Can’t Get No Satisfaction (3/4)

"Un-fucking-believable," Layla said.

Bertie's eyes crinkled the way they always did when she thought she knew something no one else did. "Hmmm. The piano isn't the only one who seems to like him."

"I do not like him."

"Bullshit. Then why do you care? Don't say it's on my account, because I told you, I wanted to sell it to him. It makes me happy to think someone is giving it a new life. And that's all I'm going to say about it, unless you want to tell me what's really got you all riled up."

Layla clamped her lips together. Bertie wasn't the only one who couldn't be forced to talk when she didn't want to.

"That's what I thought." The woman's face softened. "Are you here to help out today, or what?"

Layla had planned on it--if by "helping out" Bertie meant drinking tea and eating Gabi's cupcakes while Layla bitched about work--but she suddenly decided she had somewhere else to be. "Sorry...I gotta go."

"I figured you might."

Layla rode her bike the half mile or so to the old McCormick house, her anger building with each turn of the bike pedals. Maybe Bertie was wrong.

Maybe someone else had bought the house, and Derek had decided to give them the piano as some kind of inappropriately expensive housewarming gift. He had seemed to make a few friends in town even though she would rather he didn't.

So they'd had sex a couple times. He'd driven her home more than once and defended her honor in a way that had nothing to do with feeling sorry for her about her past. They weren't close.

But you'd think if he decided to buy a house in town that he'd at least have mentioned it.

Layla pulled up in the driveway, her bike tires crunching on the gravel as she laid on the brakes with a little more gusto than necessary. She recognized Derek's car out back by the garage. The sight of it there, as if it belonged and didn't plan on carrying Derek out of her world and back to his, made her pulse drum in her ears.

Oh wait. That was actual drums from the stereo blasting from the open windows.

She marched up to the front door, stomping over the missing porch step. She jammed a finger into the doorbell, and when the door didn't immediately open, she began to pound on the wood with her fist.

After a moment, the music stopped and she heard footsteps thunking toward the door. She had the sudden urge to turn and run, but pride and righteous anger kept her feet firmly in place.

The door swung open to reveal Derek, a pair of worn jeans slung low on his hips, his hair a perfect mess as usual. The muscles flexed in his forearms as he wiped a thin layer of what appeared to be sawdust from the front of his plain white tee shirt.

He frowned, the blue fire she normally saw in his eyes replaced with ice. "What are you doing here?"

Layla put her hand on her hips and frowned right back at him. "Seriously? What am I doing here? What are you doing here?"

"I'm fixing the porch step."

She threw her hands in the air. "Of course. That explains everything."

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe I don't owe you an explanation. I can do whatever the fuck I want without running it by you first."

He started to shut the door in her face, but she stopped it with her hand. He stared at her for a moment over the threshold, then turned and walked inside. She followed after him and closed the door behind her.

This was not a conversation she was going to have standing on his front porch. And damn it if she couldn't figure out why she wanted to have the conversation in the first place. Deep down she knew he didn't owe her an explanation. She shouldn't care if he bought every house on the street.

A day with him she cold handle. A week she could get over. But this...

She followed him to the doorway of an empty parlor, which he'd apparently set up as a makeshift work room. There was saw and a bunch of wood cut in various shapes and sizes, tools she didn't recognize littering the floor.

Derek went back to the saw and resumed his work as if she was invisible. She watched as he cut out the piece, the buzz of the saw not quite loud enough to drown out her own thoughts. It took her a moment to realize he was cutting trim, the ornate gingerbread type houses like this were known for.

It felt so personal, this side of him she was seeing for the first time. It didn't fit with who she imagined him to be. It made him too real.

No...she couldn't handle this at all.

His brow crinkled under her scrutiny, and he flicked off the saw with a curse. He hurled the unfinished trim to the floor.

"Damn it, Layla. What do you want from me?"

She didn't know. Or rather, she did know, she just didn't want to admit it. Instead she took the easy way out. "I told you, I want an explanation."

