by Laura Kaye
He sat very still, soup forgotten in his lap, looking at her. “Were you safe there?”
“There? Yes. The staff wasn’t warm, but they weren’t mean, either.”
He frowned, went to speak, but then seemed to think better of it. His jaw ticked. “You answered that like there was a place where you weren’t safe.”
She released a long breath. “I had two foster families, when I was younger. The first only lasted six months when the woman got pregnant with twins, and they felt they couldn’t keep me. The second lasted a year. It…wasn’t a great situation.”
Brady frowned and set his bowl on the tray. His hands drew into fists alongside him. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She nodded and yawned again. Between spending her day sitting on the step and baring her childhood experiences—something about which she never enjoyed talking, mostly because it seemed to make other people uncomfortable to hear it—she was suddenly feeling the weight of the day.
The mattress shifted and Joss startled when Brady’s thumb caressed her cheek. “You look like you’re going to drop. You should go get some rest now. I’m worried you’re going to get this…whatever it is.”
“You sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired and achy. But better.”
She pushed off the bed. “Let me at least get you some supplies for the night.” Tray in hand, she returned to the kitchen, gathered fresh drinks, and laid everything out on his makeshift cardboard nightstand. “If you get bad during the night again, just knock on the wall. I’ll hear you.”
He managed a small smile. “Okay.”
She stepped to the door. “I’ll turn off all the lights downstairs and lock up. Feel better, Brady.”
“Hey, Joss?”
“Yeah?” She met his gaze.
He shook his head. “Just…good night.”
It was almost certainly not what he’d intended to say, but she gave him a smile. “Good night, sailor boy.” She jogged down the steps.
“Kicking a man when he’s down. That’s harsh, woman. Harsh.”
She chuckled to herself, made a pass through the first floor, and double-checked that the front door was locked behind her.
It was only nine forty, but she was beat. She trudged right upstairs, got ready for bed, and slipped under the covers. Mid-reach for the lamp, she paused and glanced at the wall.
She knocked on it, twice.
Knock, knock, sounded back.
Joss smiled, but just as fast the expression slipped from her face. She clicked off the light and settled into her pillow. A tear pooled at the corner of her eye and dampened the cotton.
She liked Brady. Really liked him. Her breath caught and she held it to keep the emotion from flowing that suddenly pressed outward from her chest. She liked him too much, given how few days she’d known him and how unclear his own feelings were. And that meant she was headed for trouble. With him, these feelings couldn’t lead anywhere else.
So, she wouldn’t go out of her way, and she wouldn’t make it obvious, and she wouldn’t be unfriendly. But, from now on and for her own self-preservation, she needed to stay away from Brady Scott as much as possible.
Chapter Eight
Brady finally cast off the plague and returned to work on Wednesday, though he still wasn’t one hundred percent and had to drag his ass through the day. He canceled his therapy appointment and went to bed that night without even giving his daily run a second thought.
Thursday was more of the same.
In all that time, he’d only seen Joss on Monday morning, when she’d stopped over before work to check on him.
By Friday, Brady was feeling human again. Even better when, as he got home from work that night, Joss pulled into her spot just after him. He waited next to his Rover for her to get out of her truck, his body going tight at the thought of being near her again—no matter that he’d vowed to stay away.
“Hi,” she said in a way that seemed almost shy. “Feeling better?”
She was wearing her hair down, just like he liked. Brady’s hands itched to thread their way into it. “Yes, finally. Thanks again for taking care of me on Sunday.” Her help truly meant more to him than those words could ever encompass.
Maybe what she had done wouldn’t be a big deal to someone used to that kind of treatment, but he wasn’t. Not since his mom died of a stroke when he was seventeen, anyway. Afterward, he was always the one providing the care. For all intents and purposes, he raised Alyssa after their had mother passed. Not that he resented it one bit, but their father hadn’t left him any choice—his wife’s death destroyed him, and he lost his mind and every bit of kindness he’d once possessed in bottle after bottle of vodka.
Now, Brady was struggling to keep Joss’s compassion from crawling deep under his skin and making him yearn for more.
“I’m just glad you’re better,” she said in a quiet voice before slipping by him. Her heat nearly made him groan. “Excuse me.” Opening the passenger door of her Ford, she said in a singsong voice, “Peekaboo! There you are!” A moment later, she lifted a little kid out of a safety seat he hadn’t noticed. Child on one hip and stuffed bag on the other, she closed the door and looked up.
Brady swallowed hard. “Er, you have a baby.”
She chuckled. “Just for the night. One of the preschool parents is a single dad who works occasional evening shifts and his regular sitter went on vacation.” She walked her fingers up the little girl’s chest, setting off a giggle. “So me and Claire are having a girls’ night tonight and next Friday night. Aren’t we?” She kissed Claire’s forehead.
“How old is she?” he asked, having absolutely no sense of such things.
“Twenty months,” she said. “Claire, can you say ‘hi’ to Mr. Brady?” The girl tucked her face against Joss’s neck. Every couple of seconds she peeked out at him, then hid again. “Gonna be shy, huh? Well, that’s okay.”
