A Ravenous Reunion (Ravenous Reunion #1) Read online

  A Ravenous Reunion

  Book 1

  Karessa Mann

  Contents

  Copyright

  A Ravenous Reunion

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A RAVENOUS REUNION - BOOK 1

  Copyright © 2014 by Karessa Mann

  Cover design and ebook formatting by Indie Author Services.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from the author.

  A Ravenous Reunion

  My fingers tremble as I knock on the beige oak door I’ve entered so many times before. I grab the wine bottle from under my arm, relieved that both my hands are preoccupied as I wait for the answer. I take this moment of solitude to look around me. The rose bushes are neatly pruned, and the Japanese maple flourishes in a rich plum shade due to the scorching sun. The van was missing from the driveway, as was his beat-up convertible, which I couldn’t imagine he still owned, replaced by a standard maroon rental that didn’t match his taste. I close my eyes and envision for a moment the nights we hid in his car, steaming up the windows after a date. Or him pressing me against the side of his parents’ minivan, hoping the neighbors wouldn’t get a free show of our naked skin.

  I look back toward the door, and staring me in the face is the hammock swing. I instantly get goose bumps as I remember lying in his arms, swaying in the summer breeze.

  I hear footsteps and begin to tense as my mind dances around ideas of what to say to him. Why hadn’t I thought of that sooner? What do you say to an old lover you haven’t seen for five years? Is small talk only a distraction? Is it inappropriate to assume we are far past that, even with the time and miles between us? The door creaks open, and it’s too late to think of first lines. Soon he’s standing before me, and I feel the undeniable thrill of being sixteen again.

  “Chelsea Turner.”

  His deep, roguish voice pierces my bones like they could snap in half. I have heard him speak a hundred, no, a thousand times, in my head. Sometimes it’s words he used to say, while at other times it’s verses I have only imagined. But the voice is the same. I can always recall it, even better than I can remember his face. I can still see the boy I knew in this grown-up body. There is a light layer of stubble on his face, more than I remember him ever having, but he is still young enough to escape deep creviced lines. He’s broader and more filled out, not quite as lanky as he was as a teenager. I blush uncontrollably as I feel stripped naked in his eyes, wondering what he must be assessing about me as well.

  Alex Burns was my first love, and at times, I fear, my only love. I say this of course because we are no longer together. He left me shortly after high school ended, shaking me off as though the last two years we’d spent together fit nicely in his box of life, one he could lock up and throw away the key. Sometimes I wonder if his abrasive attitude was an act to make leaving me to go away to college easier on him, or if I really had just been a fun thrill to spend otherwise boring nights with. I ache when I think that way, knowing that deep down I am only torturing myself with dark thoughts. I have to believe he loved me, too. Why else would he have reached out to see me now? Maybe, just maybe, I still seep into his mind as he does mine.

  He doesn’t reach out to hug me, and I am almost grateful for that, even though touching him is all I want to do. To simply hug him seems both too intimate as well as too casual, like we’re just old buddies. Although I came here with no other pretense than to believe friends are all we are, I know before I even take a step through the door that I was only lying to myself.

  His lips break into a wide grin, and I sheepishly match his expression. I say his name and he flinches slightly, and I wonder if he is sucked back to five years earlier and the memory of my voice in his ear. He clears his throat and opens the door wider to let me in. I hesitate for a moment before taking a step. He closes the door behind me, and I am engulfed in my old world where I was a naïve teenager and he was the center of all I lived for.

  The house basically looks the same, a simplified version, considering his parents are now empty-nesters. There’s a small living space connected to a dining area that looks over the quaint kitchen. I eye the round dining room table that comfortably seats six and remember the time my back lay against the cool wood with my legs wrapped around his waist. In the vigor of our lovemaking, we turned the table upside down.

  A delicious scent drifts in from the kitchen, mixing with the homey smell I had become so accustomed to, like my own house. That’s when I notice the soft music playing over the sound system. It’s an old album, something his parents owned that we’d spent hours listening to when we were high and mystical and full of philosophical wonder.

  He comes up behind me, brushing his fingers gently against mine as he reaches for the wine bottles in my hands. It’s the first touch of his skin I have felt in more than five years. I want more.

  “Let me,” he says, and then thanks me for bringing them. I brought both a red and a white, not knowing which he preferred. The last time we drank together, we were basically kids. When you’re underage, you don’t have the privilege of being picky. You take what you can get your hands on.

  I’m pleasantly surprised when he opens the white and offers me a glass. Did I show a preference when were younger, and he has an astounding memory? Or is this his ego showing off to me that he believes he can guess right? He did guess right. I take the glass eagerly.

  “It smells amazing. What are you making?” I ask, taking a sip. The wine is crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the blaring heat outside. I drag the tip of my tongue against my top lip, relishing the floral taste, and look up to see him staring down at me with his hazelnut eyes, a stark contrast to my gray-blue ones, frozen in mid-drink. I slip my tongue back inside my mouth and blush. He clears his throat again and sets down his glass.

