Climb on My Stepfather (Ashley and Alex) novel Chapter 86

18: Stella.

I sit huddled in the embrace of the cove, the wind carrying droplets of salt water and stinging my cheeks. The moonlight keeps the beach from being totally dark, but that didn’t stop me from stumbling and falling twice in the forest on my way down the path. I have blood on my knees and the heels of my hands, but I don’t care. I’m numb. I’m shaking. I can’t move. It took all of my strength to get here and now I'm a statue on the sand. A monument to being gullible.

A sob breaks from my lips and I draw my knees up to my chest, rocking, tears coasting down my cheeks and over my mouth, dropping off my chin.

Stupid. How incredible stupid can I be?

I don’t have a chance to answer that for myself, because I’m distracted by the roar of an engine. Once the hum cuts out, I sit, immobile, staring at the clearing, positive some drunk students are going to come stumbling out onto the beach any moment, searching for privacy in which to make out. I never expect Gage to come striding out of the woods, bare chested in football pants. “Stella,” he chokes out, slowing to a stop and doubling over. “Oh thank God. Thank God you're okay. I found you.”

Even now, when I know the awful truth, my heart still clamors at the sight of him. “You should be celebrating,” I murmur, dazed. Exhausted. Devastated.

“I don’t want to be anywhere but with you.” He approaches me slowly. Almost cautiously. But his eyes...his eyes are wild. Bloodshot. When he glimpses the blood on my hands and knees, he turns as pale as a ghost. “You're hurt. You’

re fucking hurt.”

“No, I'm not. I’m fine.”

He tears at his hair. “You shouldn't have come here in the dark—”

“Stop.” I cover my eyes. “Just stop.” Quit acting like you care. It hurts.

A beat passes. “Stella, I can see you've closed yourself off to me. The way you're looking at me is different and I can't fucking stand it, honey. Please don’t do this. Please don’t believe what that idiot told you.” He falls to his knees in front of me and it’s impossible not to acknowledge how gorgeous he is. How chiseled. A God draped in moonlight, fresh from victory. “I lied. I lied to them.” He takes me by the shoulders, shaking me gently, the breath rattling in and out of his chest. “You showed up at practice and they...they were all lusting after you and it’s arrogant, God, I know it sounds arrogant, but the fact that you locked me down piqued their interest. No one has ever even turned my head. And they want to know why you did. They wanted to sample my treasure. And I couldn't allow it. I'd go fucking mad if someone laid a finger on you. So I tried to...1 told them I was only using you to repair my image, so they would fuck off and stop wanting what's mine. I messed up. I knew right away I’d messed up and I was going to fix it tonight. I was too late.”

A tear escapes my eye and he howls brokenly, throwing his head down into my lap and wrapping his sinewy arms around my waist “Don't cry. Oh God, please don't cry. I’m sorry.”

I play back his explanation in my mind. I play it back twice and I find...

I believe him.

There was a part of me that didn’t believe the receiver. There is no way to fake the kind of passion Gage and I brew together. But the hurt of that initial sting went too deep and I don’t know how to repair myself. I've been wounded too severely by the lies to stop the bleeding.

“It's better this way,” I say, not recognizing the dead quality of my voice. “We'

re nothing alike. I'm not the girl who dates the quarterback—”

“Yes, you fucking are! You’re marrying him.”

“No.”

“No?”

Bloodshot eyes lift to mine, swirling with insanity. My breath hitches. I’m right, aren't I? He would be better off with someone who didn't grow up alone.

Someone who has experience with being in the public eye. Someone who would look more appropriate at his side—

He sits up, having gone very still. “Are you saying you're not going to marry me?”

I can’t answer. There's an invisible hand around my throat stopping me from taking it all back. Begging him to drive me home, despite the fact that I know it’s wrong. That letting him go is for the best, right? No way I can be what everyone expects the wife of a famous athlete to be.

“Right,” he says, the light going out of him. Like a candle being doused.

He stands up, turns, and walks straight into the ocean.

It takes me a moment to piece together what is happening. I watch dazed as he wades farther and farther into the water. First, his hips vanish beneath the inky black surface. And then his huge shoulders. Gone. Followed by his head.

Several seconds pass and he doesn’t come up. What is he doing?

I don’t realize I'm crawling toward the water until my knees protest the fine sand and rocks digging into my injured skin, but I keep going. Then I push myself up onto shaky legs and start running, throwing myself into the ocean.

He still hasn’t come up. It has been at least twenty seconds. The shockingly cold temperature of the water barely registers, because my insides are much colder. I’m a block of ice and chattering teeth cutting through the water, screaming his name, trying to keep my eyes on the spot where he disappeared so I can dive down.

It's a terrible time to realize I've been foolish. Utterly silly. I love this man and I know he loves me. These are truths beyond a shadow of a doubt. His explanation about what happened with his teammates is not only plausible, it’

s likely. Gage is possessive of me. Jealous. Protective. He would lie to his teammates to divert their newfound interest in me. And it turns out, he was sort of right to do so. Didn't that receiver hit on me within a minute of making my acquaintance after the game?

What have I done?

I let my hurt feelings own me. I lashed out, let my insecurities win...and now?

Could he die? Could he die because of me?

Sobs wrench up and out of my throat as I flail around, searching for his solid body in the water. I take huge breaths and dive as deep as possible, unable to see anything in the jet-black ocean—