The Redemption Series

by Leigh, T. K.

  Too little, too late. No thank you, Damian.

  “Like I’ve told you repeatedly, my father doesn’t want me to date until I’m sixteen.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “September first, but even then, I’m not sure I want to date.” I attempt to give him the cold shoulder, but I can’t ignore the heat of his body inching even closer to mine.

  “Oh, Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Brooklyn…” His voice is irritatingly sly. “What can I do to convince you to say yes?”

  When his hand lands on my thigh, my body immediately grows rigid. I inhale a sharp breath. His fingers sweep up and down my leg as I blink repeatedly, my heart pounding in my chest. Didn’t Damian pay attention during our health class when Mr. Ottermeyer went over the importance of verbal consent? Probably not. He was too busy flirting with anything with a pulse.

  “Damian,” I warn through tight lips, gripping my book, my knuckles becoming white with the force. “Please take your hand off my leg.”

  “Why?” He smirks. “Is there somewhere else you’d like my hand?” He comes closer still, his fingers traveling up my leg, over my hip, and farther north.

  I open my mouth, dread forming in the pit of my stomach, every inch of my body tensing. The hair on my nape stands on end, my palms becoming clammy. I press my elbows into my sides, my teeth grinding. Hearing laughing and blaring music reminds me I’m in public, that I can get up and leave, but I’m frozen to the spot, unable to move or speak as his hand looms perilously close to my chest.

  As I brace myself for what’s to come next, he suddenly flies off the lounge chair and onto the sand. I’m disoriented at first, unsure what just happened. Then I see a familiar, yet intimidating figure standing over Damian, his foot pressed against his neck, his dark hair wild.

  “Don’t you ever put your hands on her again!” Drew bellows. His back is toward me, muscles tense, body taut.

  Over the past two years, he’s gone from a tall, scrawny kid, who perpetually had a pair of ice skates or rollerblades attached to him, into this beast of a man. With his six-foot, two-inch frame and muscles he’s built up during hours of training, he’s a force to be reckoned with. Couple that with a hot temper, and the entire school has learned not to mess with Andrew Brinks, unless you want to walk away with a broken bone or two.

  “Chill out!” Damian says once Drew lets up on the pressure. “We were just talking.”

  “Really? It didn’t look like you were just talking.”

  Drew glances over his shoulder and our eyes meet. I swallow hard at what I see in his stare. I can’t quite explain it. It’s unlike the way he typically looks at me. He’s no longer looking at me like I’m an annoyance, someone he has to put up with because I’m his sister’s best friend. It makes me feel ashamed. I jump to my feet and grab my cover-up lying in the sand, hastily tossing it on my body.

  Damian takes advantage of Drew’s momentary distraction and wiggles away, climbing back to his feet. “You got a thing for her, fine,” he barks out, brushing sand off his swim trunks. “No skin off my back. You’ve seen one pair of tits, you’ve seen ‘em all. And I’ve seen plenty. Nothing special about hers.”

  In an instant, Drew’s hand forms into a tight fist. Damian doesn’t even have time to react before Drew reels back, landing a powerful blow to his perfect nose. When blood spews onto the sand, I shriek. Needing to do something to put an end to this before it gets out of control, I dart toward Drew and attempt to pull him off Damian, but he’s obsessed, a man on a mission.

  “Drew! Stop!” I do everything I can, but I’m no match for his strength. “Please!

  Just as he’s about to land another punch to Damian’s face, I jump in between the two. Drew quickly halts mid-blow. It’s the first time I’m actually thankful for my height. If I were as short as Molly, he’d never even notice me standing here.

  He stares at me, nostrils flaring. It’s just enough time for Damian to get his footing and take off down the beach. The crowd that had assembled to watch the fight disperses and I expect to hear sirens at any minute. It’s not the first time Drew’s gotten in trouble for fighting, and it certainly won’t be the last. His only saving grace has been his father’s close connection with many of the boys in blue in this town.

