Chapter 6: The Dinner That Wasn't
The front door to Dede’s bungalow closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing David into a world of whispered secrets and flickering shadows. The air was warm, thick with the scent of beeswax candles and something floral—lavender, maybe—underlaid by the richer aroma of garlic and rosemary from the kitchen.
“You’re right on time,” her voice floated from the dimness of the living room.
She emerged from the gloom like a vision, backlit by candlelight from the dining area. The dress was a deep emerald green, a simple silk slip that did nothing but everything. It clung to the assertive curve of her breasts, the narrow dip of her waist, and flared slightly over her childbearing hips before ending mid-thigh. Her strawberry-blond curls were piled in a messy, deliberate knot, a few tendrils brushing her neck. She held two glasses of red wine, the crystal catching the low light.
“Traffic was light,” he said, his voice sounding strangely formal in the intimate space. He took the glass she offered. Her fingers lingered against his, a warm, deliberate pressure.
“I’ve been waiting all week for this,” she whispered, her eyes holding his. She didn’t mean the dinner. She let her gaze travel slowly down his body, a slow appraisal that felt both bold and intimate. She traced a single, crimson-painted nail down the front of his crisp white shirt, from the hollow of his throat to the first button. “You look tired, David.”
He caught her wrist, not roughly, but with a firmness that surprised them both. The contact sent a jolt through him. Her skin was soft. He could feel the delicate bones beneath his grip. “Dede,” he said, a warning in his tone that lacked conviction.
She smiled, a knowing, patient curve of her lips. She didn’t pull away. “It’s just dinner. Come on, it’s getting cold.”
She led him to the small mahogany table, set for two with simple elegance. The flickering candles cast moving shadows over the faded faces in the old portraits on the walls—ancestors watching with silent, painted eyes. He sat, the wineglass feeling heavy in his hand. He took a large swallow. It was good, expensive, something he would have chosen himself.
“So, how’s Lexi?” Dede asked, serving him a piece of herb-crusted chicken. She was a good cook. “Settling in?”
“I think so. She went to a party last night. Came home late.” He heard the stiffness in his own voice, the forced paternal note.
“A party? That’s good. She needs to make friends.” Dede took a delicate bite, watching him over the rim of her glass. “And you? What did you do last night?”
The question hung in the air. He had sat in the dark. He had thought about this. About her. About the tight, desperate feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with his divorce and everything to do with the empty, echoing house. “Worked,” he lied smoothly.
“On the new book?”
“Trying to.”
She reached across the table, her hand covering his. Her touch was warm, reassuring. “It’ll come. The muse is a fickle thing. Sometimes you just need… a distraction.”
Her thumb stroked the back of his hand. A simple, soothing motion. His control, already fractured from a week of silent craving, began to dissolve at the edges. He saw the pulse thrumming at the base of her throat. He remembered, with startling clarity, the sound she made when she came—a soft, breathy sigh he’d replayed in his mind a hundred times since the first time he’d stumbled into her bed.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he heard himself say, even as his fingers turned under hers, gripping her hand.
“Why?” she asked, her voice a low challenge. “Because you’re older? Because I live next door? Or because you’re scared you might like it too much?”
He didn’t answer. He just looked at her, at the candlelight dancing in her eyes, at the confident set of her mouth. She was so alive. So present. She was an antidote to the ghost of his marriage that haunted every room of his house.
She stood up, slowly, and came around the table. She took his wineglass from his unresisting hand and set it down. Then she took his hands and pulled him to his feet. Her body was close, the heat of her radiating through the thin silk. She guided his hands to her hips, letting him feel the full, solid curve of them.
“You think too much, David,” she murmured, rising on her toes to whisper in his ear. Her breath was warm, sweet with wine. “Just feel.”
His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her flush against him. He was already hard. A groan escaped him, raw and unbidden. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent—lavender and her own warmer, musky sweetness. All the weeks of lonely tension, the silent dinners, the blank computer screen, the memory of his daughter’s confused eyes—they coalesced into a single, sharp point of need.
