Because I wanted to tell her that I liked it. All of it. Even when she was throwing her hands up at me about how my cabinet designs didn't match the backsplash she picked out, even when she was chewing Tums because she was anxious and had heartburn, even when she came out of the bathroom one night with her hair covered in some white crap and her face in blue shit, her toes held apart by toe separators, and whitening trays on her teeth.
Yeah, I even liked all that.
It was real.
It was her.
It was easy to be into the perfect image you tried to project onto someone when you started dating - or whatever it was she wanted to call what we were doing, if anything at all - the perfect outfits, the neat hair, the careful words.
The window dressing.
That was always easy to like.
It was something different entirely to really get a look inside, see the cracks in the foundation, the scratched paint, the creepy art on the walls.
That was when you really got to see if you were just enamored with the external, shallow crap. Or into what was within, flaws and all.
And with Brin, yeah, I liked all the cobwebbed corners. Or maybe it was more apt in her case to say the glitter-covered tables.
Fucking hell.
The glitter.
I would never have known how those little art projects of hers, always so neatly contained to a folding craft table - or so I thought - could invade everything in the house.
I'd found it in my razor once. My razor.
Even though I found myself picking that crap out of my scruff on a daily basis - even when it had been a week since she used the stuff - I found myself happy about it.
Because it was part of her.
It said she was a part of my life.
That we had been able to overcome initial bad impressions and too-stubborn personalities.
We had found the grace to give each other a second chance, and in doing so, had found something great. Something I thought was going somewhere.
I just couldn't say so.
I should have just nutted up, and said something.
So what if she skittered.
Or, more likely in her case, had a shitfit about it?
If it eventually led to a conversation and an understanding, so what if it made her a little uncomfortable for a while?
But, no, I had kept my mouth shut.
Even in the goddamn truck on the drive back from Cape May when she turned her head away. And I knew, I knew without even having to see that she was crying, that she was having a moment, one that I needed to show her she could share with me.
But I hadn't.
And the moment she'd seen Brent, she had flown at him, shared it with him.
Then I'd left.
Fucking left.
I didn't even know what possessed me to do that, to go when I knew she needed me, even if she was unwilling to admit that to herself.
Because as old a friend as Brent was, I had things he never could, never would.
I shared the experience with her.
I was going through the same situation she was, was the only person in the world who knew exactly what that felt like.
I didn't know where I was heading when I left, either. Since the house was having the floors refinished - a stipulation of the new owner who wanted to move in within three weeks. And since he was paying slightly over market value, and I wasn't currently living there, I didn't feel the need to fight it. Even though my floors had just been done two years ago.
I could stay at a hotel, of course.
But I found myself driving out of town, westward, toward a place I had no idea if I would be able to afford now that the situation had so drastically changed.
It was still, technically, my father's.
The farm he didn't give a shit about, that he was just going to let the bank take.
He didn't live there.
He never really lived anywhere.
He hopped beds when he found women who would buy into his charms, or hopped couches when no one was falling for his bull.
He hated the old place, the dated decor, the land that demanded attention. I wasn't surprised when I pulled up to find the yard overgrown so high that it was folding over on itself.
I sighed out my breath, knowing the tick population was probably at an all-time high, that if I got to keep this place, that would be something I'd have to deal with before I got animals.
And while I couldn't see them in the dark, I'd bet good money on the fences and outbuildings being in need of complete revamping. The fruit orchard and berry bushes likely all needed some care too next spring.
It would be rough to do all the work that needed to be done while busting my ass like I would have to just to pay for the mortgage, let alone the repairs.
The show would have made life easier.
But at least I was still going to get the farm.
I would find a way to pay the bills. I could take on more jobs, be less anal about them, so it didn't take me as long each time. It had always been a mix of apathy and hyper-criticalness that had my career at the level it had been at for years. It had always been enough of a living for me. But if I needed more, I'd make more. The potential was there. I just never went for it.
Maybe I'd take a page out of Brin's book.
I'd get a website.
A social media presence.
Hell, maybe the scandal would work in my favor.
People would look into me once the story broke.
If I could get at least some social media up by the morning, get some pictures of the jobs I had worked on up, I could maybe cash in on the interest people would have searched for me.
I rummaged in the backseat, finding my laptop and camera, and heading inside, knowing I would likely have to work by candlelight and use my phone as a hotspot, but it would be worth it if I could get things done by sunup when the general population would hear of mine and Brin's deception.
As I set up the laptop, and uploaded my pictures from my camera, I couldn't help but have my thoughts go back to her. She would love this. She had been asking - maybe even nagging at times - to be allowed to give me a social media presence, to 'bring me out of the dark ages' as she had told me many times.
She would know exactly what pictures to use, how to filter them, what to caption them with, what hashtags to use.
She would even do that set of two pictures with a little quote or something in the center so that the whole screen of Instagram posts looked all put together. Aesthetic, she would call it.
