Bringing It Home (The King Brothers Book 2)

by Teagan Kade

  Phoenix whistles. “Ooo boy. You goin’ get lucky.”

  He collects a flying shoe in the ribs from Nolan. “Fuck, man!”

  Maya’s turning a deep flamingo pink.

  I extend my hand. “Just give me the damn test, yeah? I’ll be done in twenty.”

  She hands it over. I snatch it away and head into the study, closing the door and grabbing a pen.

  I can hear them talking out there, the awkward beat of the poor girl’s voice as my brothers give her the full King grilling.

  I answer the first couple of questions easily, but it soon becomes clear this is far from elementary. Answers I should know, basic answers, fail to materialize.

  I slam the pen down in frustration. “Fuck!”

  Painfully, I answer what I can and return to the kitchen, all four of them waiting anxiously.

  “Alright,” I confess, “so I’ve got some gaps in my knowledge.” I throw the test down onto the breakfast bar. “You try copping a 70mph fastball to the head and see how you fare.”

  Maya steps forward. “I can help. Please. I’m happy to.”

  I really don’t need this, but I huff. “Fine. Fuck. Whatever. What else am I going to do?”

  Alissa loves that. She claps her hands together. Does she think she’s playing match matcher here or something? “Great!”

  I start to head upstairs, flicking my head at Maya. “Come on then. It’s more comfortable in my room.”

  Miraculously, Phoenix keeps his mouth shut.

  I head into my room and take a seat at the desk, clear what space I can. Maya drags a chair over from the corner, almost like she’s been here before.

  “So,” I begin, tapping the desk, “where do you want to start?”

  And damn her, she’s giving me that weird-ass look again. I don’t know what she thinks is going to happen here. I get it. She was a safe choice. She’s not going to tempt me looking like Mother Teresa. Kind of smart of Alissa, actually.

  She pulls a notebook from the satchel she brought with her. It’s of the simple tan leather variety, non-intrusive and safe. I can’t imagine her closet if full of Fendi. “I had a friend of yours log me into your Crestfall account, pull what I could from the syllabus. I thought we could start with biomathematics, maybe linear models?”

  I tap the desk a little louder. “Whatever you like.”

  She slaps on a smile, brushing her hair behind her ear, finger remaining at the back of it for a beat too long.

  “Look,” I tell her, hoping to straighten things out here, “if you’re thinking this is going to turn into some kind of hot-for-teacher situation, that you’re going to have me fucking you against the wall here before lunch, you’re mistaken. You’re not my type.”

  I expect her to brush this off, but her eyes go glassy, her face frozen and pale.

  “Did you hear me? What?” I press. “You’re the goody-goody type who wants commitment. It’s written all over you. I don’t do that. That much I can remember. Like I said, you’re just not…” I let it linger realizing she’s close to bawling.

  Maybe she really did think that’s what was going to happen here, but I don’t want to have her under any illusion. It’s easier for the both of us this is sorted here and now.

  I speak slow. “Do. You. Understand?”

  She nods and stands up abruptly. “I’ve got to use the bathroom,” she blurts out, running off to the hall.

  “It’s on your right,” I shout, but she’s already gone.

  The hell? I think. It’s not the first time I’ve provoked this kind of reaction, but something about this is nagging at me. It’s off, not that I expected anything about being home to be normal. I’ve been lying in a hospital bed for the last four weeks for fuck’s sake.

  When Maya returns, looking far less stricken, she seats herself and places a worksheet before me. “Sorry about that.”

  Guilt starts to prick at me, to dig its bony fucking finger right into my side. “Look, I’m sorry, okay. But I have to be honest. I can’t apologize for that.”

  “I know,” she smiles, directing me back to the worksheet. “Here, these predictive models will be a good place to start. You think you can handle that?”

  I take up the pen. “Piece of cake.”

  Turns out said models are not a piece of anything I can handle. I struggle, growing increasingly frustrated with myself for not being able to put the simplest of concepts together. It’s like my brain’s turned into Swiss cheese, full of holes and missing pieces.