Twin reactions coursed through him. Admiration of how natural Joss seemed with the girl—completely comfortable, confident, competent. And fascination with how beautiful she looked with the baby in her arms. Something about the softness of her expression, the gentle sway of her body as she held Claire, the tender lilt of her voice—she was meant to do this, be this, someday.
His gut twisted. It was a ridiculous reaction, of course, since he’d already determined to stay away from Joss, but seeing her with Claire just reinforced that he should, in fact, stay away, because he could never give her a family, he could never be that guy. Not for her, not for anyone.
And that foreign warm pressure filling his chest every time he thought about Joss? Every time he remembered the close press and shift of their bodies coming together? Every time he considered the way she’d taken care of him when he was sick? Not even these feelings, these memories, could change the fact that he wasn’t cut out for the life she held in her arms.
And she was.
“You sure you’re okay, Brady?”
He choked down his regret. “Yeah, why?”
She shrugged, her gaze dragging over his body. “I don’t know.” Was she blushing? He swallowed hard, wanting to taste the heat with his lips, his tongue. Joss hiked Claire up on her hip. “Well, I better get her inside. It’s dinnertime. Then bath. Then stories. Then bed. Right, sweetness?”
His gaze cut from the baby’s big, toothy smile to Joss’s face. She was looking at the girl with such affection. Did she even realize she’d just used the nickname he’d called her?
“Bye,” Joss said.
“Bye,” he murmured, his gaze tracking the sway of her hips down the sidewalk and through her door.
He spent the night nursing a few beers and attempting to watch TV. All he could really think about, though, was Joss’s sweet taste and needful moans, her soft skin and tight body. The only thing that kept him from breaking his vow and marching next door was the knowledge that she wasn’t alone. Around eleven thirty, a knocking sounded from somewhere. He peered out his s
creen door. A man was standing on Joss’s stoop. Tall. Dark hair.
When her door opened, Brady ducked back inside, but stayed close enough to hear their conversation.
“Hey, Will. Come on in.”
“Thanks. How’s my girl?”
Her screen door closed and cut off their conversation.
How’s my girl?
Surely he was referring to the baby, Claire. But the thought of some guy showing up next door, sweet-talking Joss, taking her out—touching her—ran ice down Brady’s spine. “Fuck.” Breathing hard, dark but satisfying images of what he’d like to do to such a man ran through his brain. He leaned his head against the jamb and banged it twice. It would happen. Of that, he had no doubt. Joss was too amazing of a woman to be alone. In fact, why she was single now made no sense.
You could be the one to ask her out. Not a quick fuck in her truck or on her kitchen counter. A real date.
Joss and the guy stepped out her front door, interrupting Brady’s pointless thoughts. Standing in the dark of his empty living room, he watched out his curtainless front windows. The man cradled the sleeping child against his chest, while Joss went to the passenger door of her truck and removed the car seat. She put it in the man’s car for him, then stood chatting with him for a few minutes before he left.
Brady melted back into the shadows when she turned toward her house. The desire to go visit her surged through him. He had the oddest sensation that his arms and legs and head might come free of his body, that he was fragmenting into a million pieces, and only the thinnest of frayed threads kept him in one piece—and that, somehow, Joss could hold him together.
Pathetic. No doubt his shrink would have a field day with that little gem of emotion.
Brady cursed under his breath and retreated upstairs.
He lay in the dark of his room and stared at the ceiling for a long time, willing sleep to come. His head was like a roiling sea, new and disparate thoughts cresting atop each monstrous wave, then retreating again as new ones rose. By four in the morning, struggling through the morass left him exhausted and strung out. He debated getting up and running to quiet all the shit, but finally he fell asleep.
He and Alyssa were sitting at the table before school, eating the last of a stale box of Frosted Flakes. Alyssa looked at him with her big brown eyes, desperately trying to eat her dry cereal quietly. They didn’t have any milk, or much of anything else. The two of them just needed to finish and leave the house before their father woke up. Then everything would be fine.
“Done,” she whispered.
“Good girl. Take your book bag and wait outside for me,” Brady whispered back, setting their bowls in the sink.
Her face paled. “I left it in my room.”
Brady gritted his teeth. “It’s okay. You go out. I’ll get it.” When she hesitated, he smiled and nodded.
She tiptoed out of the kitchen and through the dining room, and ghosted through the foyer and out the front door.
Brady shouldered his own book bag and went the opposite direction. Pausing beside the arch that separated the living room from the back hallway where all the bedrooms lay, he peeked around the corner.
His father was sprawled on the couch, one arm and one leg hanging off. The TV had been on all night and now played a morning show full of overly cheerful people.
Brady held his breath and dashed down the hall to Alyssa’s little pink bedroom. Her book bag was hanging off the back of her desk chair. He grabbed it and made his way through the house, not pausing at the arch this time. He was going for speed over stealth.
Turning into the kitchen, he froze. His father was standing at the sink, arms braced against the counter, staring downward. Instinct told him to keep moving, but Brady hesitated for just an instant.
What happened next was a blur. His father hurled one of the dishes from the sink. Brady dropped Alyssa’s bag, raised his hands, and caught the bowl before it hit him in the face.