I worked until my phone died, getting a couple dozen pictures up on Instagram and Facebook, getting a very basic website uploaded. Nothing showed any mastery at social media styles, but it would suffice.
I threw my phone in the car to charge, tucked my pant legs into my socks, and went into the barn to grab the only remaining tractor that hadn't been worth enough for my father to sell, praying the high grass wouldn't choke it out since it was really the only way to cut down so many overgrown acres.
The sun was high in the sky when I saw a car turning into the drive - one I would know anywhere. One whose AC was busted. And the heat, apparently. One that made a squealing sound out of nowhere every now and again. As it did as she hit the brake behind my car.
I cut the engine, watching as she climbed out, dressed in something I had never seen her in before - deep gray leggings and an oversized white sweatshirt. Her hair was floating around her shoulders, framing her soft face with still-swollen eyelids from both tiredness and tears.
"I think it's time," she declared as she got closer, her eyes focused on me, a stubborn set to her shoulders.
"Time for what?" I asked, staying where I was, letting her come to me.
"To talk," she went on, giving me a firm nod as though I was going to fight her on it. Meanwhile, this had been what I was waiting for since the city. Since I tried to have a conversation about it, only to be shut down.
"Okay," I agreed, leaning b
ack.
"About us."
"I figured you didn't drive here to discuss the weather."
"Don't be a smartass," she told me, slitting her eyes. "I am trying here."
She was right.
"Okay," I agreed, moving to hop down. "I'd take you inside, but it hasn't been aired out in months."
I led her back to my truck, dropping down the bed, hopping up, and patting the space beside me. But she didn't join me; she stood right at the other side of my knees.
"Ready when you are," I invited when she said nothing, just looked off to the side, looking at the half-cleared field.
She swallowed hard, finally giving me eye-contact. "Brent thinks you didn't come inside because I wouldn't give you my ugly."
"Your ugly?"
"Yeah. He said that I gave you all my pretty and..."
"He clearly doesn't know what you look like when you're curled up in bed whimpering about eating too much," I told her with a smirk, trying to relieve some of the tension in her shoulders.
"Brent cuts me off after three tacos. Three," she added, eyes big. "As if anyone can feel even remotely satisfied with less than five. Because he got tired of my overeating whining," she told me, rolling her eyes. "But he meant like... the ugly emotional stuff. The snot-crying."
"Snot-crying?" I asked, snorting.
"Yes, ugly-snot-crying is a thing. Granted, a rare thing for me. But a thing. And it is ugly. And I maybe wasn't ready to be that ugly around you yet."
"Why, Brin? Been by your side day and night for months. Seen you sweaty and achy and red in the face with anger and exhausted and elated and everything in between. I don't think I've ever made it seem like I couldn't handle it."
"You're never ugly!" she declared, voice hitched a few octaves higher than usual, the words practically tripping over each other, like they were bursting out of her.
"What?"
"Don't smirk!" she objected, slamming a hand into my shoulder. "This isn't smirk-worthy."
"You're being ridiculous, baby."
"No, seriously. I've been by your side for months, and you're always calm and collected, never a raving lunatic like me. And you never look run down and haggard."
"Figure my ugly is the smirking, condescending asshole that used to make you go so red that you were practically blue on an almost daily basis."
"But..."
"And maybe you stopped seeing it as ugly when you got to see my other sides, when it wasn't all you knew of me. And for the record, Brin," I said, opening my legs to pull her between, "I have never, not for a moment, thought you were ugly, even at your lowest moments. Or you were too much to handle. A handful, sure, but not too much for me."
Her head ducked at that, likely to hide the reaction she knew would show plainly in her face. Really, it was a miracle she had been able to fake attraction and love toward me for as long as she did even when she was hating me. I found she was a pretty shitty liar in general, her face always giving her away. But maybe that was because I had just gotten to know her so well.
"So... you think you want to be stuck with me for a while?" she asked, still keeping her head lowered.
"Well, I have just officially followed you on Instagram, so, good luck getting rid of me now."
"What?" she yelped, head shooting up, eyes wide. "No way!"
"Figure I might need to cash in on my fifteen minutes of fame. Spent last night getting some social media and a website together. Could have used your help," I added, snagging her chin.
"Are you giving me free rein of your brand presence?" she asked, sounding both elated and hesitant to get her hopes up.
"If you're not busy."
"Well, seeing as we were trending online when I left Brent's... it is safe to say Rachel and Mica and Andy know what went on. So... I should have nothing but free time for a while."
"Did you get a call yet?"
"Radio silence," she said, grimacing. "Which I think is worse somehow."
"Someone will have to get in touch eventually to cancel the contract."
"I was kind of excited about the next house," she admitted. "All that broken stained glass. I had plans for that."
