Reforming Kent: A Stand-Alone Angsty Bad Boy Romance (The Kennedy Boys Book 10)

by Siobhan Davis

  “You can’t bury that shit. It eats away at you until you explode,” Keats says. “Our circumstances were vastly different, but I was a ticking time bomb for years.”

  “I’m sorry for how I treated you and Austen. It wasn’t personal. It isn’t personal. It’s all tied up with the shit in my head. It enraged me you were gay and I hadn’t seen it. Every time I saw you with him, it made my blood boil. It dragged up a lot of old feelings, and the flashbacks and nightmares were more recurring. I started floundering.”

  “I hate that,” Keats says.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It’s not yours either,” Keanu says.

  “I said some really nasty things to you, Keats, and I hate myself for that,” I admit. “I should never have slept with Melissa either, but I’m glad it helped to uncover her motives.” He nods, and I know, deep down, that was the least of the issues between us. “I have never hated you, and I’m happy you’re happy. Austen seems like a great guy, and I’m just sorry I ruined any chance of a relationship with him.” I’ve seen the way Keaton’s husband looks at me, and I don’t blame him. I would want to kill anyone who treated Presley with such disdain and disrespect.

  “Nothing is insurmountable,” Keats says. “I know my husband. He will give you another chance. He’s pissed because I’ve been hurting so bad, but he isn’t unsympathetic. He was really upset when we found out what happened to you.”

  I clamp my brother on the shoulder. “I have missed you so much, and I hope, in time, we can get back on track.” I need to work through a lot of my anger, but I’m determined to do it—for me—and so I can recover my relationship with my brother and my family.

  Keaton pulls me into a hug, and I reach over, grabbing Keanu into our circle. “I’m going to need you.” My voice is choked with emotion. “Out of everyone, I will need you both.” Especially if I don’t have Presley.

  “We’re here for you,” Keanu says.

  “Whatever you need,” Keats adds. “I have already talked with Austen. I can move back to Cambridge with you if you like. I can do my show from anywhere, and Austen is busy now the season has started back, so we can make it work.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “I would do anything for you. You only have to ask.”

  ***

  After an energetic game of basketball with my brothers, we all go our separate ways to shower and freshen up before meeting our parents for dinner in the dining hall. I’m quiet during dinner, just listening to my family talk about their lives. The banter flows naturally, like anytime we are all together, and I hate how I still feel so much like an outsider. I guess it’s not something that can be resolved overnight either.

  The stark contrasts between me and my brothers have never been more obvious. They are all married. All in loving committed relationships. Some of them with kids. I’m the only one who is still studying. The only one without that special person in my life, and not for the first time, I regret the things I said to Presley. I blamed her when she was only a little kid too. It’s not her fault, and I’m ashamed for how I’ve treated her. I wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke to me again.

  “Can we take a walk?” Kev asks after dinner ends.

  “Sure.”

  We say goodbye to the others and head off outside, following one of the less popular paths. We don’t talk at first, but it’s not awkward. Keven has never been a big talker anyway. “I spoke to Nancy before dinner,” he says, and I arch a brow. “I wanted to check if it was okay to bring this up. She gave me the green light.”

  “I’m all ears,” I say, purposely rolling my shoulders to loosen the knot there.

  “Clayton is dead, and we have the rest of the assholes in custody.”

  I slam to a halt. “What?” I splutter. “How did it happen? When did it happen?”

  He jerks his shoulder. “Let’s keep walking.”

  I walk beside him in a daze. I’ve dreamed of this day, but in my visions, I was the one to gut that motherfucker Clay until all the air left his body. I listen in shocked silence as he starts to explains.

  “Before I explain, Presley is fine.”

  My eyes widen in alarm, and intense pressure sits on my chest.

  “Kent.” He grabs my arm. “She is fine. I would never let anything happen to her.”

  “She was involved?”

  He nods. “It was Presley’s idea to use herself as bait to lure Clay out of hiding.”

  “And you fucking agreed?” I shout, glaring at my brother. He has the audacity to chuckle. “Bet you wouldn’t find it funny if Cheryl offered herself up as bait to a psychotic rapist!”

  His chuckles die out. “That’s a bit too close to home, brother, and we’re getting sidetracked. We set up a sting operation, and Presley got Clay to admit to everything. We have it all on tape. Plus we got all copies of the recording from the bar and the night they attacked you. The deal Presley made with my boss was her help in exchange for them dropping all the charges against you, so you don’t need to worry about anything coming back to hurt you. Mom also spoke to your boss at the law office. They were really understanding, and they have offered you an internship next summer. They also said if you wanted to take those bastards to trial, they would represent you.”

  I’m knocked sideways by all those revelations, but Presley is the priority.

  “How did Clay die and was Presley hurt?”

  “I shot the bastard because he had his gun aimed at Presley,” he admits. “She walked away with a few minor scratches and some bruising. That’s all.”

  I grab my brother into a hug. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

  “She’s your girl. I was always going to look after her.” He glances at me as we walk again. “Everyone has been looking out for her. The whole family has been involved.”

  My heart swells with emotion. “I said some awful things to her.”