He kissed her, not with gentle exploration, but with a possessive hunger that startled him. She met it eagerly, her mouth opening under his, her hands sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. He walked her backward, never breaking the kiss, until her back met the wall beside the old portraits. The frame rattled.
“Here?” she breathed against his mouth, a hint of a laugh in her voice.
“Yes.”
The hallways of Northwood High on Monday morning were a study in fluorescent-lit normality, a stark contrast to the chaos of Rylee’s basement. Lexi moved through the crowds, her sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield. Her body felt different—lighter, stranger, as if the moment Ace had pinned her to the brick had rewired her nerves.
She saw him between classes. He was leaning against a bank of lockers, surrounded by a few guys she didn’t recognize. He was listening to one of them talk, his head tilted, but his eyes were distant, focused on nothing. As she passed, his gaze flickered to her. For a heartbeat, it locked onto hers—a blue, electric connection that sucked the air from her lungs. Then he looked away, dismissing her as completely as if she were a stranger.
The disconnect was a physical pain. Mine, he had growled. Now, nothing.
“Hey, you.” Bree appeared at her elbow, her usual vibrancy slightly dimmed by concern. “How are you holding up? That was… intense.”
“I’m okay,” Lexi said, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
“Tell me about it. Rylee’s grounded for a month. His dad was pissed about the broken stool.” Bree rolled her eyes. “But hey, superhero rescue, right? Ace looked like he was going to murder that guy Brad. It was kind of hot, in a terrifying, ‘I-would-never-cross-him’ way.”
Lexi didn’t answer. It had been hot. That was the problem. The terror and the thrill were fused together in her memory, inseparable.
“Speaking of Rylee,” Bree continued, a blush tinting her cheeks. “He asked me to get coffee this weekend. Like, a date-date.”
“Bree, that’s great!”
“I know! He’s so funny. And he was really sweet after… you know. Making sure we got home safe.” Bree’s chatter was a lifeline, pulling Lexi back into the mundane world of crushes and coffee dates.
Rylee himself found her at lunch, plopping down next to her with a tray. “So, my basement is now a crime scene, thanks to your boyfriend,” he said, his tone light.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Lexi said automatically, pushing her food around her plate.
“Could have fooled me,” Rylee shrugged, taking a huge bite of pizza. “The way he looked at you before he left? Dude was tormented. In a sexy, brooding way, I guess.” He grinned. “Ignore him. He’s got more baggage than an airport carousel. His mom’s situation… it’s rough. He’s trying to look out for his little brother and sister. Thinks he’s a grenade with the pin pulled and doesn’t want you holding it.”
The information landed heavily. She pictured it: Ace in that empty house he’d mentioned, responsible for kids, fighting a battle she couldn’t see. It didn’t excuse the whiplash, but it painted a context she could almost grasp.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
Rylee’s gaze softened. “Because Bree thinks you’re cool. And because Ace, for all his messed-up glory, is my best friend. And I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching.” He stood, picking up his tray. “Just… be careful, okay? Grenades are still grenades.”
After school, Lexi didn’t go home. She walked, her feet carrying her on a familiar route without her conscious decision. She ended up on the old iron bridge, the place where this had all started. She leaned on the railing, the cold metal seeping through her jacket, and looked out at the slow-moving river.
She pulled out her sketchbook. Her fingers moved on their own, tracing not the bridge, not the water, but the memory of a face in shadow. The intense eyes, the stubborn set of a jaw, the line of a neck taut with tension. She drew the hands, large and capable, one clenched in a fist, the other pressed flat against brick. She lost herself in the lines, the shading, the feel of the charcoal dusting her fingers.
A presence beside her made her jump.
He was there. Ace. He leaned against the railing a few feet away, staring out at the water, his profile stark against the grey afternoon sky. He didn’t look at her or her drawing.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice flat.
“It’s a public bridge.”
He finally turned his head. His eyes were hollow, shadowed. He looked exhausted. “You know what I mean.”
She closed her sketchbook slowly. “Rylee says you think you’re a grenade.”
A bitter, humorless smile touched his lips. “Rylee talks too much.”
