Undeniable (Always Book 3)

by Lexxie Couper

  “Bet you’d look cute in pigtails,” I said, even as I knew the flippant line really wasn’t going to help. But as I said, it was my normal way of dealing with confrontation. Laugh it off. Joke about it. Ignore the anger. Smother it with witty comebacks.

  She threw up her hands. “So, treat me like I’m a baby and then make jokes? You know what, O’Dae? I need to go. Away.” She stabbed her finger toward the ground at her feet. “From here. Now.”

  That invisible vise around my chest clamped tighter. “Chase . . .” I began.

  She turned before I could say anything else. “Don’t follow me,” she threw over her shoulder as she hurried toward the Speeding Dragon.

  I stood stock-still, unsure what to do or say. “Please let me fix this,” I called, watching her pull her car keys from her bag.

  She stopped, shoulders slumping. “Don’t, Caden,” she called back without looking at me.

  My heart tore at the wretched contempt in her voice.

  The sound of Pink sheared through the air. I ground my teeth.

  Chase dug her phone out of her pocket, looked at the screen and then turned to me, phone extended. “Want to talk to him?”

  “For God’s sake,” I said, incapable of holding back my frustration. Why wasn’t she seeing what Donald the Dude was doing was wrong? How could she not be worried about him? “The guy’s practically stalking you with how often he calls.”

  “He does it because he thinks I may not have heard my phone the first time,” she shot back.

  I threw up my hands. “So, not a stalker. Just a condescending dickhead, then. I feel infinitely better for you now.”

  “Go to hell, Caden,” she snarled. She swung back to the car and yanked the door open, Pink still singing.

  The situation slammed into me: what I’d said, how I’d hurt her. “Chase,” I said, raising my voice to almost a shout.

  She paused, but didn’t look at me. Pink fell silent. I’ve been a Pink fan for as long as I can remember, but honestly, right then, if I never heard that song again it would be too soon.

  “He’s not good enough for you,” I said, watching her back. “No one is. But if you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be.” A wry laugh I knew she wouldn’t hear rattled in my chest. “No joke.”

  Looking over her shoulder, she scowled. “I don’t need to be protected.”

  “Have you ever thought,” I took one step – just one – closer to her, “that those trying to protect you do so because they love you?”

  Her scowl slipped. She closed her eyes and turned back to her car. “I’m going. I’ll call you later.”

  And without another word, another look at me, she lowered herself into the driver’s seat, closed the door and started the car.

  Not a single funny, witty or sarcastic came to me. Not one. All I had was my churning gut, my thick throat, and a rising feeling everything I’d hoped for was slipping through my fingers.

  Everything.

  “Drive safely,” I said, the words barely a murmur as she pulled out of the parking area onto the street and drove away from me.

  Crap.

  Seven

  “Once you have had a wonderful dog, a life without one is a life diminished.”

  ~ Dean Koontz

  Chase

  Mom and Dad. Everyone has them at some point in their lives. What their relationship is like with their mom and dad is dependent on all matter of things. My relationship with my mom is wonderful. Mom is the mediator of our family. Mom is the peacekeeper. Mom should work for the United Nations, given she’s managed to keep Dad and I from killing each other.

  I love my mom, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. She understands me, accepts me, and encourages me to be who I am.

  More than once I’ve wondered why she and Dad are still together. I know the answer: because they love each other. I’ve seen them play footsies under the dining table when they’re eating dinner. I’ve seen them finish each other’s sentences more than once. I’ve seen Dad watch her walk through the living room, when he thinks no one is watching him, the love and admiration in his eyes . . .

  I think it’s moments like those that make me hate him less. Actually, hate is a strong word. Do I hate my father? No. I just wish he’d be as understanding about who I am as Mom is. But, as Dad is fond of saying, if wishes were horses . . .

  Thank God Dad was at work when I let myself into my home. The front door makes this squeaky whine that I can feel all the way up my arm, and it no doubt alerted Mom to the fact I’d arrived. She met me in the middle of the living room, as I was trying to hurry to my bedroom, the reading glasses she wears when in work-mode perched on her nose.