  “She doesn’t hold it against you. She’s been really worried.”

  “How is she?”

  “Honestly, I think she’s struggling,” he says, and pain stabs me through the heart. “It’s been a lot for her to process too.”

  “I want to be there for her, Kev, but I can’t support her when I’m like this.” It’s hard for me to admit that, even to myself, but it’s the truth. The best way I can take care of Presley is to take care of myself first.

  He stops walking this time, turning to face me. “She knows that, and she’s in the same boat. She wants to be there for you, but she can’t.” His expression turns sad, and acid churns in my gut.

  “What are you not saying, Kev?”

  He removes a small white envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. “Hide that quick. We’re not supposed to give you anything.” I slip it in my jeans, trying to ignore the sudden pounding in my chest. “Presley asked me to give you that before she left,” he says.

  “No.” I shake my head, pain slicing through me. “No, Keven. Do not tell me she’s gone.”

  “I’m the only one who knows,” he says. “She asked me not to say anything to the others until I had told you.”

  “But you know where she’s gone, right? You know where to find her so when I’m better I can get her back.”

  He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t tell me, and she made me promise not to look for her. She said she needs time to heal, and she can’t do that with you. She loves you, but it’s too painful. She needs a clean break, and her belief is that you do too.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Presley – Six Months Later

  “What’s up, Pink?” Pete says, holding his hand up for a high-five as I step through the door of Denver Ink to start my shift.

  “Same ole, same ole, boss.” I flash him a grin as I toss my dark hair over my shoulders. The pink-tipped ends are new, but after my colleagues christened me Pink, as in P-ink, short for Presley Ink, I decided to add some pink highlights to my hair. Everyone has a special artist’s name in this studio, and it adds to th
e family vibe.

  Inspiration came to me five months ago after I’d left the little house I’d rented on Jensen Beach.

  After I fled Boston, I craved solitude and the soothing comfort of the ocean. Ford’s fiancée, Michelle, suggested I head to Florida. She spent some summers with her family on Nettles Island, which is close to Jensen Beach. It was the perfect hideaway, and I took long walks on the beach, inhaling the fresh salty air, letting the heady sunshine warm more than just my skin, as I began the difficult healing process. My therapist, Jenna, was a great help in those early days, making herself available for biweekly video calls as I struggled to untangle the jumbled mess in my head.

  I couldn’t afford to stay there forever, and wallowing in guilt and remorse with little distraction wouldn’t have been healthy in the long-term, so I knew it was time to put my tattoo artist goal into action. Thanks to Alex Kennedy’s steady stream of commissions, I had enough money saved to make it a reality. I recalled the conversation I had at the wedding with Austen and booked a flight to Colorado the next day.

  Pete gave me an initial trial, and I was thrilled when he offered me a full apprenticeship after my first week. I haven’t looked back since, and there’s no doubt getting to fulfill my lifelong dream has helped me to get through the dark days when I felt so lonely, like I had little to look forward to. Immersing myself in Denver Ink, and in my little sideline business, has saved me. I have continued my pressed-flower picture business, but I mainly sell at the local weekend market and via word of mouth.

  I settle behind the reception desk, pulling up the schedule for today, and I begin the prep work before the others arrive. Pete makes coffee, regaling me with outrageous stories from the eventful dinner party at his in-laws last night.

  The rest of the crew arrives in drips and drops, and the place quickly fills up with excited customers. Before I know it, it’s lunchtime. Wrapping up warmly in my coat, scarf, and gloves, I walk to the little deli a couple of blocks away to fill everyone’s order.

  When I arrive back at the shop, everyone is standing in the waiting area, fixated on something playing on the wall-mounted TV.

  After placing the paper bags down on the counter and unbuttoning my coat, I turn around to see what has everyone so intrigued. I suck in a gasp as my eyes latch onto a familiar face. Although it’s been almost seven months since I last saw Kent, I haven’t forgotten how vibrant his blue eyes are, or how firm his strong jawline felt under my fingertips, or the soft warmth of his lips. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about him, miss him, pine for him. Some days the craving for his strong, protective arms is so intense I have almost given in and called him, but I resist.

  I can’t interfere with his recovery, and he probably wants nothing to do with me anymore anyway. Maybe it was cowardly to leave while he was in rehab, but my fragile heart couldn’t cope with the prospect of fresh rejection. I know Kent was speaking from a place of hurt that day in the hospital when he said those things to me, but he can’t help how he feels, and he should never be made to feel guilty for it. And I was hurting too. My heart was an empty shell, and I had nothing left to give anyone. Not even the man I love with every facet of my being.

  No, I was right to walk away. There was too much hurt on both sides, and I had to get away from Boston to leave all the painful memories behind. I’ve worked hard to absolve myself of responsibility for Clay’s actions, but it’s still a work in progress. I have a new therapist here and I attend weekly sessions.

  Despite my best intentions, my heart still clings to the memory of my lost love. I haven’t washed Kent’s Harvard T-shirt even though the spicy scent of his cologne barely lingers on the fabric anymore. I keep his picture by my bed, and I regularly reread all the notes he gave me. The first picture I made—with the first bouquet of flowers he sent me—hangs proudly over my bed.