  “What the hell, Drew?” I shriek in an uncharacteristic move. I’m normally even-tempered, but I can’t be right now, not about this. He may think he’s just playing the overprotective friend card, but that’s not how I see it. This is an instance of another person in my life thinking they know what’s best for me.

  “What? I thought—”

  “That I need you to come in and save the day? I don’t! I can take care of myself!”

  “Oh really?” He crosses his arms over his chest. I’m so upset, I don’t even have time to take in how beautiful he is in just a pair of swim trunks, his chest glistening with perspiration, his chiseled abs disappearing into a V. Just like Damian’s arrogance turned me off, I find myself turned off from Drew because of the same thing. “If you call letting some guy put his hands all over you taking care of yourself—”

  “Did you ever stop to think that maybe I wanted him to put his hands all over me?” I spit out, not caring how far from the truth those words are. “But no! Now, because of you, no guy will ever want to touch me again. They’ll all be worried about Drew Brinks finding out and breaking their nose.”

  “I’m sorry, Brook.” His tone softens as he steps toward me, but I back away, collecting my things. “I thought—”

  “Well, stop,” I bite back harshly. “Just…” I shake my head. “I already have one ridiculously overprotective father. I don’t need another.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and hurry toward the bus stop, trying to erase the memory of how he looked at me.

  But I can’t.

  Chapter Two

  Drew

  The heat of the day begins to wane as I shuffle down the street I grew up on. Not much has changed in the past eighteen years. A few houses have gotten a fresh coat of paint or new owners, but the feel of the neighborhood is still the same. Everyone watches out for each other here. Everyone knows each other’s business, which is why word about Damian Murphy’s broken nose seems to have spread faster than a drop of oil in a puddle of water. I spent the afternoon on damage control, thanks to my aunt’s insistence I apologize in the hopes he doesn’t file charges. I’d like to say I regret my actions, but I don’t.

  I’m not quite sure what came over me. I’d been hanging out with a few of the guys, playing volleyball, when one of them commented about how hot Brooklyn looked in her bikini. The instant I stole a glance at her, it felt like all the air had been sucked from my lungs. I tried to stop staring, but couldn’t. You’d have to be blind to not have noticed the change in her body over the past year, but she always wore relatively conservative clothes, barely showing any skin. That wasn’t the case earlier. When I saw Damian Murphy, notorious flirt and player, approach her and proceed to touch her, I lost it. A new sort of protectiveness came over me, one I couldn’t quite explain.

  One I still can’t.

  The usual sounds of the neighborhood surround me as I continue down the same route I’ve walked more times than I can count— children laughing and playing, the five o’clock news blaring out open windows, the sizzle of burgers and hot dogs on a grill. Summer’s here and I’m both happy and sad at the same time. I’m done with high school, but unsure how to feel about embarking on the next journey of my life — college.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the star hockey player. First in the town league, then in high school. In a few months, I’ll board a plane for the University of Minnesota, where I received a full athletic scholarship and a starting position on their Division I hockey team. I may no longer be the best player, although my father tells me otherwise, considering I’ve been given a place on the World Junior Championship team and my name’s in contention to be selected for the Games next year. Still, I’ll be battling for attention amo
ng dozens of other players just like me. What if I’m not as good as I’ve been led to believe? What will I do then? For as long as I can remember, hockey’s been my life. It’s the only thing that helped when my mother disappeared from my life right after my sixth birthday. I don’t know what I would do if I no longer had it.

  I slow my steps as I approach my destination. Brooklyn’s house looms in front of me. It’s a small shotgun-style home, just like many of the houses in this area. A large oak tree sits at the crest of the steep hill in the front yard, and a smile lights up my face when I see Brooklyn sitting on the swing tied to one of the large branches.

  Shoving my hands into the pockets of my pants, I head up the hill. She remains oblivious to my presence, her fingers wrapped around the rope, her eyes closed as she basks in the last few hours of sun before it disappears beyond the horizon. A breeze picks up, blowing her long, dark hair around. She looks more at peace than I can recall seeing in recent memory. I almost hate to disturb her.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She startles, her eyes flinging open, a hand flying to her chest. When her gaze lands on me, she blows out a long breath.