  “Hey Mom,” I said, trying to walk past her.

  She didn’t let me. Without a word, she snagged my arm and pulled me in for a hug I had no defense against.

  I also had no defense against the hot tears that welled up in my eyes. They stung, and no matter how many times I tried to blink them away, they persisted.

  Suffice to say, when Mom finally released me from the hug – her hands anchoring me to her still, via a gentle grip on my wrists – my cheeks were wet.

  “Hey, baby girl,” she said, her smile warm and gentle. “You need to talk?”

  I shook my head and sniffed. “Not yet,” I answered. “Think I need a shower first.”

  She smoothed her palms up my arms and brought our foreheads together with a gentle touch, like she’s done ever since I was a little girl and upset about something. Most of those times I was upset over my crappy hearing, or Dad.

  “Love you, Mom,” I said, as she pulled away.

  She smiled. “Take a shower. I’m grading papers, but when you get out I’ll stop and we can fix lunch together. What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds good.” I kissed her cheek and then made my way to my bedroom.

  It had been two nights since I was here, and while that wasn’t long, it felt like a lifetime. So much had changed since then. So much had happened.

  I crossed to my bed and dropped onto its edge, letting my gaze roam around the room. It didn’t surprise me at all to find it coming to rest on one of Caden’s previous sock-puppet creations, currently sitting on my bookshelf.

  A hot lump filled my throat as I studied it. It was Toothless, the black dragon from the How to Train Your Dragon movies. Tanner loved those movies. So did I. How could I not? They were about a young person not living up to their parents’ expectations and learning that was completely okay.

  Had Caden known that’s how the film spoke to me? I’d never questioned him on why he made the puppets he made for me, but maybe I should have?

  Pushing myself to my feet, I walked over and picked up Toothless from the shelf. Its wool was soft beneath my fingers. Its felt green eyes looked up at me. I couldn’t help but feel like the goddamn thing was judging me.

  The lump in my throat grew thicker.

  “I don’t need to be protected,” I muttered at it.

  Huffing, I tossed the puppet back onto the shelf and stomped back to my bed. I had a right to be angry, damn it. Caden had way overstepped his bounds answering Donald’s call. And let’s not talk about him telling Donald I was going to be too busy to call him back.

  Who the hell did he think he was? Who did he think I was?

  I threw myself onto my bed, tummy first, and fisted my hand beneath my chin. Of course, the position meant I was looking at the Thor sock puppet Caden had made me.

  I glared at it. It looked back at me, hand-made Fosters can in its “hand”.

  A soft tap on my calf saved Thor from being flung across the room.

  Twisting, I looked up to find Mom standing beside the bed. Can I sit? she signed.

  Mom does not sign at me often. That she was now meant one of two things – she was going to tell me something she suspected I didn’t want to hear, or Dad was home. Which I guess, in this incident, could be essentially the same thing.

  Repositioning myself onto my
side, I nodded.

  She lowered herself to the side of the bed, watching me with concerned eyes. “I was going to let you decompress for a while,” she said with a small frown, “but changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  Her frown disappeared. “Because I’m the mom. It’s my job to take away my baby’s pain.”

  I snorted, and then rolled my eyes. “Can you get someone deported?”

  “Ahh.” Understanding filled her face. “What’s Caden done this time?”

  Before I go on, I should point out, Mom thinks Caden is the Best Boy In The World (caps intentional). Ever since he arrived in our lives with his matching bone marrow and saved Tanner, Mom idolizes him. She’s allowed to, I guess. He saved her grandson, after all. If she were religious, she’d fully expect him capable of walking on water.

  Thankfully, she isn’t. Religious, that is.

  What she is, was grateful. We all were. We just had different ways of showing it. Dad showed it by rarely acknowledging Caden existed (although I suspect that was because Caden was Brendon’s cousin, and Brendon completely messed up Dad’s plans of Amanda dating his teacher’s aid, so by default, Caden was the enemy). Amanda showed it by letting Caden sleep on their couch whenever he wanted and for as long as he wanted. Mom showed it by baking.