“Are you?” she asked, her heart hammering against her ribs. “A grenade?”
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and the raw need in his gaze was a physical force. “Yeah, Lexi. I am.” He pushed off the railing, turning to face her fully. The distance between them felt charged, like the air before a storm. “I go off. I destroy things. I hurt people. I left a guy with a broken nose and two cracked ribs on Saturday because he touched you. And I wanted to do worse.”
She didn’t shrink back. She took a step forward. “He shouldn’t have touched me.”
Ace let out a short, frustrated breath. “Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t justify it. Don’t make it okay. It’s not. I’m not.” He raked a hand through his dark hair. “You have no idea what’s in my head. The things I want. They’re not… they’re not for someone like you.”
“What do you want?” The question was barely a whisper.
His control snapped. In two strides he was before her, his hands coming up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a contrast to the storm in his eyes. “I want this,” he breathed, his voice rough. “All the time. I want to know where you are. Who you’re with. I want to put my hands on you and know that no one else ever will. I want to forget every shitty thing in my life when I’m inside you.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “See? Not for you. You should be with some nice guy who brings you flowers and asks your dad’s permission.”
Tears welled in her eyes, not from fear, but from the devastating honesty of it. He was laying himself bare, offering her the ugliest, most dangerous parts of himself as a warning. “What if I don’t want flowers?” she whispered.
A low sound escaped him, almost a growl. He leaned in, his forehead touching hers. He was trembling. “Lexi…”
“You said I was yours,” she reminded him, the words a challenge.
“You are,” he said, the possession in his tone undeniable, final. Then he pulled back, his hands dropping to his sides as if burned. “And that’s why I have to stay away.” He turned and walked away, his shoulders tense, each step a battle. He didn’t look back.
Lexi stood on the bridge, the cold wind drying the tears on her cheeks. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by a fierce, aching certainty. He was wrong. The grenade wasn’t the threat. The loneliness was. And she was tired of being careful.
Across town, in the quiet of Dede’s candlelit bedroom, David traced the line of her spine as she slept curled beside him. The sheets were tangled, the room smelling of sex and blown-out candles. Her tight, warm body had been a revelation, a temporary erasure of every thought.
But now, in the dark silence, they returned. The image of his daughter, sitting alone at their kitchen island. The blank document on his computer. The text he’d sent: Okay.
He had crossed a line tonight, one he couldn’t uncross. It wasn’t just sex. It was a surrender. He looked at the sleeping woman beside him, her strawberry hair fanned across his pillow, her lips slightly parted. She wanted a life, a ring, a future.
He had wanted an escape.
And as he lay there, his possessive arm draped over her childbearing hips, he knew with a cold, clear dread that he might have just traded one form of captivity for another. The ghost of his wife was gone, replaced by the warm, breathing reality of Dede. And he had let her in.
The grey light of morning filtered through Dede’s linen curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing over the wreckage of the night. David watched them, already awake, his body leaden beside her sleeping form. Her breath was soft and even against his shoulder, one arm flung possessively across his chest. The scent of her skin, of sex and lavender, was now cloying.It smelled like compromise.
He needed air. He needed the silent, empty kitchen of his own house. He began to extricate himself, moving with a deliberate slowness that made his muscles ache.
Her hand shot out, fingers closing around his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong for someone just awakened."Where are you going?" Dede's voice was sleep-rough, but her eyes were alert, clear."Home. Lexi will be up soon." His own voice sounded hollow.
"She's eighteen, David. She can make her own cereal." Dede propped herself up on an elbow, the sheet pooling around her waist. The morning light gilded her curves, a sight that had unraveled him hours before. Now it felt like a transaction waiting to be finalized."Stay. I'll make coffee."
"I really should go." He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, searching for his boxers on the floor.The mattress shifted. He felt her warmth press against his back, her arms sliding around his waist, her chin hooking over his shoulder. "Last night was important," she murmured into his skin. Her lips brushed his ear. "You can't just run off at dawn. It's rude."
A flicker of irritation cut through the fog of his guilt. "I'm not running.I have responsibilities."
