Bad at Love by Karina Halle
Eventually though, the reason for the meeting comes up.
“Marina,” my father says after we’ve polished off Kung Pao’s chicken. “I’ve decided to sell the house.”
House is a bit of an exaggeration but I’m surprised. “What? Why?”
He and my aunt exchange a look. “It’s, uh…I need help, little girl. More help than you or Margaret can give me. It isn’t fair to both of you that I can’t take care of myself, especially you. After everything I’ve put you through—I can’t stand to put you through anymore.”
“So what does this mean?”
“It means that I’m going to sell the house, I’m going to go to a detox and rehab center for as long as I can. There’s one in the hills, by our old place in Ramona. Then after that, maybe a group home.”
“And then we’ll see what happens,” Margaret says. “The treatment center is very expensive, so unfortunately selling the house is a must. What’s left over, we were thinking about getting him a condo near me.”
“What about Pickles?” I ask.
My dad chuckles. “Pickles doesn’t need to go to rehab. His catnip problem isn’t that bad.”
“I can take him in,” Margaret says. “Unless you want to. Do you think he’d be okay with your bees?”
I nod. “He’d be fine. I’d have to ask Barbara but I don’t think it would be a problem. I’d love to have that fat cat.”
After that, it’s back to small talk again and I’m trying not to let the hope shine out of my chest. The fact that my father is taking this step means he’s actually serious for once. It’s one thing to go because a court orders you or because you had a change of heart. It’s another thing to sell your house so you can afford to stay in a treatment center.
This is a huge step. This huge for everyone.
And like usual, I want to get my hopes up because that’s what I do. I open myself up to believing everything will be okay, which is why my heart is always getting stomped on when I’m eventually let down.
Chapter Fifteen
Marina
“Goodnight Lovers”
“So, that was some big news,” Laz says later after we’ve said goodbye to my father and Aunt Margaret and are driving away from Irvine toward the coast.
“I know,” I say softly.
“Good news,” he adds, as if he wasn’t clear. “I’m guessing a treatment center is a step above rehab.”
“Yeah, it’s like going to the Betty Ford clinic. He can stay for months. Sometimes they go to group homes after, where a bunch of recovering addicts live together. He’s never taken it this seriously before, even after Mom died.”
“It’s never too late to make things right.” He pauses. “Not that this will bring your mum back but…”
“I know,” I say just as we come out of the canyon near Laguna. “Nothing will. But it can’t hurt.”
“And for you, to not have to deal with this, to go back to being his daughter instead of his caregiver. To not carry this weight and worry in your heart.” He reaches over and takes my hand. “I see it in you, you know. Behind your beautiful smile and kind eyes, you have this darkness within you. I wish more than anything I could banish it.”
I give him a gracious smile. “You do, Laz. Being with you gives me light.”
We pull into the parking lot right across the beach at Crystal Cove State Park and Laz parks the car far away from the only other car in the lot, a truck where rap music blares and clouds of pot waft out of the barely cracked windows.
“Now this is nice,” I tell him, rolling down the window to let the ocean breeze wash over us. The ocean itself is dark as sin, the waves rolling in slowly, their crests catching glints of lights off of Highway 1. I breathe in the salt air and feel my muscles immediately loosen.
“I often wonder why we don’t live by the beach,” he says. “What’s the point of living in California if you always forget that this is here.”
“Why don’t we?” I repeat. “I can tell you why I don’t, because I don’t have several millions of dollars. And, so far, neither do you.”
“You are such a dream crusher,” he says, making a tsking sound as he shakes his head. “You’re supposed to aim for something in life, aren’t you?”
I give him a tiny, one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah. But my goals aren’t fancy beach houses.”
“I didn’t say it needed to be fancy,” he says. “It could be a daggy, old shack and I’d be happy with it. Just as long as I can see the ocean.”
Am I in these dreams with you? I wonder. He did say “we” after all.
He lightly pokes my arm with his finger. “What are your goals then?”
“Life goals? I guess just being successful at what I do. Educate the world about bees. Make a difference in the environment, in the ecosystem, in people’s lives. Make the world a better happier place.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes as his head goes back against the seat rest. “How can I compete with bloody Leonardo DiCrappio.”
“Did you just call Leonardo Dicaprio, Leonardo DiCrappio?”
“I did.”
“And why am I Leo?”
“Because he’s trying to save the planet. As are you.”
“Oh.” I pause. “I’m just trying to make a difference. Even if I save one bee. It’s small but the smallest changes can lead to the biggest results.”
“You are unbelievable, you know that.” His rests his head on the side so he’s staring right at me, eyes focused in amazement.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting a beach house, Laz. I’m sure when you first moved to California, that’s where you thought everyone lived—on the beach.”
He nods slowly. “You’re right,” he says thoughtfully. “I thought that everyone lived on the beach, drove convertibles, listened to rap, wore bikinis all day long. I was especially looking forward to that last one.”
I reach over and give his knee a violent squeeze so he yelps. “Actually, half of those are true.”
