Shut Up and Kiss Me: A Lost Boys Novel

by Jessica Lemmon

  “We owe him. Everything we have—this house, your clothing, tuition, your car—is in part thanks to Paul. The IRS could have seized my records, fined me until I was forced to retire my business. Paul stopped that from happening.”

  I still wasn’t sure how Super Paul had stopped the government from fining my father until he was penniless. I knew none of this was my fault or fell on my shoulders. But my father always framed it that way. Heaven forbid he bear that weight alone. Even when my parents divorced, he’d included me in the blame game he played nightly. Your mother left us and we’re both at fault. You took up much of her time, and I was forced to work to give my girls what they needed.

  I guess deep down I knew this wasn’t true, that this was my father’s skewed view of life—the story he had to tell himself so he could sleep at night—but it didn’t stop the oppressive guilt from quashing me.

  “Wouldn’t you agree we have a good life? Nice things? Privilege, Natasha, doesn’t come cheap.”

  I didn’t answer. I knew what I had. I could see what others didn’t.

  “You would agree that if I cut you off—stopped paying for your schooling months before you graduate, sold your car—that would be detrimental to your future, wouldn’t you?”

  I gaped, stunned. This was the first time I’d heard this speech end with such a blatant threat.

  “Wouldn’t you.” His voice was low and cold, his two words a command and not a question.

  “It would be detrimental,” I admitted. This close to graduation, I needed his help with tuition. I couldn’t afford it now that I was living on my own. Briefly I thought of my mother, how I could run to her. When she and Dad divorced, I made my choice. I had been angry with my mother, and my father stoked those flames. At the time, I’d blamed her, which drove a wedge between us. We met for coffee and lunch every once in a while—we weren’t strangers—but I knew she was living without my father’s money as well. She couldn’t afford my education.

  “I agree,” he said. “You know I couldn’t in good conscience continue to pay for the nice things you have if you were hanging out with a criminal every week, don’t you?”

  My face grew red as my anger spiked. “We’re not hanging out. We’re working.”

  “Work happens at the rehabilitation center, not in Caden Wilson’s bedroom.”

  I shot out of my chair. “I’m not sleeping with Cade!”

  Snatching up the box, I marched into the foyer, steam billowing from my ears. First off, I hated that I’d just blurted that, because it made me sound guilty. Secondly, I wished I’d remained silent and let my father think what he wanted. Thirdly—

  “Natasha.” That was at full volume.

  I stopped in the foyer and turned, nostrils flaring.

  “I expect very little from you.” He plunged his hands into his pants pockets and said nothing more. “Should I write the check for your tuition and your car payment, or are you dropping out and leaving the BMW here?”

  The car I could live without. Though I was told it was a birthday gift, not something he could use to control me. The tuition, however, I needed. College was expensive, and the money Paul gave me to work with Cade wasn’t enough to live on. My job at the rehab center paid, but not well. The only other option would be to move back here. If my options were swallow my pride or endure my dad, well…there wasn’t a choice at all.

  “I know.”

  “You won’t see him anymore.” Not a question, so I didn’t answer. I waited for him to demand I concede, but oddly, he didn’t. “You’re dismissed.”

  I didn’t linger.

  At my apartment, a five-minute drive from my dad’s house and seven minutes from school, I went in carrying my mail and the shipping box. Number one item on my to-do list was to quadruple-check I had changed my address everywhere.

  I dumped the envelopes on the counter in my kitchen and, box in hand, walked through my clean, tidy third-floor place and into the bedroom of my dreams.

  A dove-gray comforter, pale pink throw pillows, and an antique vanity in cream. Even though this was the very furniture from my bedroom when I lived in my father’s oppressive home, here it felt relaxing and soothing.

  Sitting on my bed, I reached over and snatched a sharp metal nail file from a pen cup on my nightstand and sliced through the packing tape on the box. Inside I found the three books I’d ordered: Self-Help Plus: Stutter Therapy, A Therapist’s Guide to Better Speech, and Bad Boy Bodyguard.