  “Dammit, Drew. You scared me.”

  “I didn’t mean to, but I had to come talk to you.” When I nod toward the setting sun, her mouth curves up in understanding.

  “Never go to sleep without making up,” she says, reciting what my aunt would say to us whenever we’d argue as kids. It seems like it was just yesterday that Molly brought her new friend from school home to play and she became an honorary Brinks.

  Even back then, Brooklyn was withdrawn, quiet, shy. A complete one-eighty from my sister’s rambunctious tendencies. Throughout the years, their personalities seemed to complement each other. Molly and I have always been close, and because of that, I grew close with Brooklyn, too. I’ve always considered her to be like another sister, which is why I feel protective of her. I keep an eye out for Molly, too, but Brooklyn’s different. I’ve lost count of the number of my fellow classmates I threatened when I caught them staring at her ass, chest, or legs. It doesn’t matter that she covers herself up by dressing more modestly than most other girls at our school, which is probably due to her father’s overprotective tendencies. Every guy notices Brooklyn Tanner. It’s impossible not to.

  Now that the temperatures are rising, they’re all noticing even more. I’m more than aware I overreacted on the beach. I can’t stomach the idea of some guy touching Brooklyn. I know I’ll have to get used to the likelihood it’ll happen. It still brings out my protective nature, though. And that’s all this is. My protective nature coming out. Nothing more. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself, especially when I feel a burning deep in my stomach as I take in her eyes, her lips, her curves. I’ve never had this reaction to her before. Why now?

  “Exactly.” I pull my lips between my teeth, unsure what to say. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead when I left my house. All I knew was I had to talk to her. Aunt Gigi has a way of making you think horrible things will happen if you disobey any of her rules. I don’t want to think what will occur if we violate her admonition that we not go to bed without reconciling our earlier disagreement. “Listen, Brook—”

  She immediately holds up her hand. “Just answer one question.” Her gaze hardens.

  In this moment, I no longer see the girl who’s been my sister’s shadow for the past decade. I no longer see a girl, period. She looks mature beyond her almost sixteen years. I suppose she always has been. Losing a parent forces you to grow up faster than you want to. I know from experience.

  “Are you only here because Aunt Gigi put the fear of God into you?”

  “No,” I say quickly, then pause. “Well, yes. Gigi always seems to put the fear of God into me, especially when I do something wrong and apologize, only for her to point to the sky and say, ‘Only He can forgive,’ or something like that.”

  Brooklyn tilts her head to the side, studying me. Then she bursts into a hearty laugh, the tension breaking. She knows all too well how Aunt Gigi can be. It doesn’t matter that she’s technically my aunt. She took Brooklyn under her wing and helped raise her, just like she did with us. She considers all of us her kids, regardless that she didn’t give birth to us.

  “But I wanted to come talk to you,” I continue, my voice becoming serious. “To apologize. I just… I care about you, Brooklyn. I know how boys like Damian think. Trust me. It’s nothing good.”

  “I know that. I’m not as naïve as you and my dad think I am.” Her voice is firm as she pushes her feet against the ground, swinging slightly. “I have absolutely no intention of going out with him.”

  I lift a brow. “But you were okay with him touching you?” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “I saw what he was about to do.”

  She stops swinging, her mouth tightening as she averts her eyes, staring at the ground.

  “Boys like Damian need to learn that no means no.”

  “And you think you’re the person to teach him that lesson?” She slowly brings her green eyes to mine.

  “I do.” I take a step closer, crossing my arms in front of my chest, my biceps stretching the fabric of my t-shirt. She inhales sharply, then looks away.

  “Like I told you earlier, you won’t always be around to bail me out of sticky situations.” Then she laughs. “But I doubt any other guy will ever come near me again, considering the last one who did ended up with a broken nose.”

  “Which he deserved.”