  “Shush. It’s starting,” someone says behind me, snapping me out of my head.

  I refocus on the TV screen, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face so no one figures out my secret. But it’s hard because my emotions are veering all over the place. Kent is the only man who has ever fully owned my heart, and being away from him is torture even if I know, deep down, I’m doing the right thing.

  Kent is giving a press conference at some swanky hotel in downtown Boston. I know this must be about the case because TV stations, gossip sites, and newspapers have been carrying reports of the trial for weeks. Gerald and Anna’s case came to trial first, and I celebrated when they were locked away for fifteen years with no prospect of parole. I thought I might be called to give my testimony, but the FBI hasn’t been in contact with me, about either case, so I guess they have enough to nail the bastards without me.

  Kent sits behind an elevated table at the front of the room alongside a pretty woman with auburn hair and a distinguished-looking man with a mop of dark hair. I recognize them from media reports. They are his attorneys, and I was pleased to see the law firm he interned with over the summer was representing him because it must mean things are good between them.

  The male attorney taps the microphone on the table, preparing to address the large assembled crowd. The camera zooms in on the Kennedy family in the front two rows. They are all out in support of Kent. His parents and all his brothers and their spouses. Understandably, none of the children are present. A pang of sorrow slaps me in the face. I should be there supporting him too because I’m sure he’s scared shitless. This can’t have been easy, but I’m so proud of him for doing the right thing. It only makes me love him even more.

  Reporters shout questions at his attorney as he leans in to speak. “On behalf of my client, I would ask for complete silence, please.” A deadly hush moves over the room as reporters wait with bated breath for him to continue. “Mr. Kennedy is going to read a pre-prepared statement. He won’t be taking questions. This has been a difficult time for Kent, and his family, and we ask that you respect his privacy.” The man nods at Kent, giving him the floor.

  Kent’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he stares directly into the camera; it’s the only subtle hint he’s anxious. He holds himself confidently, his expression betraying none of his nerves. Bowing his head slightly, he clears his throat and begins to read his statement.

  “A CDC study found that, in the US, one in seventy-one men had been raped or suffered an attempt within their lifetime. One out of every ten rape victims is male. More than one-quarter of male victims of completed rape experienced their first rape when they were ten years of age or younger.”

  He lifts his chin up, staring into the camera. “It is a myth that only gay men are raped.” His jaw pulls tight, and there is a pregnant pause before he lowers his eyes to the page in front of him and continues. “Today, four of the five men who raped and assaulted me when I was only fifteen have been sentenced to life in prison for that crime and other related crimes.”

  I’m familiar with the charges as I’ve been avidly following the case. They must have been convicted on all counts—serial rape, attempted murder, and drug and gun offenses.

  “This is not just a personal victory for me,” Kent continues, “but a victory for all victims of rape, most notably male victims of rape. Male rape still carries so much stigma in our society, and we need to change that culture. No person, male or female, has the right to force themselves on any other person, and I am grateful to the justice system within the state of Massachusetts for counting rape and sexual assault as one of the gravest felonies and handing down sentences today that carry the weight of that conviction.”

  Kent looks up, setting the statement aside as he speaks from the heart. “As a frightened teenager, I told no one what happened to me largely out of fear. Fear of retaliation. Fear of humiliation. And I was so ashamed and confused. I felt weak. I felt like less of a man. I felt like I should have been able to fight them off, but none of those things are true. They took something they had no right to take, and the blame squarely lies on their shoulders. For years, I used
alcohol and drugs and sex to mask my pain and as an outlet to reassert control over my life. The men that abused me tried to murder me seven months ago so this story wouldn’t come out. I almost died, and I had a breakdown, but with the support of my loved ones, I am clean and sober and I have taken back control of my life. That gave me the courage to pursue my rapists through the legal system even knowing this story would become public knowledge because of who my family is. I don’t regret it because if my story helps even one man to come forward and tell his story then I have done the right thing. Then it is worth it.”

  The haunted look that used to linger in his gaze is nowhere to be seen as he stares confidently into the camera. “If you have been the victim of rape, I urge you to come forward. To report the crime and to seek out the support that is available. My legal team has set up a temporary support helpline. The number is at the bottom of the screen, and there is an abundance of information about various support groups on their website. I would like to thank my therapist and RAINN for their dedicated support over the past few months and for providing some of the statistics I referred to at the start of my statement.”

  His features soften. “I would like to say one final thing before I go.” His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “During one of my darkest days, I lashed out at the woman I love. I said things I felt at the time, but they were things I never really believed. Things that aren’t true. I understand why you did it,” he adds, speaking directly to me, and my heart stutters in my chest. “I understand how badly you were hurting too, and I wish I could have been there for you. I hope you are okay and that you have found some peace.” He leans forward, and he might as well be in the room with me. “I still love you, and I want you to know I’m ready and waiting. You are the only woman I will ever love, and I haven’t given up on us. I would wait an eternity for you, if that’s what you need.”

  A sob rips from my chest before I can stop it. I can barely see the screen through my blurry eyes as the press conference comes to an end and someone switches off the TV.