  And I fucking hate it.

  An hour in and I can’t take any more. Maya’s trying to be patient, more than she should, but it’s not working.

  I smash the pen down, two fingers pinching the middle of my forehead. “I’m done.”

  “We can go back to the original datasets if you like, find something more appropriate?”

  My brain hurts. I’m talking a physical, drum-beating pain that’s set up shop somewhere between my ears that sure as hell wasn’t there two hours ago.

  I stand, two hands on my head and pace around the room, not that it’s doing any damn good. “I said I’m done.”

  “Ah…” she starts.

  “You can see your own way out.”

  I ignore her stunned expression, stand and head downstairs, determined to get some fresh air, but Phoenix stops me at the bottom of the stairs. “Whoa there, brother. Where are you off to looking like the Grim Reaper?”

  “Anywhere but here. What are you, the fun police?”

  “Ah, yeah, because orders were no hard, flying objects at your head.”

  “You and Nol have been throwing shit at me all day.”

  “At your body, not your head, bro.”

  “I’m still going,” I tell him.

  Phoenix rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. You can’t be doing that shit, and you’re not going out there alone, also doc’s orders.”

  I’m searching around for my cell, know I left it down here somewhere. “So come with.”

  “I’ve got practice,” he says, “and Nolan’s gone.”

  I find my cell and pocket it. “I’ll go alone then.”

  I try to dodge around him, but he blocks my path again, a hand on my chest. “I said can’t allow it.”

  “Phoenix, man…”

  “Seriously,” he says, firmer than I’ve heard him in, well, forever. “You are not going out there by yourself.”

  “I can go with him.”

  We both turn to see Maya descending down the stairs, her twenty-dollar satchel over her shoulder.

  “You’re still here?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

  Phoenix is eyeing me hard and I’m too tired to argue.

  I look to Maya. “Come on then.”

  She stops for a moment, seems reluctant, but then something else comes over her. Again, I can’t place it, but she’s confusing the fuck out of me. I mentally note to grill my brothers on her later, see where her fixation on me might have originated from.

  She basically skips down the stairs. It’s like being followed around by a puppy, but whatever, I need to get out. If I’m trapped here much longer with Dumb and Dumber I’m worried I’m going to slip back into a coma.

  If I have to bring Driving Miss Daisy with me to please Dear Brother, so be it.

  She’s still aloof when we step aside. “You up for a drink?” I ask her.

  She’s blushing so hard she’s basically a fire blanket. “I could go for a water.”

  “Fuck water,” I laugh.

  “What do you suggest?”

  All I have to do is smile.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MAYA

  We arrive at the Steam Room just when it’s starting to fill up with the after-college crowd keen to relax after a long day of study. Unlike most college bars, almost everyone is wearing a jersey or a uniform, shin pads and pencil-pleated skirts fresh from tennis courts or volleyball or one of the ten-thousand other sports they do here at Crestfall. Obesity simply doesn’t exist here. It’s
the Body Issue come to life. Not a big self-esteem booster if you’re out of the fold.

  I follow Titus closely into the throng of bodies gathered near the bar. Everyone knows him. Everyone stops to say hi or clap him on the back, offer some quick jibe about his head injury—common knowledge around campus.

  I’ve been here once or twice, but never with Titus. We always did quieter activities together. I suddenly realize how odd it was we spent most of our time hanging at my apartment where we’d never be interrupted or caught by his brothers. We were keeping a low profile, which yeah, probably added to the excitement of it all.

  Could you take him there? I ask myself. To your apartment? Maybe that will jog his memory.

  But I don’t know if I’m ready for that, how I’d even broach the subject. ‘Oh, hey? Want to go to my place?’

  ‘What for?’ would come the inevitable reply.

  ‘Milk and Oreos?’

  Yeah, not going to work.