  “Yes. Yes, he did.” She draws in a deep breath, then exhales. Brooklyn’s almost as stubborn as I am, but in that moment, I see the fear she didn’t want to admit she felt earlier. “Thank you, Drew.”

  “No one touches you unless you want them to. Ever. Got it?”

  She nods. “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  With the air seemingly cleared between us, I walk around the swing, positioning myself behind her. “Well, go on then.”

  She glances over her shoulder. “Go on…what?” Her forehead wrinkles.

  “Swing. I’ll push you.”

  “We’re not kids anymore,” she reminds me.

  “You’re never too old to fly, Brookie,” I reply, using the nickname I used to call her.

  She considers my response for a minute, then relents. “I suppose you’re right, Dewy.”

  She faces forward and pushes her feet against the ground before straightening her legs as she takes flight. When she swings back, my hands land against her skin and I push, propelling her higher. After a few swings, her laughter fills the air, making me smile.

  “Higher,” she calls out. Unable to deny her, I use more force to drive her higher. Her hair is wild as it blows in the wind, the sight of her so happy, so carefree, so at ease making my heart full.

  Then a pang hits me as I contemplate how this is one of the last times I’ll push Brooklyn on this swing. One of the last times I’ll inhale her aroma as it wraps around me. One of the last times we’ll have this.

  “Higher! Higher!” Brooklyn’s exuberant cries snap me out of my thoughts and I use more force to push her farther into the sky. She swings her legs back and propels herself off the swing, taking flight. I watch as she soars through the air, like she used to when we were kids. Her feet hit the ground, but she loses her balance, tumbling down the hill in her front yard.

  I react quickly, hurrying to help. The steep pitch of the hill is too much and I fall, rolling down after her. I reach her, but velocity forces me to keep going, stopping directly on top of her with a grunt.

  “Are you okay?” I ask feverishly, scanning her appearance for any cuts or bruises. “I’m so sorry. Did I push too hard? Did I—”

  “Relax, Drew,” she says with a smile. The anger that had covered her expression earlier in the day has disappeared, leaving the version of Brooklyn I’m accustomed to — tranquil and relaxed. “I wanted to fly.”

  I lick my lips, glued to my position. I should roll off her, help her back to her feet, then
say my goodbyes, but I’m completely mesmerized, unable to look away, to stop wanting to feel her body against mine. She’s unlike any other girl at our school. They all seem to be obsessed with the latest fashion trend or hairstyle. Not Brooklyn. She wears whatever she finds comfortable, regardless of whether it shows the most cleavage or leg. She wears barely any makeup, but she doesn’t have to. Her skin has a natural glow to it. Her hair is free of any highlights or gels. Her beauty is authentic, not the result of a ridiculous amount of products.

  I reach for a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. The instant my finger brushes against her skin, a charge of electricity pulses through me. I try to blame it on hormones, convince myself I’m just like every other teenage boy who’s discovered girls and wants to see them naked, but that’s not it. I’ve been with other girls. I’ve never felt this surge of need from just a brush of my hand against skin.

  “Brooklyn…” I rest on my forearms.

  “Yes?” She tilts her head back, licking her lips. I peer deep into her eyes. They’re eyes I’ve seen nearly every day for the past ten years, but right now, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful. The way they darken when they lock with mine, our stare deep, intense, profound.

  “Have you ever kissed a boy?” I have no idea what’s come over me, why I’m asking her this, but I only have a few months left with her. It’s now or never.

  “My dad kisses my cheek every time he leaves.” Her voice is low, throaty, completely unlike her usual tone.

  I smile at her innocence, doing my best to appear calm and collected when inside, my heart is pounding against my chest at such a feverish pace, I wouldn’t be surprised if the next beat forces it outside my ribcage.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. Have you ever kissed a boy? Not a peck on the cheek or mouth. I’m talking about a real kiss. A kiss you feel in your soul. A kiss that makes you forget about where you are, who you are. Has anyone ever kissed you like that?”