  “White clam linguine,” he answers with a cock of the brow, again showing off how he remembered one of my favorite dishes.

  He turns to the stove, and I take a moment to lean against the adjacent counter and take him in from behind. His long legs are covered in light tan dress pants he’s wearing with a thin white with blue stripes button-down, casually pushed up to his elbows. It reminds me of the one I bought him for our last Christmas together.

  He lifts the lid from a large pot and adds the noodles. He looks over his shoulder and catches me watching him. He gives me a crooked grin, breaking my trance. I push away from the counter to move around the living space, reacquainting myself with his childhood home.

  “How’ve you been?” he asks from the kitchen. I am glad he can’t see me as I stand near the hallway, looking at a shelving unit of photos, some old, some new. I hate that some of these I have not seen; they remind me of how life has gone on since we were together.

  I think about his question and ponder the multiple interpretations of its meaning. How have I been? Since…we e-mailed about getting together this weekend? During the six months since we last e-mailed? Or does he mean how have I been since he left?

  “Good,” I answer, picking up a gold-rimmed frame that holds a photograph of him and his parents at his college graduation.

  “Still at the station?”

  I look the photo over and remember my own version of his high school graduation pho
to, only it was me with him and his family. His deep-set eyes held the same proud smile he was famous for. I set the frame down and reply, “I am, though I’m thinking of a career change.” I graduated with my journalism degree, only to find that there was nothing in journalism that naturally pulled me. For the last two years I’ve been tediously working at a radio station.

  “Really?” he says in a surprised tone. He must recall how I went on and on about how I was one day going to be a famous TV personality. Things do change, I suppose. “What do you have in mind?” he asks as I hear him open the refrigerator door and rummage around.

  My fingers glide along the wood of the shelf, touching frames and books and old records, until they land on a glazed olive-green vase that’s slightly misshapen and cracked. My hand jerks back. I made his mother this vase for Mother’s Day, my senior year in ceramics class.

  I run trembling fingers through my hair, and I remember his question.

  “I’m thinking of becoming a hairstylist.”

  He lets out a deep chuckle, and my face flashes red. I step back into the kitchen as he shuts the fridge door, a large grin on his face.

  “What’s wrong with that?” I ask hotly.

  He sees the look on my face, and his mouth grows wider. “Chels, nothing is wrong with that. I was just thinking about the time you cut my hair.”

  The red in my face blurs from anger to embarrassment. How had I forgotten that? It was when we were sixteen, and he had a football game that night and wanted his hair cut shorter for the helmet, but didn’t have time to get to the barber. He made a reference about how I liked that kind of stuff and would I try. It was the worst haircut he had ever had, all sloppy and crooked, with patches where his scalp showed through, but he wore it with pride and waited a full week to have it fixed by a professional.

  I match his smile. “That’s right. On second thought, maybe I should stick to radio.”

  He bellows out a laugh and tops off my glass. “Maybe with some practice, I’ll let you try again…in a few years.”

  He gives me a wink and turns back to the stove. I ask if I can help, and he says no.

  He stirs the sauce, and I take another drink while watching the taut muscles in his arms move in circular motions. He brings the spoon out and blows lightly on the white cream. I am thankful that I can’t see his mouth at the moment and only the motion of his thick dark hair. He turns, a sly grin on his full lips, and signals me forward.

  “Give it a taste,” he says.

  I eye him a moment before moving. It only takes three steps to reach his side. I keep enough distance so as not to touch him. The idea of feeling him sends a shiver up my spine, as well as makes me want to cry. He holds the spoon out for me, one hand underneath to catch the drips as my lips take in the rich sauce. I close my eyes instinctively to take in all sensations and let the hot liquid fill my mouth. I moan at the pure pleasure of the taste, and open my eyes to see his clouded and bearing down on me. I step back and take a drink of my wine.

  “It’s perfect,” I say, watching him take a taste for himself. He thinks for a moment and then nods.

  “Dash of salt, and it’s ready.”

  I help carry over the salad bowl, and we take our places at the dining table by the window. The summer sun is beginning to set, filling the room with a soft glow of orange. The empty chairs beside us bring me back to the many family dinners we shared with his parents and younger sister. I am left with a nostalgic feeling of being home, and it reminds me again that we are in fact alone here.

  “Where did you say your family is?” I ask.

  He refills our wine glasses as he says, “Weekend up in the mountains. It’s a trip they do every year.”

  “With the Harringtons,” I finish for him.

  He raises a brow. “Yep. The Harringtons,” he confirms.

  “So why didn’t you go?” I desperately want the answer to that question. Was he secretly planning this reunion with me and told his parents no so that he could lure me here alone? Or was he busy filling his time visiting our other old friends from childhood? How am I to know? My friends usually avoid his name when they’re around me.