“I also thought they’d all look like you, the quintessential California girl,” he says, his hand drifting down to grab mine. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, gorgeous tanned, soft skin. And it turns out, only you look like you, Marina. Only you are you. Thank god I found you.”
I swallow hard, his words tenderizing me.
I smile. “I’m glad I found you, too.”
That’s the understatement of the year but it’s all I can manage for now. I’m still reeling at the stark simplicity of what he just said. I could feel his heart in it, like he just handed it to me for safekeeping.
And yet, I have no idea if he feels the same way about me as I do with him. No idea if he loves me like I love him. And I love him, so, so much. Like there’s this endless reservoir deep inside me that I’ve accidently tapped and now I’m not sure how to stop it, or even if I want to.
There is so much love in me.
And…this is a risk. A recipe for pain if things go wrong. There’s a chance I could lose Laz forever, a chance I could get severely hurt if my love is a one-way street.
But I don’t even get to decide anymore whether to indulge the feeling or not, I don’t get to decide whether I love him or not. I just do.
I just do.
“You know,” he says, his focus down on his fingers as they lace with mine. He trails off, rubs his lips together. “I have a secret.”
Oh god.
“The night we met?” he says. “It wasn’t an accident.”
I blink at him. “Huh? You mean, at the show?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I told Jane to invite you.”
“Wha…?” I shake my head. “But you didn’t know me.”
“I saw your picture on her Facebook and that was it. I just...I wanted to meet you.”
I can’t believe this. This is nuts.
“You told Jane to invite me? She never told me that.”
“I can’t remember what I said. Probably along the lines of, bring that hot blonde friend of yours and then
Huh. To think that he was looking for me when I first showed up at The Mint.
“But you had a girlfriend,” I point out.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Whoa. My eyes narrow at him. I’m his girlfriend now, so what does that mean?
“The truth is,” he goes on, “that night, I consulted the 8 Ball and asked it if I should break up with my girlfriend and go for you instead.” He laughs to himself. “It told me Outlook Not So Good.”
“What?” I cry out softly. “You mean to tell me you would have asked me out if the fucking Magic 8 Ball would have said yes?”
He nods. “Pretty much.”
“Laz…that’s crazy. You can’t do that.”
“Do what?” His brows knit together. “I told you that’s what I do.”
“But this is…this is playing with other people. This is playing with me. I mean, my life…my life would be completely different now if I had gone out with you back then.”
“Different, but not better. Neither of us would have been better off.” He takes off his seatbelt and leans in closer, cupping my face in his hands. His eyes search mine. “Marina, I was an absolute fool until we got together. You would have not wanted to date me back then. Fuck, you wouldn’t have wanted to date me a month ago. The time is right, finally, now, for both of us.”
He’s right. I know he is. The timing would have been off. We would have dated then broken up because he’s such a commitment-phobe or whatever his problem is and then we would have never been friends. We would have never had what we have now.
“Just promise me, you’ll stop using that damn 8 Ball. I’m a part of your life now. I don’t want a toy dictating our fate.”
“I haven’t been. Not seriously.”
I chew on my lip for a moment, gathering courage to ask him a serious question. “Why do you do it? Why the 8 Ball? What does it mean to you?”
He squints off into the distance, looking a tad embarrassed. “Well,” he says in a low voice. “My father had one as a joke.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t have to say anymore.
But he does. “At night, when he had been drinking, he’d get me to play fortune teller. We would do this for hours. It helped calm him down. It calmed me down. Sometimes it didn’t work and he’d throw it across the room, trying to smash it, then smash everything he could lay his hands on. Sometimes that was me.”
Oh, shit.
“But, you know, that thing never broke. I did but…it didn’t.” He glances at me. “Don’t worry, he wasn’t beating the shit out of me or my mother or anything. But he would hurt me. And what would break was everything inside. You know, that place where love comes from. That’s what he’d break.”
“Your heart?” I whisper.
“I don’t know, you’d think I’d be more eloquent,” he says, his eyes wide, staring blankly at nothing. He shakes his head. “When I came home to visit right after he left us, the only thing he left behind of his was that Magic 8 Ball. I still have it. I don’t use it though. It’s in a box in the closet. But I use one because it calms me…just to know that you don’t have to make decisions, that someone else, something else, is making them for you. There’s no responsibility. And I like that. I like to think that my father consulted it before he left us and that the ball made the decision to leave us and never look back. Then…it wouldn’t be personal.” He pauses, looks at me. “But it’s personal.”
“Laz,” I say softly, my heart breaking for him. “I am so sorry.”
He stares at me for a moment then his gaze falls to my lips. He undoes his seatbelt. Shoves his chair back as far as it will go, reaches for me. “Come here,” he says gruffly.
There’s not a lot of space but there’s enough that I’ll fit. I move carefully over the console, balancing myself on his shoulders until I’m straddling him, grateful I’m wearing a miniskirt.