Whatever rage his father had exorcised in throwing the bowl boiled over when it didn’t hit its target. He lunged. Grabbing Brady by the neck of his T-shirt, he slammed him against the refrigerator. His backpack cushioned the blow but his head snapped back against the freezer door.
“Think you’re such a hotshot, don’t you? Think the whole world lies at your feet. Yours for the taking.” Joseph shook him again. “Well, let me tell you, kid. The world is shit and you’re nothing. And you never will be.”
He shoved Brady, hard. Brady tripped on Alyssa’s backpack, lying on the floor, and crashed to the linoleum, his left elbow and knee taking the brunt of the fall. He’d protected the stupid bowl, though.
His father stepped over him, and Brady braced for…he wasn’t sure. A hit, a kick. “Next time, clean up after your damn self,” his dad said.
Brady scrambled up and grabbed Alyssa’s pack, then ran out the front door.
She glanced from where she was sitting on the front porch. Her mouth dropped open. “What happened?”
Unsure of his voice, he shook his head, worsening the ringing in his ears.
“You’re bleeding.” Rising, she pointed at his elbow.
He wiped it away with his hand and managed a smile. “All better.”
“Brady,” she whispered, fat tears filling her eyes. “He hurt you.”
Gasping for breath, Brady shot into a sitting position, the dream-memory still claws-deep in his skin. His stomach lurched. He bolted off the bed and just made it to the toilet in time.
He hurt you. He hurt you. He hurt you.
He threw up until it was impossible there was anything left in him. And then he threw up some more.
Jesus. Where had that come from? He hadn’t remembered that moment in years.
He flushed and collapsed back against the wall next to the toilet. “No, dammit,” he said, voice like sandpaper. “He hurt Aly.” At seventeen, Brady had been big enough and old enough to defend himself. It wasn’t too many months after the dream incident that Brady had raised his baseball bat at his father in a threat he had every intention of following through.
Afterward, Brady tried to keep Alyssa out of the Scott house as much as possible. And Marco’s family had taken them in whenever they’d needed. Hell, it was Marco’s dad who had driven them to and cheered them on through their baseball championships. And the high school graduation presents he received were all from the Vieris.
The one thing he’d known then was that he had to protect Alyssa, no matter what. And he’d done it. He’d been the protector.
But as he sat there on the bathroom floor in the gray light of morning, shaking and head pounding, all he could hear was Alyssa’s twelve-year-old voice declaring him a victim, too.
Chapter Nine
Three loud bangs sounded against Joss’s front door.
She jumped and her heart took off at a sprint. Joss glanced at the clock—it was only 8:00 a.m.—and saved the document she’d been drafting, a spreadsheet of local businesses to contact for auction donations for the center’s annual fund-raiser. Who could it be this early? She ran to the door and looked through the spy hole. Butterflies tore through her stomach and a mixture of curiosity and worry rushed through her. She frowned and pulled the door open. “Brady?”
“Hey. Can I come in?” he said, sounding…strange.
She smoothed down the short nightgown she was still wearing, wishing she’d thought to grab a robe or a sweater. “Uh, sure. Everything okay?”
He brushed by her, the smell of soap fresh on his skin. “Yeah. I don’t know. I just…” He paced to the dining room, surveyed the paperwork she had sprawled across the table, then turned back.
“Do you want to sit down?” she asked, watching him. She was beginning to get the very distinct feeling that Brady Scott was a way more complicated man than she’d first believed. That intense but playful demeanor she’d initially associated with him was only one part of his personality.
“No, I—” He turned toward her and stepped right in close. “W
hy did you take care of me last weekend?”
What? That’s what he was so agitated about? She shook her head and searched for words. “Because you were sick, Brady.”
“But why?” He leaned in until he was towering over her.
She took a step back. “Because you needed help. What is wrong?”
“Because I needed help,” he murmured, brow furrowed, eyes dark. “I’m not some damn…weakling,” he sputtered. “I take care of myself.”
Annoyance with his aggressive tone had her straightening her spine and bracing her hands on her hips. “What? Okay, number one, of course you can. Number two, never have I thought of you as a weakling. Sometimes we all need a hand. And, number three, what the hell is the matter with you today?”
He stepped forward and, given his mood, Joss retreated. Her thigh came up against the arm of her sofa.
“I am not…” He shook his head and struggled to swallow. “I am not a victim.”
A victim? Joss’s fear disappeared in favor of gut-deep concern. The anguish in his voice resonated in a deep, dark part of her soul—the part that harbored hurts so old they’d been imprinted in her DNA. Damn if it didn’t make her feel closer to him. However stupid that was.
Slowly, she reached out and cupped his cheek. “Okay,” she said. She stroked her thumb over his cheekbone, the tip occasionally catching his long eyelashes.
After a long moment, she grasped his hand and guided him to sit down with her. His stare was hard and wary. Finally, he gave in and sat next to her, but he didn’t drop her hand. Joss’s heart gave a ridiculous squeeze at that.
His jaw clenched and his features appeared harsh and shadowed, but he was still the sexiest man she had ever seen. And he was apparently hurting. “Do you want to talk about it?”
