The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel Book 3)

by Alison Kent

  His breath against her cheek was labored. His heart pushed into her palm, where it lay against his chest, with each beat. He was not unaffected. Of that she was sure. Yet he seemed more intent on the things going on with her: the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against the squared neck of her costume, the sounds she couldn’t keep in the back of her throat no matter how hard she tried.

  When she felt his hand on her leg above her thigh-high tights, she stiffened, but then he used the backs of his fingers inside her leg and she thought she might die from the pleasure. His touch was soft, teasing, and shivers ran through her, plucking at the tension binding her until she relaxed, and shifted in her seat to allow him the access he sought.

  It took him no time to accept her invitation, his hand moving to the elastic of her panties and beneath. She whimpered at the contact; how long had it been? She was hungry, and if this was the last time a man fed her, she would happily starve for the rest of time. Oh, the things he was doing with his hand. Right there, yes, there. Please, there.

  She held tight to his arm, the fabric of his sleeve slipping as he moved, as he aroused her so unbearably she wanted to climb the walls. She needed to go inside. Tennessee and Kaylie could be on their way. She needed to go inside, but she didn’t want to go inside, and she didn’t want Oliver to stop, and she didn’t want to ever lose this feeling, because oh, oh, oh—

  Racked with shudders, she bit down on her lip, and tasted blood, and couldn’t even care because her body was a mess of sensation. She melted into the seat, and against him, going limp and spineless. Weakened, she had nothing left. She wasn’t even sure she could walk, and curled her toes, her black-and-yellow-striped spandex stockings squeaking in her shoes.

  The noise made her laugh, and the laughter helped ground her. She reached up to brush his hair from his face, then brought his mouth back to hers for a kiss that was as much a thank-you as it was an invitation. It was slinky and silky, her tongue against his, coaxing and sure. But they were done too soon, the car too small for the heat still rising.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said, as he pulled back into his seat.

  “I’ll walk you to the door, but then I need to go.”

  Wait a minute. “So . . . You don’t want to . . .”

  He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that answered her better than words. “Of course I want to, but my car being here and me being with you behind closed doors . . .” He shook his head, regretful. “I don’t think your brother finding us together is a good idea.”

  That, she couldn’t argue with. But still . . . She was going to go into the house, and he was going to . . . just leave? “I can’t decide if you’re looking out for me, or looking out for yourself.”

  His grin widened. “Let’s call it a little bit of both.”

  Because all is fair in love and war?

  They sat there for a moment after that, neither one moving, neither one speaking, his gaze holding hers, or vice versa, yet neither one able to let go. It was a strange sort of tension, full of unfinished business and this fragile intimacy and questions waiting unanswered in the wings.

  And still they sat there, breathing, the motor humming, Indiana flexing the fingers of one hand in the square-dance tiers of her skirt, Oliver flexing his around the steering wheel, until she couldn’t take it anymore.

  She beat him to the punch by exiting the car first, but he grabbed her bag from the backseat before she could reach for it. They walked to the house, Indiana pulling open the screen when they arrived and listening to Magoo snuffle on the other side.

  “Thanks for seeing me home. And for . . .” She left the sentence dangling, closing her hand around the overnighter’s handles.

  He held tight for a moment, then let go. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

  She shrugged, doing her best to appear nonchalant when she thought she might be embarrassed. “Seems like the thing to do.”

  “I’ll see you again soon?”

  I certainly hope so was what she wanted to say, but keeping up the ruse told him, “I imagine so. I’ll be at the annex a lot over the next few weeks.”

  His crooked smile made clear that wasn’t what he’d meant, but he didn’t say anything more. All he did was touch his hand to her cheek, then turn for his car, waiting at his door until she opened hers and went inside.

  Only after she’d closed it behind her did she hear him leave, his headlights cutting across the kitchen as he backed out of the drive; then the room went silent and dark.

  INDIANA

  Growing up with two older brothers was a blessing as much as a curse, though Tennessee and Dakota did most of the cursing, and I blessed my lucky stars I never had to take out the trash.

  Something about all my girlfriends thinking our house was the best one for sleepovers and pool parties got on my brothers’ nerves. Like having dozens of girls throwing their bikini-clad selves in front of them was such a hardship. They had the pick of the crop.

  If anyone suffered a hardship growing up, I did. A girl has two brothers with heartthrob faces and hard bodies, and it’s nearly impossible to tell true friends from fair-weather. Girls would drop by to study. Girls would drop by to borrow my Incubus CDs.

  Girls would drop by to see who else might’ve dropped by, because someone always had. As much as Tennessee and Dakota drew females like flies, our home was like a watering hole for both sexes. Predators as well as prey.

  See, we had the “cool” parents. Parents who didn’t set curfews, who enforced only what rules fit conveniently into their schedules. Ours were the parents all of our friends—mine and my brothers’, true and fair-weather—wanted for their own.

  That’s because they didn’t know what it was like growing up being air quotes RAISED air quotes by Drew and Tiffany Keller. I often thought harpy-eagle parents did better jobs caring for their chicks, plucking monkeys from the jungle canopy to feed their young.