"To your book?" she said, her tone light but pointed. "The one you aren't writing?" Her hands drifted lower, her touch knowing and insistent. "Maybe you need a new inspiration. A muse who's a little more...hands-on."
He caught her wandering hands, stilling them. "Dede."
"David," she mimicked, a playful challenge. She nipped his shoulder. "I felt how much you needed last night. You can't pretend it didn't happen." She shifted, turning his face towards hers. Her expression was soft, but her eyes were shrewd, calculating the angles. "I'm not asking for a declaration. Just... stay for coffee. Let's be normal."Normal. The word was a hook in his gut. This wasn't normal. This was a beautiful, hungry woman sculpting a vacancy in her life into a shape that fit him. He stood, pulling on his jeans. "Next time," he said, the lie smooth and automatic on his tongue.
Her smile tightened at the edges, just for a second. Then it was back, bright and forgiving."Okay. Next time." She watched him dress, a silent appraisal. "You know, my lease is up in three months. This place is so small."
The implication hung in the air, another delicate thread in the web. He just nodded, grabbing his shirt. "I'll call you."
He escaped into the crisp morning, the shock of cold air a physical relief. His own house stood silent and accusing next door. He let himself in, the emptiness a roar in his ears. He stood in the pristine kitchen, and all he could see was Lexi's confused face if she knew, and all he could feel was the ghost of Dede's hands on him.
Lexi slammed her locker shut, the metallic bang echoing in the nearly empty hall. She had replayed the bridge encounter a hundred times, each time fixating on the defeat in Ace’s eyes when he walked away. He’d shown her his darkness, not to allure her, but to scare her off. It had the opposite effect.
Bree materialized beside her, twirling a lock of her hair."So. Rylee got his phone privileges back. We're going to the drive-in tomorrow. A cheesy horror triple feature. You in?"
"Will Ace be there?" Lexi asked, the question out before she could filter it.
Bree's eyes widened. "Whoa, going straight for the thorny rose, huh? Rylee didn't mention him. I think after the whole 'basement brawl' thing, they're in a weird place. Bros before hos, but also, don't scare off the hos, you know?"
"Charming," Lexi deadpanned, shouldering her bag.
"I think it's sweet you're still hung up on Captain Broody," Bree said, linking her arm through Lexi's. "Dangerous, but sweet. Like nitro glycerin in a pretty bottle."
"Maybe I'm tired of pretty bottles," Lexi muttered.
They pushed through the school's front doors. The late afternoon sun was brittle. And there he was, leaning against the driver's side door of his vintage Mustang across the street, a stark silhouette of denim and disaffection. He wasn't looking at the school. He was staring at the ground, kicking absently at a pebble.
Bree whistled low. "Speak of the intensely attractive devil. Want me to come with?"
"No," Lexi said, her pulse a frantic drum solo against her ribs. "I got this."
"Your funeral! Text me if you need a rescue!" Bree chirped, skipping off towards her own car.
Lexi crossed the street, her footsteps loud on the asphalt. He didn't look up until she was a few feet away. His gaze was guarded, exhausted.
"I'm not a grenade," she stated, her voice clearer than she felt.
Ace blinked slowly."What?"
"You said you were a grenade. I'm telling you I'm not afraid of getting blown up." She took another step closer, invading his space. The scent of him—mechanic grease, clean cotton, and something uniquely sharp—wrapped around her. "And you don't get to decide what's for me."
He stared at her, a muscle feathering in his jaw. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Then tell me," she demanded. "Tell me about the baggage. Tell me about your mom. Tell me why you live alone and look at everyone like they're a threat."
His blue eyes flickered, a crack in the armor. "It's not a story, Lexi. It's a reality. My stepfather's a piece of work. My mom's... stuck. I got out. My little brother and sister didn't." He looked away, his throat working. "I check on them. I make sure they're okay. That's the routine. That's my life. It's not dates at the drive-in."
The raw pain in his voice was a tangible thing. It didn't push her away. It pulled her in. "So let me in," she said softly.
He laughed, a harsh, shredded sound."Why? So you can fix me? I'm not a project."