  And then I realize something else—something that’s never occurred to me before: was he ashamed of me? Is that why he wanted to keep our relationship quiet, to avoid comments, keep me out of the spotlight?

  Then I remember how sweet and attentive he was, the Titus no one else ever got to see, and I don’t think that could be true. But hey, what do I know about anything right now? Everything is new and turned inside-out and utterly terrifying.

  Titus finds us a small table in the middle of the room. People churn around us, but Titus doesn’t seem concerned in the least. He’s used to this. It’s his territory.

  He nods to the bar. “What will you have, and don’t you dare tell me H20.”

  “I suppose a Shirley Temple is out the question?”

  “Not unless Shirley started adding vodka to it.”

  “I’ll just have what I always have,” I say, quickly realizing he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about, that we only drank together and not in public. “Sangria,” I finish.

  He slaps the table and stands. “One jug of sangria. Comin’ up.”

  “Wa—”

  But he’s already gone.

  I watch him shift effortlessly among the beautiful people. He points at one guy, winks at another, making what I’m pretty sure is a jerking-off sign at yet another, who laughs and retorts with what I think is a physically impossible sex act.

  The waifish bartender smiles when she sees him, nodding enthusiastically and laughing loud enough to be heard over the Nashville rock pounding from the speakers.

  Titus is still smiling when he returns to the table with the jug of sangria and two glasses, placing them down and pouring. “When in Rome…”

  He sits and drinks, offering me a glass. I take it and do likewise, admiring the carefree way he holds himself in here, the happiness that’s filled up his entire being the moment we walked through those doors. I’m only disappointed I’ve failed to illicit the same response.

  He’s watching me closely. Those sapphire eyes that seduced me, a playful glint beyond. “So, what do you do for fun, Maya… besides trying to crack the Navier-Stokes equations?”

  “The great what-happens-when-your-stir-cream-into-your-coffee math problem? I’m surprised you remember.”

  He shrugs. “Fluid dynamics are hot. Come on.”

  I can’t help smiling because suddenly this feels like we’re back to normal, bantering back and forth. “I suppose some math is sexy, but don’t you even start trying to dream up examples.”

  Titus leans back, so casual and relaxed and perfectly placed here. “I had this math teacher in junior high, Ms. Macarthur, but we used to call her ‘The Rat’ on account of her front teeth.” He brings his hands up to his chest. “But she had these breasts, these bazookas that were just fucking insane. If she was near you and had to turn in a hurry she could damn near take your head off.”

  I’ve heard this before. “So your large-chested junior high math teacher was the person who got you into mathematics? Is that where you’re going with this?”

  “No, that was Sesame Street, but that ‘They Did the Math’ subreddit was pretty popular back in high school.”

  Again, I’ve heard this, but it’s nice to hear him opening up and enjoying himself. “You mean the one where they ask weird math questions like, ‘How many miles of penis has Jenna Jameson received in her porn career?’”

  He smirks. “That’s the one, and the answer was 6.14 miles if I recall.”

  “So you can’t do these basic college equations but you remember that?”

  He folds his arms, shirt straining against his biceps. “Alright, I see the irony, but come on, tell me you’ve never checked it out.”

  “Because I was curious how many years of masturbating it would take to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool?”

  Titus’s smirk starts to break. “I believe it was 951 years—once per minute without stopping for food or sleep.”

  “Bet you could do it in twenty.”

  It’s more risqué than anything I’ve said to him yet, and I’ve seemingly forgotten he doesn’t know we’re in a relationship, but he reels back all the same. “Maya, Maya, Maya… And here I was thinking you were a prude.”

  God, I’m blushing so hard. If it was any brighter in here the whole place would know. “I am not your stereotypical mathematician. Besides, don’t you think there’s something innately rebellious about applying elegant, beautiful math to something so crude as the act of sexual intercourse?”

  “It doesn’t have to be crude,” he smiles.

  I know, I think, casting my mind back to a better time.

  I need more sangria—pronto.