  Rather than killing for sustenance, our parents liked to save things. To fix things. To support causes. The ones they most enjoyed backing were those guaranteeing photo ops and sound bites—even if they came across as crunchy airheads, which I’m certain they did, and they no doubt had the organizations they championed cringing every time they opened their mouths. They were as oblivious as they were uninformed, though they swore otherwise on the recycled soles of their vegan shoes.

  Don’t get me wrong. From a kid’s point of view, my brothers and I had a wonderful childhood. We were spoiled within an inch of our teeth. It was all about our self-esteem, our parents told us. No child should be made to feel lesser. No child should go without a trophy, and no trophy should be bigger than any other. Every child should receive encouragement and praise, even if said child, as a five-year-old, scored the winning soccer goal for the opposing team because she knew nothing of the rules.

  It was the effort that counted, right? The camaraderie and the teamwork and most of all, the having fun.

  Right.

  That makes me sound ungrateful, or disrespectful maybe, but mostly I just wanted life to be like Fox News: “Fair and Balanced.” Ha. When has life ever been fair? Or Fox News . . . never mind.

  Though I would never have admitted it to any of the trues or fair-weathers, I wanted a curfew. I wanted my TV watching restricted, my homework checked. I wanted someone to tell me I could not buy that CD with the explicit lyrics if I could not defend their purpose. Someone to ask to speak to the parents hosting the end-of-school pool party rather than taking my word it would be chaperoned. Someone to care.

  I did not like being given so many choices. I wanted a compass.

  I wanted to be parented. And, well, to be loved; weren’t they one and the same?

  I can’t say either of my brothers shared my viewpoint; they tried everything and got away with everything, which made them try to get away with even more. Testing limits has always been part of be
ing a teen, but Tennessee and Dakota’s concept of doing so went too far. I knew it. They knew it. And yet . . .

  Was it because they were boys? And boys would be boys, as it were? Or was it a deeper need to challenge our parents? Some sort of test I didn’t understand? Whether or not they planned their escapades, or discussed their pranks, they never shared any of their shenanigans with me.

  Then again, I was two years younger than Tennessee, female, the source of the constant stream of girls who got on their nerves as well as the ones who climbed into their beds. And the ones who caused trouble. For Tennessee, that had been Shelley James.

  For Dakota, Thea Clark.

  Thea made no bones about why she picked me to hang out with. She played at being my friend so she could get to Dakota. And she happened to be one of the ones he let close. Closer than a fourteen-year-old girl needed to be to a sixteen-year-old boy, but what happens in a teen boy’s bedroom, stays in a teen boy’s bedroom. Right?

  Oh, wait. It doesn’t. Everybody knows.

  Thea was a year ahead of me and three inches taller than me, but my seventh grade volleyball team often practiced with her eighth. My brothers were both in high school by then, and both on their way to being big baseball stars. I don’t think our parents knew what to do, having three athletes instead of three civics enthusiasts and tree huggers. The fact that we sold candy to raise money nearly sent their green hearts into cardiac arrest.

  Why weren’t we selling seedlings to replenish trees lost to thoughtless development? Or dishes made of biodegradable sugarcane, or plant-based household cleaners?

  Why weren’t we collecting donations for Mercy Ships, or some other charitable organization, contributing the bulk and setting aside a small percentage for whatever our sports programs thought was more important than improving the quality of life for thousands of children in third-world countries?

  They loved Thea, though. They really loved Thea, and it wasn’t hard to see why. She was a master manipulator and gorgeous to boot. I’d inherited my mother’s freckles and dark cloud of coarse hair. Tennessee and Dakota pulled their genes from our father’s side, as if Ian Somerhalder and Matt Bomer had had kids.

  Thea looked more like Dakota’s sister than I did, but their relationship wasn’t familial at all. She used him; this much I knew to be true, because she made no effort to hide it. And I’m certain, because he was a sixteen-year-old male, he used her as often as she let him. Considering they disappeared into his room almost as soon as she came to see me, it wasn’t hard to imagine the using going on.

  Except, being a brand-new teen, I wanted to be like Thea. I wanted her confidence, her attitude; at the time, it never occurred to me that her behavior was all for show. A bid for the attention she didn’t get at home. A plea for someone to save her. Unfortunately, Dakota wasn’t even capable of saving himself, much less Thea. None of us were. We hadn’t been given but life’s most basic, and perfectly clichéd, instructions.

  Wash your hands. Brush your teeth. Get a good night’s sleep and good grades. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Most of all, be kind to your winged, webfooted, finned, and furred friends.

  When it came to making any sort of meaningful decisions, we were on our own. Our parents did nothing but look the other way. Or so it seemed at the time. Especially the last week of school before semester break the year I was in seventh grade. The year Tennessee and Dakota, with Thea’s help, got it into their heads to tip the outcome of the high school’s football play-off game our way.

  It was a simple plan, really, with a part Thea was born to play: seductress. All she had to do was tempt the opposing team’s quarterback into the right car after the pep rally for a little pregame warm-up courtesy of her mouth. If he’d been older, or wiser, or less of a slave to what Thea could do with her tongue, things would’ve turned out differently.