"There will be other houses, Brin. Maybe not ones on TV. But other ones. I bet if you checked out your social media right now, you will have a ton of new followers and likes and comments."
"I'm too scared to look."
"Don't have you pegged as a chickenshit."
"I'm not a chickenshit, but you never know what kind of vile things people will say online. I got nasty comments here and there on my projects even before my name was on the news rotation."
"Yeah, but what if it isn't nasty? What if it is supportive? What if people have jobs for you? What if some boutique wants to do a small line of your projects? What if they don't care that we lied? You won't know if you don't look."
"That's true. So..."
"So?"
"So... you're okay with this not being so casual anymore?"
"Didn't want casual from the start," I told her, pulling her in closer. "I was waiting for you to realize you didn't want that either."
"I didn't really want casual," she admitted. "I was just afraid of what would happen if we did not-casual, then things blew up, and..."
"Things couldn't really be more blown up than they are now."
"I meant with us."
"Because you were worried about the show. And your career."
"Yeah," she admitted, shrugging.
"Well, the show is over. Your career may stumble, but will recover. So, all we have to worry about now is us."
"Us," she mused, going up on her tiptoes, smiling at me. "I like that."
"Me too," I agreed, sealing my lips over hers.
THIRTEEN
Brinley
It was just supposed to be a kiss.
Just a shared moment of relief, understanding, excitement for the future.
But the second his lips pressed to mine, it seemed to unleash weeks of worries and insecurities I had been harboring, coming out as a desperate, clawing need that had my hands sinking into his hips, my breasts pressed into his chest, my lips getting greedier on his.
Warren, usually so in control of himself, seemed to give into the rawness of the moment as well - one hand crushing into the back of my neck as his tongue sought mine, the other trailing down my back to sink into my ass, grabbing hard, a possessive touch that had my sex clenching hard.
A low, whimpering noise ripped from my lips, making Warren break away, looking down at me. "Twenty acres around us," he informed me, eyes full of a need I knew was shimmering in mine as well.
I didn't really need more than that.
My hands moved out, clawing at his shirt, pulling it up until he took over, ripping the material up over his head, tossing it back into the bed behind him.
The whimpering sound escaped me again as my hands moved over his hot skin, the muscles twitching under my touch, something that never ceased to fascinate me.
"Brin..." his voice called out, low, rough, almost pained.
Sliding my hands down his thighs, I moved my body backward, feeling his hands fighting the distance, but giving in as I kept pulling. Out of arm's reach, my hands went to the hem of my shirt, dragging it upward, tossing it back into his truck bed with his shirt. The leggings went off next, leaving me in nothing but my bra and panties, something that made a sexy as all hell moan escape Warren as I moved closer again, my hands tracing back up his thighs then inward, snagging his button and zip, working them with clumsy fingers until I freed them, reaching inside, finding his cock already straining.
It was rare I considered my shortness an asset.
But right now, with Warren up on the bed of his truck, it just put me in the perfect position to lower down just a few inches, slowly sucking his cock into my mouth inch by inch, hearing his breath hiss out of him, feeling his hands grab me - one gathering my hair so he could see, the other sinking into my upper arm as I started to stroke him, working him f
aster, twisting my mouth around, lapping my tongue over the head, hand moving down to cup his balls, feeling his cock get harder still at the contact.
He wouldn't let me do it.
Make him come with my mouth.
Not right now.
Not when the moment felt oddly poignant.
As if on cue, his hand yanked on my hair until the pain across my scalp was enough to make me pull backward, losing his cock.
"Love the way you suck my cock, Brin," he told me, the praise a shivering thing through my insides as his hand loosened, trailed down my back, snagged the clasps of my bra, and freed them with one hand faster than I ever could with both. The material loosened, steps moving down my arms, exposing me to his greedy eyes. "Fuck," he growled, hands moving to cup my breasts, thumbs moving over the nipples until he got them hard and straining, then taking them between his fingers, rolling them until I was swaying into him, whimpering for more.
His body moved fast, dropping down onto his feet, going around me, then going down.
I barely had time to process it before I felt his fingers snag the lacy material of my panties, dragging it down over my behind. His lips moved in, pressing sweetly into one of the cheeks as he slid the panties down my thighs until they pooled at my ankles, making me instinctively step out of them even as I felt his teeth replace his lips, making a shot of white-hot pain/pleasure shoot through my system.
My thighs tried to press together to calm it, but his wide palms were moving down, slipping in under my ass, spreading them open to him just a second before I felt his tongue moving up my slit toward my clit, sucking it into his mouth, making my thighs shake, threatening to give out on me as the pleasure started to work its way through me.
Feeling the shaking, his hand snagged my knee even as his tongue relentlessly worked me, dragging it up at an angle until he situated it on the truck bed, making my upper body fold forward as well, opening me up completely to his greedy mouth.
Fix It Up Page 19
