their mouths, but most just stare. On the brink of losing myself to rage, a woman approaches and places her steady hand on my shoulder and stares at me directly in my eyes.

  “I’m a paramedic. How can I help?” she says, bending at the knees. In a pair of slippers and a silk nightgown, her hair is damp like she just washed it, and I can smell mint on her breath.