  As it was, two well-to-do twin brothers, seniors and delinquents both, whom Dakota had no trouble convincing to help, were waiting. They drove the kid, bound and gagged, to Clovis, New Mexico, and stranded him there—no car, no money, no mobile phone, no pants, no shoes, no ID. Then they, having worn masks the whole time, continued on to Colorado for a ski vacation with their family, who was already there.

  It was a near-perfect crime, and could’ve been a lot worse. The boy wasn’t hurt, or left tied up, and only had to travel five miles for help. A high school senior, an athlete, a humiliated and pissed-off teen, he got to a phone in under an hour, but he missed the game, not to mention the win.

  If Thea hadn’t been wearing Dakota’s sophomore letterman’s jacket, he would never have been suspected of being involved. There wasn’t proof he had been, and even Thea denied knowing anything about the boys who’d pulled her out of the car and driven the quarterback away.

  But having their son questioned by the police was too much for our parents. They were nervous wrecks for days after, and blamed Dakota for putting the family through the stressful ordeal, without considering—or caring about—his guilt or his innocence or even his reputation, only their inconvenience, their time wasted with something so trivial when they had petition drives to organize, protests to attend.

  And instead of administering some sort of appropriate discipline, they gave Dakota (and by proximity, me and Tennessee, too) the silent treatment. And they frowned a lot. As if they were the teenagers, their sulking intended as some kind of punishment. The reality was a different color. All three of us loved it when we didn’t have to hear them talk.

  They did very little talking the two weeks we were out of school on Christmas break that year. What Thea and Dakota had done was Big Bad. They couldn’t process it. They couldn’t deal. They went about their merry way, saving growing things and living things and frozen water—basically, anything and everything that didn’t have an opinion, a mind of its own, that couldn’t inconvenience or embarrass them.

  I also can’t help but wonder: If our parents hadn’t failed in the biblical admonition to spare not the rod for fear of spoiling the child, would things have worked out differently for Tennessee, Dakota, and me? Because seeing Thea Clark with Dakota is why I did what I did with Robby Hunt.

  I never thought twice about it. I’d never been given a reason why I should. Yet my decision, the poorest, most ill informed I ever made in my life, changed everything for all of us. Our futures, our relationships, nothing that mattered was left untouched.

  Thanks to me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thanks, Derek. Call me as soon as you come up with anything, no matter how small.”

  “Will do, Ollie. Take care.”

  Oliver swiped the “End Call” command on his phone’s screen, then tapped the device to his chin a couple of times before laying it on his desk. It had been a while since he’d spent any time in this room, preferring of late to work in the arts center kitchen.

  His mother had set up his home office when he’d come home from Rice, decorating it to match the rest of the house rather than his personality. The desk was an antique, too large for his needs and too dark for his taste and too heavy to move without help. Anyway, doing so would’ve had his mother fearing she hadn’t pleased him.

  That had been two years after Oscar’s accident, and Oliver hadn’t been able to tell his mother no, or criticize her efforts, or bring in a decorator to replace the drapes and the art, the furniture and the rug. A decorator who understood space, symmetry, lighting. Color. He hadn’t planned to use the room, so he let it go. And when it became obvious he had no clue what to do with his degree—or his life—having it had come in handy.

  It was also handy for making phone calls without being overheard. Especially with the likelihood of Tennessee Keller working today at the Caffey-Gatlin Academy. This thing with Indiana wanting to find her brother . . .

  It wasn’t his business, Oliver mused, crossing his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. She�
�d turned down his offer to help. But after last night in his car, he was hard-pressed not to want to see things go her way, and Derek could make that happen.

  Oliver didn’t know what he’d been thinking, taking their kiss where he had, seeking an intimacy he doubted their relationship was ready for. He wasn’t even sure this thing between them had been destined to be more than a friendship, and now one he may have screwed up because . . .

  Why? He was curious? Impatient? He had no self-control? He hadn’t had sex in months? He swiveled his chair side to side, lost for an answer. He had no idea what he’d been thinking, and no explanation for his behavior other than the obvious: there was an undeniable chemistry between them.

  He found Indiana unconventionally attractive. Most of the women he dated, and he used the term in the most casual way, were ones he knew from his mother’s social circle. He didn’t have much of a circle of his own. He worked for himself, keeping only the hours he wanted to, and spent a whole lot of time alone.

  He went to the gym alone, though he had buddies he met there for racquetball. He dined alone, though those same buddies were forever trying to talk him into joining them. Occasionally, he did, and there was usually an unattached woman in the group intended to round out the number. Intended, too, to rouse his interest.

  It had been a long time since his interest had been roused beyond the superficial. He wasn’t celibate, but the women he took to bed knew the score. He wasn’t looking for anything long-term, and he hated the idea that he’d ruined things with Indiana.

  Yes, she’d let him touch her, and he would never have done so if she’d given him the slightest hint of being uncomfortable. Honestly, her receptiveness had surprised him. Especially with her history. He was quite certain she’d surprised herself, too. And that was the thing, that connection. It didn’t happen often. At least not for him.