Derek brushed past her, and headed into the room across the entryway. He smelled like wood and soap. It hit her on a primal level, this raw, secret side of him smearing the wet paint of the picture she'd painted in her head.

A warning buzzed in her ears, louder than the saw had been moments before. She should leave. She should turn around, walk back out the door, and pretend he didn't matter at all.

The worst thing she could do was think of him as real.

None of this was real. She didn't care what he said. Buying this house couldn't mean anything. Or if it did, it was only temporary. A detour on his game board that she never agreed to.

He was going to leave Maybe. He was going to leave her.

And then where would she be?

Alone.

Alone in her house. Alone with her work. Alone trying to show everyone just how much music made a difference to these kids who depended on her.

She was always alone.

And that was supposed to be how she liked it.

"So it's true." She stared at the piano, the one and only object in the room except for an old, red couch next to one of the windows. "You bought it...why that piano? Why this house?"

"Because I wanted to. Why isn't that ever enough?" He spun around, and she nearly collided with him.

His eyes fell to her mouth, making her skin flush. He jammed his hands in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He removed one and put it to his lips, his eyes locking onto hers again as if he dared her to say anything about it.

The heat drained out of her, to be replaced by the sickening creep of cold she always felt when she saw someone smoking. She knew the fear bordered on irrational, but she couldn't help it. Normally she could control it, she could force some distance between the fears of her past and other people's business.

A sting of realization hit her that somehow, despite her best efforts to keep him out, she'd let Derek in enough that what he did affected her.

Her mouth opened and closed, but for once she couldn't muster up the anger to get the words out. She blinked at him and took a step back.

Something flickered in his eyes, the tension in the air between them threatening to snap.

"Fuck." He pulled the cigarette from his lips, and crumpled it and the rest of the pack in his fist.

Relief flooded her as he dropped it to the floor.

"What's with you and cigarettes? It's more than just you thinking it's a bad habit. What is it?" His face softened, and Layla could sense that he needed something from her. An admission. The truth. Proof that she saw him as someone worthy of confiding in.

And she wanted to tell him. She'd never wanted to talk about her past with anyone, but she wanted to tell him. She just knew that if she did, things would change even more than they already had.

She wouldn't be able to bear it if she looked into his eyes and saw pity. Pity would ruin everything.

"It's nothing. You can do whatever the fuck you want without running it by me first, remember? Don't pretend you care about me. You can't care about me."

"Yeah. I forgot you have me all figured out. You have since the moment I met you." His eyes shuttered, the softness gone. He sneered. "I can't care about you. I'm using you. Everything's a game to me. Well let met tell you something, Ms. M...you're the one who's been using me. You're the player, here."

"Excuse me?"

He laughed, a harsh sound that rubbed her nerves raw. "There's the indignation...right on cue."

"You need--"

"Don't fucking tell me what I need." He closed the distance between them, an electric current of anger and lust charging through her body as his torso touched hers. "Big, bad me is taking advantage of sweet, innocent you. Isn't that how you have me pegged? I used you and left you on your living room floor, right? I used you in your car...everything I said to you about wanting to see what was between us was just bullshit to get some pussy."

She gasped as his anger threatened to engulf her. He was right. He wasn't the asshole, here. She was. The truth was like a slap in the face.

Layla wanted to apologize, but she couldn't. Not with him looking at her like that. The fire was back, and it was going to burn her alive.

But this fire...she didn't know if she should be afraid of it or if she should just close her eyes and jump in.

"You know what I think? I think you wanted me to be that guy. You wanted to be able to go back to your life and say that I was the one who used you." He slid his hand behind her head, wrapping his fingers around the base of her ponytail, and tilting her head back.

She gasped again, but the sound was cut off when he covered her mouth with his. He wasn't gentle. He took what he wanted from her, with his tongue, his lips, wringing a whimper from her throat that betrayed her lust for him. Proving that everything he'd just said was true.

He pulled back with a smirk. "I thought so. You want me to use you, don't you? You need an excuse, right?"