  Baking.

  One time when Caden was visiting, she baked him cookies. To the best of my knowledge Mom has never baked cookies in her life. But she baked them for Caden. They were a crumbly mess of chocolate chips, and I think she used self-raising flour instead of plain flour, but she baked them. From scratch.

  For Caden.

  Another time, she paid a small fortune for an imported packet of Tim Tams – an Australian chocolate cookie that are completely delicious – and baked him a Tim Tam cheesecake.

  Caden thinks Mom is awesome. I know this because he tells her every time she places some newly baked delicacy in front of him.

  “Caden,” I said, already feeling on the defensive, “answered my cell and . . .”

  I petered off. Mom knew nothing about Professor Douchebag. God, I can’t even imagine what she’d say if she did. I didn’t want to imagine.

  She raised her eyebrows. “And? That’s it?”

  My stomach lurched a little. “And he thinks I need to be protected. And I don’t.”

  “Protected from what?” A puzzled smile played with her lips. “Life?”

  I let out a sigh. “Kind of.”

  “You know it’s his nature, right?” She brushed a non-existent strand of hair away from my cheek, her eyes softening. “Think about what he did for Amanda and Brendon. He protects those that he feels need to be protected even if he’s not aware of it. And his career choice? A veterinarian? A protector of animals? You’re going to have to accept he wants to keep those he cares for safe.”

  My heart did a stupid little flutter at the word cares for. I was doing my best to convince myself I didn’t want Caden O’Dae to care for me.

  My best, I have to admit, wasn’t very good.

  I searched for my earlier anger. “I don’t need to be protected,” I declared, returning my chin to my fist. I glared at the sock-puppet Thor regarding me with blue-button eyes from my pillow. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “And yet,” Mom said, loud enough for me to understand her without turning to watch her lips, “ you just spent two nights in a motel with him. I’m not judging, sweetheart, but that kind of behavior suggests him being something along those lines. And lets face it, he doesn’t come to the States over and over just to see Tanner and Brendon, does he?”

  Heat spread through my cheeks. I pushed myself up into a sitting position and fixed my focus on Mom. “I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.”

  She laughed. “Yes, you do. And you’re being stubborn about it. Stubborn like your father, I might add. But, it’s not my place to tell you who you should fall in love with.”

  My mouth fell open. “Mom!”

  She shrugged. If ever there was a teacher shrug, that was it. The kind that said, if you’re not listening to the lessons I’m giving you it’s not my fault you’re floundering. Mom has written more than one bestseller about education. When I was eight I told her I was going to be a teacher too. Dad told me not to be stupid.

  “Nor is it my place,” she went on, “to tell you that spending two nights in a motel with a boy could be considered leading that boy on if you’ve got no intentions of venturing into boyfriend and/or love territory.”

  “You’re not helping me,” I grumbled. She wasn’t. What she was doing was making me feel guilty. Damn it.

  She lifted an eyebrow at me. “Aren’t I?”

  I huffed out a sigh.

  Mom straightened from the bed, bent and kissed my forehead, and then walked to the door. She stopped on the threshold and turned back to face me. “Shower, baby girl,” she said, her smile warm. “Take the time to think about what you’re really angry about, or who you’re really angry with.”

  I nodded, that lump back in my throat. Love. God, why did she have to go and use the L word?

  “Mom?” I called. I don’t know why, but I wasn’t ready for her to go yet.

  She gave me a smile. “Baby girl?”

  I opened my mouth. And closed it again when Dad appeared behind her, his glower directed firmly at me.

  Great.

  “You finally came home, I see?” he said, loud enough I wanted to tell him not to shout.

  “Charles,” Mom warned, pressing her palm to his chest.

  I looked at him, my tummy knotting.

  He was in his usual Professor Sinclair, PhD attire: tweed jacket, button-down shirt, tie and chinos. His glasses – as always – were spotless.