“I don’t want to fix you,” she shot back, her own frustration rising to meet his. “I just want you to stop pretending I’m not here.” She gestured between them, the space crackling. “You watch me. You step in when some drunk idiot gets handsy. You say words that change the air in a room. Then you shut down. It’s exhausting.”
“Then stop trying!” The words erupted from him, sharp and ragged. He shoved off the car, his body suddenly taut with a coiled, angry energy. The vulnerability she’d seen a second ago was gone, sealed behind a wall of impenetrable ice. “You think this is some kind of game? A story where your goodness melts the bad boy’s heart?” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, brutal rasp. “My life is court dates and checking the locks three times and listening to my little brother cry on the phone because he’s scared. It’s dirty. It’s relentless. And you?” He let his gaze travel over her, from her worried eyes to her sketcher’s hands, a look that felt like being dismantled. “You’re clean. You’re whole. You’re a distraction I can’t afford.”
Lexi felt the words like physical blows, each one landing with a sickening thud. “I’m not asking to be your burden.”
“But you would be!” The force in his whisper was fiercer than a shout. He raked a hand through his hair, his breath misting in the cold air. “Every second I’d spend thinking about you is a second I’m not thinking about them. Wondering if you’re safe, if you’re happy, if you’re finally realizing what a fucking mistake this is.” His blue eyes were wide, almost wild with a frantic sincerity. “I can’t split my focus. Not now. Maybe not ever.”
The finality in his tone was a cold blade. She stood her ground, the emerald in her eyes turning hard. “So that’s it? You’ve just decided for both of us?”
“Yes.” The word was flat, absolute. He turned and yanked open the driver’s door of the Mustang, the metal groaning in protest. He didn’t look at her as he slid inside, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles bleached white against the worn leather.
“Ace—” Her voice broke on his name.
He finally looked at her through the open window. His expression was carved from stone, but his eyes were a riot of torment. "Just forget me, Lexi. Forget any of this happened. Just leave me alone." He started the engine, the low rumble vibrating through the pavement. "I don't need another goddamn burden."
He didn’t wait for a response. The Mustang peeled away from the curb with a sharp squeal of tires, leaving a smear of rubber and the acrid scent of burnt fuel hanging in the air.
Lexi stood frozen, watching the car disappear around a distant corner. The roar of the engine faded, replaced by the mundane sounds of other students leaving, car doors slamming, laughter echoing. It all felt muffled, distant. The cold seeped through her jacket, finding its way into her bones.
Across the street, Bree was standing by her own car, her earlier cheer evaporated into a look of stunned concern. She took a hesitant step forward.
Lexi didn’t move. She just stared at the empty space where his car had been, the echo of his words etching themselves into her mind.
I don’t need another burden.
Inside the speeding Mustang, Ace slammed his fist against the dashboard.Once. Twice. A sharp, plastic crack echoed in the confined space. “Fuck!” The curse ripped from his throat, raw and ragged. He saw her face, the way her eyes had glazed with a hurt so profound it stole the air from his own lungs. He’d put that there. He’d aimed for her heart with the sharpest weapon he had—the truth of his own chaotic, damaged life—and he’d hit his mark perfectly.
He was a mile away before the shaking started, a fine tremble in his hands that had nothing to do with the cold. Regret, corrosive and immediate, flooded him. He saw the sketchbook she always carried, imagined the careful lines she’d use to draw this moment—him, the villain in his own car, driving away from the one pure, stubbornly bright thing that had fought its way into his gloom. He was protecting her, yes. But the look on her face… it felt less like protection and more like a demolition.
He was his stepfather in that moment. Not with his fists, but with his words. Creating a hurt to preempt a greater one. The realization made him feel sick.
He slowed the car, pulling over onto the gritty shoulder of a country road. He killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening. He dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel, the cool circle of it pressing into his skin. The ghost of her scent—soap and something faintly like graphite—still seemed to linger in the air. He’d called her a burden. The lie of it echoed in the silent car, a taunt.
She was the only thing that hadn’t felt like one.