  I smiled down at the shirtless, tattooed, faceless man on the cover of the novel I’d purchased on a whim. Given that my mind was on Cade so often, the cover model’s sculpted muscles and tattoos decorating his arms reminded me of my grouchy patient. And since the image was cut off at the model’s firm, unsmiling mouth, it was easy to picture Cade there as well.

  I stroked the cover, thinking of my father’s threats, his demand that I not see Cade any longer, lest Morton Montgomery pull the rug from beneath me. I could stop going to Cade’s. I could stop helping him and focus on school and homework and my job.

  But as my eyes made their way to the other books I’d ordered, I felt a surge of determination at how much closer Cade seemed to real change. The kind of change that could produce a miracle—him speaking and going back to college, then law school so he could fulfill his dream of being an attorney. If I walked away from him, then what would he do? Giving up on him felt like giving up on myself—like giving my father his way.

  Well. My father didn’t have to know. It wasn’t any of his business what I did. I didn’t live under his roof. As long as Paul didn’t rat me out, there was no way my father would know if I saw Cade again.

  I tossed the romance novel onto my bed and picked up one of the other books instead. Then I kicked off my shoes, propped my head up with a pillow, and started learning how, exactly, to make Cade open his mouth and speak to me.

  Chapter 3

  Cade

  “How’s she coming along?”

  I was bent over Devlin’s SUV when he asked. Rather than answer, I held out a palm, then snapped my fingers and pointed at the toolbox.

  “Socket?”

  I nodded. He slapped the metal into my hand and I ducked back under the hood.

  “She looks about the same is why I was asking,” he said.

  Like his car would look any different on the outside after I fixed it? I was proof that the outside could look the same whether or not the insides were in working order.

  I finished up, came out from under the hood, and dropped it with a bang. Then my eyes went to where Devlin’s rested. On my girl. My 1969 powder blue Chevrolet Camaro. She was not my new Blue; no car could replace Blue. But she was a classic. And by “classic” I mean she was full of rust holes and needed a new alternator and a whole lot of love and money.

  Don’t we all.

  “Do you have her running yet?” Dev asked, hands in his pockets as he strolled over to the Camaro.

  “Yeah.” I liked that word. It came out clean most of the time. No tricky consonant at the end or the beginning.

  “You work tonight?”

  I nodded as I cleaned my hands with an orange rag.

  “See you there.” He rounded his car and climbed behind the wheel. Through the open window he said, “Thanks for the assist. I’ll buy your dinner tonight.”

  I tipped my chin in the affirmative and watched him leave. My eyes went back to my new-slash-old car Paul bought for my birthday a few months back. (It was a peace offering. He’d been attending Gamblers Anonymous since my accident, and we were trying to get back to the point where I didn’t hate him for stealing money out of my bank account and he didn’t feel guilty for doing it.) She ran. Didn’t sound pretty, but she ran. I’d have to think of a name for her.

  I decided since I didn’t have to work for a few more hours, and there was no Tasha coming over to bother and/or sexually frustrate me, I might as well work on my nameless car. I cranked up the radio in the garage to drown out the neighbor’s lawn mower buz
zing across the street. Then I got to work underneath the Chevy, my mind on that night on Alley Road.

  Street racing wasn’t legal. So I guess my giving my dad crap for doing something illegal was a bit of the pot/kettle routine. But street racing was what I was good at, plus, it gave me some extra spending cash. I liked everything about it. The rush as I revved the engine, the squeal of the tires as I peeled out, the adventure and risk. Cars were a big part of what made me who I was. Before I met Brooke, I was planning to become a mechanic, but she decided she didn’t want to marry a blue-collar guy and I decided to appease her.

  Girls.

  Anyway. A bookie, Sonny Lawrence, took my bet that night. I bet on myself to lose. The guy who’d challenged me had nitro, so throwing the race was a no-brainer. Blue could’ve taken him, but not everyone knew that. I had it all under control.

  Until the black ice.

