Chapter Thirty Five

Aspen

"Leave me alone!" I growl as I rush down the stairs, trying to be very mindful of my steps as both Lincoln and Boston chase after me, trying to get me to talk to them and tell them why I don't want to go out with them tonight. It's Friday, I've survived my first week back at school after being released from the hospital, and to say that things are both better and worse would be an understatement.
The guys are always there for me, any time that I need them, but when the girls start being catty bitches and the guys make their crass comments, the feelings from that first day come roaring back. The anger at the boys, the desire to get even with them for causing all of this bullshit in the first place.
I've had to bite my tongue more times than I'm proud to admit. I thought I was over it, that Boston and I were good, but there is always someone there, trying to remind me of my place.
That my place is beneath them.
That I'm no one.
That I don't belong.
And that I definitely don't belong with Boston.
*If they only knew how true that statement was, but I can't let him go. No matter how much their taunts and ugly words cause all of the pain that he caused me on my first day to cut me like a knife all over again. He's everything to me. And he loves me*.
*He loves me.*
*How can he, of all people, love me? Me!*
*I honestly want to believe him when he says it, and I want to say it in return, but there's always something that holds me back.*
Today was one of those days where it was hard not to let their words get to me, to not let them tear me down to the point that I believe the words that they were saying. They want me to believe that I really am nothing and that I don't belong here, or with Boston.
Thank God it was only a half-day and we got out at lunchtime.
"Aspen," Boston calls from behind me. If he wanted to catch me, he could, but he's trying to respect my need for some distance at the moment, even if he doesn't understand the reason behind me needing it. It's things like this, his consideration for what I need, even when it makes no sense to him, that makes it hard not to say those three little words to him, "What's going on?"
The look on his face is a mixture between confusion and concern, "I just..." I start to tell him the truth, wondering if maybe it would be better if he knew about the nasty things that people were saying, but decide to go with another truth instead, "I'm exhausted. It's been a long week and I just want to go to bed early."
"Will you go with us, if I promise to have us back by ten?" he asks, taking a small step towards me, "Please? I want to take my girl out to dinner and a movie."
"But your brothers will be there?" I say. It comes off as a question, but we both know that it's not.
"It's the only way to keep Dad and Ashlynn from getting suspicious of us," he says, pleading with me to just give him this.
"Fine, but I want to be home by nine," I say yawning. I wasn't lying about how tired I am. I'm freaking exhausted. Healing from a concussion apparently really takes it out of a person, because I've never been so exhausted in my entire life.
Boston gives me a huge smile and closes the remaining distance between us, "Thank God," he murmurs into my ear, "I just want some *alone* time with you outside of this house."
"But your brothers will be there," I state again, not understanding how we can be *alone* with three tagalongs alongside us.
"They will do their own thing, see their own movie," he backs away, pointing his index finger at me, "you be ready to leave by four."
I just shake my head in response, sit down on the couch, pull out my phone and pull up my kindle app. I'm dying to get back to this book that I started last week while I was stuck at home, it's called *Mating Season* by Theresa Hissong.
*It's about this guy named Drake, only he's not really a guy, per se. Instead, he's a shapeshifter—a bear shifter to be exact. Drake and his family keep their existence from humans and have done so for an eternity, not wanting to deal with the trouble that the knowledge of their kind would cause among humans.*
*Drake keeps to himself, outside of his two brothers, where they keep hidden on a farm that is hidden deep in the backwoods of Northern Mississippi.*
With trying to get caught up on all of the schoolwork that I missed while I was in the hospital, I've not gotten much further than that, but I am really intrigued to find out what will happen next.
Completely sucked into the story, I don't realize that someone else is in the living room with me until they plop down next to me. They throw an arm over my shoulders and try to steal a peek at my phone, "What are ya reading?" Jackson asks when I shut off my phone screen and turn my phone face down against my leg, suddenly becoming overly warm as embarrassment consumes me at reading a dirty book that anyone in this house could have seen.
*Tessa and Drake were fixing to freaking have sex*, and I have no doubt that it would have turned me on so much that I would have wanted to hop my butt right up off of this couch and find Boston to satisfy the ache between my thighs.
*Maybe Jackson interrupting when he did was a blessing in disguise.*
"N-nothing," I stutter, looking from the guy sitting beside me to the watch on my wrist and then back again, as I realize that I only have an hour before we're supposed to leave to go out.
"Uh, huh. Whatever you say, but I say the way you jumped and then blushed." He says, his smile growing to cover his face, "I'm pretty sure you were reading something that you wouldn't want anyone else to know about."