  “Two nights, young lady,” he said, wrapping his fingers around Mom’s wrist and removing her restraining hand, his stare locked on me. “Two nights. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Or disappointed.”

  “Me either,” I shot back, his words cutting more than they should. It’s not like I was five. Or not used to this. We’d been at this game for a long time, after all.

  “Can I assume you didn’t have your hearing aid with you?” It wasn’t a question. More an accusation.

  Mom shook her hand free of his grip and pressed her palm to his chest again. “Out, Charles. Until you remember you’ve been worried sick about our daughter, you’re not allowed to talk to her.”

  A fresh lump joined the one already in my throat. And then I sneered. Of course he’d be worried. He didn’t think I could function in the real world without running the risk of dying or being run over or . . . or . . .

  “I’m hungry,” Dad said, turning. “And I’ve got work to do.”

  I watched his back as he walked away from my room.

  Mom let out a sigh. “I know you’re thinking horrible thoughts about your father right now,” she said. There was no missing the sadness in her voice. Even my woeful hearing could detect it. “But he has been worried.”

  “Y’know,” I said, curling my knees up to my chest to rest my chin on them, “one of these days I’d like Dad to show me he’s worried by hugging me and telling me he’s glad to see me. Not by pointing out my failings.”

  Pain flickered over Mom face. Guilt sliced through me. Dad pushed so many of my buttons, but the one I hated the most was the one that made me say things to Mom that hurt her.

  She was caught in the middle. Stuck between the man and the daughter she loved. If only we could love each other the same way she did us.

  But wishes and horses . . . wishes and horses.

  “I’m going to have a shower,” I said, climbing off the bed.

  She nodded, chewing on her bottom lip (the typical Sinclair woman’s response to confusion. I did it, Amanda did it, and Mom did it), and then left. I suspect to give Dad a lecture.

  I stood in the shower until the water ran cold. It was a good way to pretend I wasn’t crying.

  It took me longer to dress than normal. I wasn’t in any
hurry to see Dad again, and yet at the same time I wanted to pick up our argument right where we’d left off: me being a disappointment to him, him being a constant reminder to me I was defective.

  Oh, the joys of family life.

  I knew Dad was going to be less than approving of my chosen attire. That was probably why I selected it: short denim cut-off shorts with the smiling emoji embroidered onto each back pocket, a crop-top tank complete with torn hem and a large, bejeweled Rolling Stones lips/tongue logo on the chest, and the highest flip-flop wedges I owned. Just for kicks, I spiked my hair into a faux Mohawk.

  Yeah, I was being a brat.

  I walked out of my bedroom, ready for the battle. I was disappointed when Dad wasn’t to be found.

  “Where is he?” I asked when I joined Mom in the kitchen.

  She was making bacon and cheddar sandwiches. My favorite. For a while I was a vegan, but only because it irritated Dad. Do you know why we have canine teeth? I do. Dad told me every meal I sat down to in his company that was sans meat.

  Mom flicked a sideways glance at me and shook her head. “Chase,” she admonished, “do you have to antagonize him?”

  I shrugged, plucking a slice of cheese from the pile. “Does he have to treat me like I’m a baby?”

  “Maybe when you behave like one, he does,” she shot back.

  I rolled up the cheese into a cigar shape and stuck it in my mouth.

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s in his office. He mumbled something about another professor from school popping by.”

  Swallowing, I reached for another slice of cheese, and then let out a laughing yelp when Mom whacked the back of my hand with the flat of the butter knife she was holding.

  I laughed. And then hugged her. “Thank you, Mom.”

  She nudged my forehead with hers. “After lunch, we’ll fix this Caden situation, okay? You and me.”

  Hugging her tighter, I nodded. “Okay.”

  I didn’t know how fixable the situation was between Caden and me. I knew how he felt about me, and I was beginning to suspect that how I felt about him was so what I didn’t want to feel about him . . . but Mom was right – it was Caden’s nature to protect. And it was my nature to hate being protected. How did we align those two personalities to function without it turning into resentment and anger?