  When I popped the wheel to the right, I lost control, wheels sliding, lights outside spinning. My precious Audi slid sideways into a fire hydrant and sent me on one fucked-up ride. One that took me out of college, landed me back at home living with my dad, and killed my backup plan of becoming a rap artist.

  I pushed out from under the Camaro now, lungs seizing and mind spinning. I was suddenly claustrophobic. I didn’t remember much about the accident. The ambulance came, I was taken to the hospital. They performed surgery and bandaged me up.

  The things I remembered most were the pain and Tasha. She’d been at the hospital when I opened my eyes the next morning. Second person I saw, after my father. Her blond head hovering there in front of me reminded me of an angel. And the way she was looking at me…blue eyes filled with sympathy and concern stole my breath.

  Or maybe my breath had been stolen by two cracked ribs. Hard to say.

  I turned the wrench over in my hand a few times, considering that Tasha had shown up for me when all my other “friends” had run for the hills. That might be a bit of the pot/kettle routine as well, considering I would’ve bolted from the scene of the accident too. Maybe. I narrowed my eyes as if seeing the picture from outside of myself. No. I wouldn’t have bolted. If I’d seen a guy slumped over the steering wheel, I’d have made sure he was okay. Tasha and I had that in common.

  She’d hung out in my hospital room with my dad before I was conscious. Dad said she’d been able to explain things in a way he understood. Which made me like her more than I should. Life was simpler when she hated me. When I knew there was no chance of getting her by my side or in my bed. Now I figured I had a chance, but it was because she saw me as a bird with a broken wing. Never one to harbor a fantasy of being taken care of, I was still trying to act like I didn’t care about her at all.

  The problem was, I had begun to admire things about her beyond the physical. Her bright blue eyes held pain and secrets I wanted to unearth.

  Which was dangerous to the nth degree. What could I possibly offer a rich girl? Like Tasha Montgomery would dare to be seen dating a mechanic…admittedly a step up from my regal employment as busboy at Oak & Sage. Hell, I cleaned up after people like her.

  I’d run off my three other therapists, basically by being my own charming self. After the large, middle-aged German woman stomped out our front door, guess who showed?

  Yep. Tasha.

  I wasn’t welcoming, my pride still smarting from her definitive “no” at that frat party, but Tasha didn’t balk. She dug her heels in and kept showing up even though I never did as she asked. I tried once to practice a few speech exercises when she’d left. Stood in front of the mirror like a dope and tried to work through the words. It didn’t help and made me feel stupid, and there was a zero percent chance I’d do that in front of a girl I liked.

  Used to like.

  Fine. Still liked but put the idea of landing her to rest. Happy now?

  Granted we hadn’t done much in the way of therapy, which could be why it wasn’t working. My fault.

  I also noticed (begrudgingly) that I was calmer in her presence. More confident when she was around. She’d shot me down at the party way back when, but it took a lot more to shake me than a “Leave me alone.”

  And maybe that was the thing…My relationship with Tasha started because I thought I’d get her into bed and take out my frustrations on a girl like Brooke—a girl for whom all things came easy. A dick move, I know. Instead I found some sort of solace in Tasha I didn’t fully understand.

  It was messed up. Rather than use her for sex, I was using her to feel more like my old self.

  While my body healed, my voice stayed broken. When I did talk, I sounded like a skipping vinyl record. Not what I’d had in mind neck deep into pre-law classes, you know?

  I’d spent my time since the accident healing and lying around the house. But I was tired of being here all the time. When Dev came over a few weeks back and told me he needed help at the restaurant, I offered. And by “offered” I mean I nodded and gave him a halfhearted grunt.

  Doing something was far less depressing than doing nothing, and at least I made my own money now.

  I slid back under the car, content to work on a machine that, if it did ask a question, my tools could answer.

  —

  I had no idea how long I’d been under the car. A few hours, I figured. I was in a zone. It had been a while since I’d been immersed in a project. Long-term or otherwise. Now that my days weren’t filled with homework, studying legal cases, and my evenings were devoid of drinking beer with my friends, I had a lot of time on my hands.