"I do say," I tell him, jumping up from the couch, making sure to keep my phone tucked securely in my hand and as far away from Jackson as possible, so that he doesn't snatch it from me, "I need to go get ready," I tell him as I make my way out of the living room and towards the stairs.
We end up leaving at four o'clock on the dot and about an hour later, we're pulling into a parking lot. We end up stopping in front of an Olive Garden and I have no doubt that the look on my face is the same look I get before Boston, and I have sex.
*Come to Mama*, I think, giggling to myself as my stomach begins to growl in anticipation of all of the yummy goodness that it's soon to be filled with. It's just barely five O'clock, so the wait isn't long at all and before I know it, the five of us are sitting in a circle booth. Boston is on my right, Lincoln's on my left, and a large salad bowl and a basket of breadsticks are being placed in front of us, along with a stack of small plates, our drinks, and silverware.
"Do you know what you would like to order, or do you need a few more minutes?" Our waiter asks. He's a slim, tall guy, though not quite as tall as Boston and his brothers, and kind of cute with his red hair and bright green eyes.
I glance at the faces of the boys surrounding me, wondering if they already know what they want because I definitely do. I can't seem to sit still, eagerly waiting to order, as I wait for them to decide what they would like to eat. Patience is not my friend at the moment. All that I can think about is the fact that the sooner I can order, the sooner I can stuff my face.
"You ready?" Lincoln asks, drawing the boy's attention away from their menus and onto me. I nod my head, cringing at the sound of my stomach loudly grounding, demanding sustenance.
"Go ahead and order," Boston tells me, knocking his shoulder into mine.
Not having to be told twice, I turn my attention back towards our waiter, "I would like the Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo, but can you add mushrooms to it?" I ask, licking my lips as I watch him write down my order.
"Okay, anything else that I can get for you, miss?" he asks politely, pen poised above his notepad, ready to write down the next thing out of my mouth.
"Oh, yes, can I get a side of salad dressing? And an order of Calamari, please?" The boys all look at me, eyes bugged out that I would order so much, "I'm hungry," I say in response with a hitch of my left shoulder.
"Alright," the waiter says as he finishes writing down my order and then turns his attention to Boston, "do you know what you would like to order, Sir?"
"Ah, yeah, I'll have Shrimp Scampi, please." The waiter writes down Boston's order and then immediately turns his attention to Jackson.
"And you, Sir?" He asks, politely, patiently waiting for each of us to place our orders.
"Yes, I would like to have..." he says, drawing each word out as he glances back at the menu before saying, "the Tour of Italy, please."
"Nice choice," he compliments before turning his attention to Dallas, "And for you, Sir?"
"I would like the Asiago Tortelloni Alfredo with Grilled Chicken, please."
"Excellent choice, sir," the waiter says with a smile, taking down Dallas's order and then turning his attention to the last one of us to order, "and you, Sir?" he asks Lincoln.
"I think that I would like to have the Chicken Parmigiana, please," Lincoln tells the waiter, closing his menu and then handing it over to the waiter. We all follow suit, passing our menu's over, and then Lincoln gives him the rest as well.
"I will go get these turned in, as well as your appetizer. I will have that dressing right out in a moment." He tells me, and then backs away, then turns around, his long strides taking him further away from us with each of his steps.
"So," Lincoln, says, "Who wants to take bets on how many bites Aspen will get into her food before she's too full to eat anymore?"
"I'd say two bowls of salad, four—no, five breadsticks, half the tray of calamari, and four bites of her alfredo," Boston says very sure of himself. When he catches my glare, his smile widens, "What?" he asks, throwing his hands up like he's confused. When I just keep glaring at him, his brothers begin to snicker and his grin grows even wider, "You forget," he says, bringing his hand up to grasp my chin as he lowers his face towards mine, "Baby, I know you," before closing the remaining distance, crashing his lips against my own.
"Oh, how disgusting," a familiar voice says, "can't you at least get a room so the rest of us don't have to be victim to you two practically fucking one another in public," Whitney says, a bitchy sneer on her face. When no one reacts to her snotty remark, she huffs and then heads off towards a table of girls. Several of them I recognize from school or cheer, but there are two who I don't recognize.
"Why would anyone *willingly* hang out with her again?" I say to myself, not at all getting the draw that people seem to have towards her.
"She's popular and people will do nearly anything to be part of the *it* crowd," Lincoln says, nudging me with his elbow, "not everyone would prefer to blend in with the crowd and hide from attention like you, dear sister."
Glancing at the table two places down from us, praying that they didn't hear that little remark, I say through gritted teeth, "Say that out loud one more time, and I will cut off your dick with a spoon." At his look of horror, I ask, "Do I make myself clear?"