  I reach for the jug, but he places his hand on mine, sliding it away.

  “Allow me.”

  It’s the first physical contact we’ve had since the accident. It sets my skin on fire, pure need pulsing between my legs.

  “You didn’t tell me where your interest in math comes from, by the way,” he says, pouring.

  We’ve been through this before, but I humor him. “My father, actually. He was a brilliant man.”

  “Was?”

  It’s like a stab wound right in my chest, but I prevent myself falling apart, swallowing hard before speaking. “He died a few years ago—heart attack.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  It’s exactly what Titus said the first time I told him. “He had a BS with a double major in math and physics, an MS in Nuclear Engineering and a PhD in computational chemistry.”

  “You’re telling me your father was Albert Einstein?”

  Same joke. I feel like I’m in a parallel universe.

  Keep cool, I remind myself. “Well, he didn’t have a 1,427-page FBI file, or an illegitimate baby… I hope.”

  “Einstein also paid his first wife his Nobel Prize money for a divorce, you know.”

  “And married his first cousin.”

  Titus chokes on his sangria. “Shit. I forgot about that one. What about you? Any crazy facts I should know? We are going to be spending time together… You should probably tell me up front if you’re going to go Hannibal Lecter on me.”

  I scrunch up my face. “You think I look like Hannibal Lecter?” I lift up my bangs. “No widow’s peak, see?”

  “Doesn’t mean you’re not sitting there thinking of ways to tie me up in your basement.”

  If only… “I imagine you could ask any girl in here to tie you up and they’d do it happily.”

  He looks around over my head. “Don’t know if I would be so happy about it, though.”

  “You’re saying you’d rather be the one doing the tying?”

  He leans forward, face all mischief. “I’m saying I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve that’d put Christian Grey to shame.”

  I almost send sangria across the room, choking and pounding my chest to get it down. “Is that so?” I squeak out.

  He’s fixated on me now. “You never answered my question. Come on. A fact about yourself, something obtuse.”

  You alre
ady know everything about me. I try not to let the pain show on my face, to remain light in my expression. “I put pineapple on my pizza,” pause, “and I like it.”

  And once more I’m rewarded with his beautiful smile, the one that used to be mine and mine alone. Somehow in this college bar packed with people, noisy and smelling like the inside of a cardboard box, it feels like we’re alone again. “That’s not so obtuse, Ms. Maya.”

  I’ve missed that too. “Ah,” I wag my finger, “but here’s the clincher. Pineapple, no cheese.”

  Titus places his glass down and slaps the table, pointing to me. “Quick, somebody call the pizza police. We’ve got a troublemaker,” he shouts, but everyone’s too busy yapping away to notice. He shakes his head. “And here I was thinking you were normal.”

  “I believe you called me a prude,” I correct.

  “I stand corrected.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “Anything you would like to share about yourself?”

  He leans back thinking on it, his massive arms crossing. “That I can remember? Guess my third nut’s out the question.”

  I roll my eyes, forgetting myself. “You do not have a third testicle.”

  “Oh, and how would you know? Are you the campus authority on my balls all of a sudden?”

  I remember the feel of them in my hands, the silky, hot shaft of his cock above. I shift my legs awkwardly to stave off the remnant desire there. “Doesn’t sound like a very illustrious position to hold.”

  “My balls? You’d be surprised.”

  I drink. Boy, do I drink because this conversation is going all kinds of sideways. ‘Obtuse’ doesn’t begin to cover it.

  “I do have one abnormal physical feature,” he continues, rocking forward.

  I’m momentarily distracted by someone standing on the bar calling for shots, my mouth speaking without registering what I’m saying. “The birthmark on your butt that looks like Spongebob Squarepants. I know.”

  I turn to him in horror knowing I’ve said too much.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  You weren’t, you idiot.

  That laughing, go-lucky look has been wiped clean from his face. “How do you know about it?”

  I drink again, but my throat’s closing up.

  Shit-shit-crap.