  One more small adjustment, then I could scoot out, take my shower, and head to work. Or at least I thought I had enough time, until I heard my dad’s raised voice.

  “Cade!”

  “W-wait,” I said, trying to finish up.

  “Cade!” he repeated frantically, but I wasn’t answering him again. When he palmed my tennis shoe, I pushed myself out from under the chassis and glared at him.

  “You left your phone in the house. Devlin called twice. Do you work tonight?”

  Shit. Shitshitshit.

  “Do you need me to take you? What were you doing under there anyway? The car ran fine until you started messing with it.”

  But I wasn’t listening, tossing my tools into the red toolbox, slamming it on the counter, and yanking my T-shirt off as I ran for my new bedroom.

  “Let me know if you need a ride!” he called after me.

  Dammit.

  I did. Which was unfortunate. The new guy with the new job his brother got him was going to have to get his dad to give him a ride there.

  Shit!

  I took the stairs two at a time, stripped off the rest of my clothes, and climbed into the shower. I had thirty seconds, maybe. I was making every one of them count.

  Tasha

  My last patient for the day was taking his sweet time. And flirting with me.

  His hands gripped the poles on either side of his body as he took another shaky step.

  “You’re sure, beautiful?” he asked.

  I gave him a grin. “I am flattered, Mr. Newman. But I don’t date my patients.”

  My instructor Veronica shot me a good-natured eye roll and a smile. She knew exactly what Mr. Newman was like—incorrigible and charming in equal measures.

  Nor did I date men who were forty-five years older than me, but I suspected he already knew that part. He had taken a nasty spill thanks to a testy knee—“from the army,” he told me—and had broken his hip. His recovery was slow going, but he’d offered the flattering compliment that his time was well spent because he was with me. I felt the same way. Greg Newman was positive, funny, and the most respectful man in my life. I liked spending time with him. He didn’t let little things stop him. He didn’t even let big things stop him.

  Unlike a certain other someone who had been fighting me every step of the way.

  I told myself I was being unfair. Cade had only been in recovery for a few months. Healing took time.

  “Is there someone else?” Mr. N
ewman asked with mock concern.

  “There’s no one else.” I encouraged him to take another step.

  “I can tell,” he said, regripping the bar and committing to his next step, “that you have a man on your mind.” He harrumphed. “A younger man, I’ll bet. I guess I can’t blame you. Everything on me is falling apart, and I don’t think I could keep up with someone as young and active as you are.”

  “You’re doing fine,” I said. “You’re doing better than most of the younger men I know.” One in particular. “These days, the younger guys can’t hold their own the way you mature men can.”

  “ ‘Mature’ is a nice way to say ‘geriatric.’ ” He lifted gray eyebrows.

  I gave him a wink that seemed to satisfy him for the remainder of the session.

  Once we were through, Veronica called me into her office. I went, half worried I’d committed some infraction of which I was not aware. As a perfectionist, I was always fearing I was doing something wrong. Even when I was sure I wasn’t.

  “Close the door.” Veronica wore a bland expression on her caramel-colored face. Until I was a licensed PTA, she was my shadow. I didn’t mind. She was friendly, encouraging, and patient. She was also one of the most gorgeous women I’d ever seen in my life. Like Beyoncé, but slimmer, her face more placid than fierce. “Have a seat.”

  Uh-oh. This really was starting to sound bad.

  I eased down into the chair across from her desk and admired a small cactus with a bright orange bloom.

  “Tasha.”

  My eyes widened and met hers.

  “I’d like to offer you a permanent position here upon graduation. If you’d like to accept it.”

  Stunned, I processed this information slowly. I was speechless.

  Veronica’s face broke into a smile. “Full-time employment comes with a raise, but I talked to my supervisor and we agreed to make it retroactive on today’s date.”

  “But…I have a few more months?” The statement came out like a question, because I couldn’t believe my luck. A raise and a full-time position would mean I could relax about finding work. I could stay here, in a facility I loved. It would mean less dependence on my father. I could start paying for my own everything and he could no longer lord his money over me.