He grins at me, his hands trailing up into my hair, my eyes closing from that sensation. I know he’s making this physical because he doesn’t want to talk about the emotional, and that’s okay. One step at a time. Besides, I did say I wanted to fuck him in this car.
I adjust myself on his hips, my hand slipping down toward his pants. I shift to undo the top button, bracing myself on his shoulder. I bite my lip as I tug down his zipper. I can feel him hard, bare, and ready beneath me. I’m wet as hell. It’s instant now, even just thinking about sex with him.
He knows too. He puts one hand at the small of my back, the other slipping between my legs, pushing the dress up, shoving my underwear aside. My clit screams with pleasure the moment his fingers slide against me, slick and hard.
“You need to stop wearing knickers,” he murmurs, staring at me with shiny eyes. “You’re drenched.”
“You have that effect on me,” I say, leaning forward and kissing along his neck, taking in his woodsy, spicy scent that throws me into another wave of lust. I could live my whole life with my face buried here, feeling the pulse along his neck, smelling every ounce of this man, my man.
“I’m not complaining, sweet girl,” he says, grabbing my tank top and pulling it and my bra down so my breasts are exposed. “I want to see those brilliant tits of yours.”
Fuck me. Even the way he says “tits” is nearly enough to make me come. Then again, Laz’s voice is especially suited for dirty talk with that deep, warm growl of his.
His eyes rake over my chest, hot with desire I can feel. In some ways, this gaze of his feels more intimate, more penetrating than sex. I feel like I’ve been handed over on a plate for him to savor and enjoy.
Then he’s leaning over, cupping my breast with large, warm hands, and pulling my nipple into his mouth. My body becomes a roman candle, fizzing, burning, begging to go off.
I moan loudly, grinding myself into his cock, desperate for him.
“Slow, we’re taking this slow, greedy girl,” he murmurs, sending more shivers along my spine, his tongue lapping at my nipple until it nearly hurts. My other breast is practically aching, needing his touch, and when he moves his wet, hot mouth over, my body shakes in relief.
“Fuck,” I say with a moan, throwing my head and shoulders back, trying to push myself into him, wild, crazy, and desperate for more. I reach down and around, grasping his cock and pulling it out of his pants.
“Easy,” he warns, pulling his mouth away from me. “I’m a hair trigger these days,” he says, gazing up at me.
And I love that I have that power over him. I grin, bite my lip, and grip him harder.
He pinches his eyes shut, his full, luscious mouth dropping open in a moan. God, his sounds completely undo me, a thread being pulled looser and looser until there’s nothing holding me together anymore.
“You’re trying to ruin me again,” he says, cupping my face with his hand while staring feverishly at my lips. He leans in, kissing me lightly, lips brushing lips, until I roll my hand up and down over his thick, wet head. The sound is so loud in the car and when I look up from watching myself squeeze his shiny tip, the windows are already fogged.
Then the kiss deepens, a slow, hard pull that reaches deep inside me, feeding the hunger. Our mouths, lips, and tongues dance like savages with each other, violent and ravenous and wild.
He suddenly grabs my waist and hoists me up a few inches, positioning his cock just so before lowering me. I gasp at the intrusion, my body so fucking ready yet so unprepared that I have to remember to breathe. If it wanted a break after New York, it’s not getting one.
“Fuck me,” he mutters against my neck as he deliberately drives his cock upward and into me, my muscles expanding around him as much as they can. “So fucking good, Marina. You feel so fucking good.”
I can’t even answer him. I’m sucked under a wave and all I can feel is him pushing, spreading inside me, taking over every thought and feeling. I’ve never felt so full, so thoroughly complete before.
I try my best to pump myself up and down given how my knees
I’m so close to coming, and so fast, just on his cock alone as he rubs a sweet spot deep inside and—
There’s a knock at the window.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, flinching so hard I almost fly off Laz’s dick.
A flashlight comes through the fog.
“It’s a rozzer,” Laz says and I don’t even have time to wonder what a rozzer is because I’m quickly, awkwardly, climbing off of him and onto my seat, pulling my top up and my skirt down.
Laz tucks his dick away, glances at me with wide-eyes, a hint of a crazed smile, then rolls down the window a crack.
“Can I help you?” Laz says to the flashlight.
A face lowers into sight and looks at the both of us. It’s a cop. Which must be a rozzer in Manchester speak.
The cop clears his throat. “We don’t allow cars to be parked here this time of night. You’ll have to get moving.”
“Right, didn’t know that,” Laz says. “I’m foreign.”
“Uh uh,” the cop says. “Just be on your way now.”
He turns and walks away and now I can see his car. Not even a cop, he’s a park ranger. But he has a gun, so we probably should listen
Laz rolls the window down further and laughs wildly, starting the car and turning on the air to disperse the condensation.
“I can’t believe that just bloody happened,” he says, flicking on the headlights.
“I can,” I tell him. “I guess it was pretty obvious what we were doing.”
“Hey we could have been hot-boxing.”
“For some reason that’s probably not as frowned upon as sex in a public place.”
“Ah, you Americans are a bunch of prudes, I tell you.”