  He fills his glass and sets it down, but neither of us reach for the dishes of abundant food in front of us. “I leave on Monday morning to go back to San Francisco, so it seemed pointless to join them when they get back later that day. I told them I was fine to house-sit.” He smiles. “Kinda nice to be back here and be by myself and do my own thing without my parents breathing down my neck. Usually when I come home, I feel guilty for not spending all my time with them.”

  The way he’s looking at me gives me the impression that he’s apologizing for not seeing me sooner. I hold his stare a moment longer than I mean to before turning away.

  “I’m sorry, I….” His lips form a frown as he thinks how to finish that sentence. I can think of many ways to finish it for him. He takes a deep breath. “I just thought it would be nice to spend an evening together and catch up.”

  I stare at the condensation on my wine glass, not wanting to meet his eyes. There’s a lot to be said about the five years we’ve been apart, though truthfully, it isn’t as though that was the last time we communicated. Throughout college we would find times where we would get sucked into each other’s lives via e-mail exchanges that would last for weeks, maybe months, until one day the other person just wouldn’t answer. I don’t know — maybe we would realize we were getting to close, or maybe it hurt too much to hear what was going on in the other person’s life. A few months would pass, maybe a year, and the cycle would begin again. I asked him once why he didn’t just call me. He said it would be too hard to hear my voice on the other end of the line. Something about a computer screen to keep our emotions from reaching our hearts. Or so we thought.

  The music changes to a slower melody, and I unintentionally close my eyes as I always do when this song comes on. I remember being seventeen and dancing slowly with him in his hallway. I hear the scrape of the chair on the wooden floor, and my eyes fly open. I blush at the realization that I’ve been caught in a wistful moment. But there is no humor in his face as he stands, his plate still empty of food. He reaches out a hand to me and I know what he is asking. I don’t think I nod or show any other indication of saying yes, but I automatically stand and slide my fingers into his strong grasp. He takes my hand and glides it up until it cups the back of his neck, while his other hand latches on to my waist and we begin to sway as we did years ago. I find that my back is stiff, as I am not sure how close I can be to him. What’s to stop me, or, I should say, my heart, for wanting more of him? But his forceful grasp draws me in closer, and before I can find the courage to pull back, I’m pressed against his solid body and engulfed in a wave of woodsy scent mixed with a flavor of cloves that is his cologne, the same one I bought him years ago. The smell of it is almost too much, as I am thrown instantly into a hazy fog of the intensity of love I felt for him and the wave of unbearable heartache that left me breathless the moment he walked away from me.

  My knees begin to shake, and I have to push the tears back as he holds me firmly to him. And just as I want nothing more than to fall into this trap, I also hate him for sending me into this whirlwind of memory.

  I have to leave.

  He feels my resistance, and almost by reflex pulls me closer.

  “Don’t,” he whispers in my ear.

  How can I stay?

  But how can I leave?

  My voice comes out in a whimper. “What do you want from me?”

  He sighs against my hair, as though that should be the answer I accept. We continue to dance while the song swims into the chorus as the woman sings about being afraid of change and building a life around you. These are lyrics I have associated with him, now more than ever.

  I melt into him and let him guide me with the authority of his hips against mine.

  Fuck it, I think. What’s one night? Maybe this is the closure I’ve been looking for.

  As
though he’s reading my mind, I feel my blonde strands slide away from my shoulder with a flick of his finger. The air on my bare neck gives me shivers, and by the soft moan that escapes his lips, I can see that he noticed.

  “Are you happy, Chelsea?” he asks, his voice so soft it tickles my skin.

  I take a shaky breath and reply in the same whisper. “Yes, Alex. I am happy.” I pause for a moment. “Though there will always be things I want that I can’t possibly have.”

  “What’s keeping you from them?”

  “It’s not always up to me,” I answer honestly. My lips brush against his ear, and I am glad for the moment that I can’t see his eyes. Mine would give away exactly what I was implying to him.

  “What if it was?” he says in my ear, challenging me.

  “Then I would take it without an ounce of remorse.” I hear him draw in a ragged breath and continue, “What about you, Alex? What keeps you from what you want?”

  He pulls back, his rough cheek brushing against mine. I keep my eyes down, still afraid to look at him. I feel his piercing gaze on me as if it burns my skin, and it’s enough to make me tremble.

  When he speaks his voice is broken, as though he’s asking me a question he, too, is afraid of the answer of.

  “Permission,” he says.

  I tilt my head to the side to look up at him and our eyes meet, and for a moment I am not a young woman with a degree in journalism who works at a radio station and has an apartment with two other friends he’s never met. I am sixteen and tentative and inexperienced, and want nothing more than the boy I like to kiss me for the first time. I see him at sixteen, not a grad student at a prestigious college, getting his master’s in finance, with a slew of friends and a life in another city I know nothing about. A life he left me for. I am here with him now, and he is looking at me as he did the first time he leaned toward me and hesitantly pressed his lips to mine.