The Troublemaker

by Lili Valente

  I’m in no rush to hurry home—Rafe has to do inventory and place a parts order tonight and won’t be available for playtime until later—but I hand over the zip drive anyway and thank Zoey. She promises to be right back with copies and beers for all and hurries into the main building, while Tristan and I wander over to the picnic tables with a view of the hills.

  “Gorgeous.” I take a deep breath, pulling in the scent of eucalyptus trees, fennel, and the sweet, salty smell of the hay baled nearby.

  “The country life starting to grow on you, city girl?” Tristan asks, sitting on top of the picnic table with his boots on the wooden seat.

  “It is.” I cross my arms, amazed again at how fast the air goes from boiling hot to just-a-tad-chilly around here. “But I’ve always loved nature. It’s the people in small towns who make me want to make a run for the nearest metropolis.”

  “I get it.” Tristan squints out at the view, where the sunset glow makes the vineyards look like something out of a Renaissance painting. “There’s not much anonymity in a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, but everyone knows my business these days. It’s made the small-town thing less stressful.”

  “Sorry about that,” he says. “I hate that you’re going through this. I hate that so many men don’t know how to behave themselves.”

  “It’s fine. Or it’s going to be fine. Scandals get forgotten pretty quickly in this day and age. There’s always another salacious something on the horizon.” I step onto the bench and sit beside him. “How about you? How are you holding up?”

  Tristan lifts a tired shoulder and lets it fall. “Fine.”

  I hum beneath my breath. “Yeah, you look and sound fine.”

  His lips curve. “You people are going to give me a complex. Between you, Zoey, and the volunteers bringing me extra sandwiches, if I were the kind of person who stressed about my appearance, my confidence would be in the shitter.”

  “No way, dude, you’re still totally smoking hot.” I clap him encouragingly on the back, doing my best to reverse the damage I’ve unintentionally done.

  I’ve been where he is, and the last thing you need when you’re shacking up at the Heartbreak Hotel is well-meaning friends making you feel even worse than you do already.

  “You just look sad is all I meant,” I continue gently.

  Tristan’s chin dips closer to his chest as he lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah, well…I am. But it’s okay. It’s getting better.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I’m a judgment-free zone about sadness and just about everything else.”

  He glances my way, his eyes steady and clear. “I’m sure. But thanks for caring.”

  “You’re my brother-in-law’s brother. And a wonderful person. Of course I care.”

  “I appreciate it.” He smiles, his lips curving into an exact replica of Rafe’s grin but without any of the trouble in it, leaving me tingle-free and proving I probably deserve the disaster that’s plagued my love life.

  Why do the troublemakers and heartbreakers make me tingle?

  Why not sweet, honest, thoughtful gentlemen like Tristan?

  “So what makes the judgment list?” He nudges my elbow with his, clearly ready to change the subject. “You said you were judgment-free about almost everything.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I lean back, my hands braced on the table behind me. “People who listen to country music unironically, maybe? Though Emma’s developing a taste for it, and I love her, so probably not.” I furrow my brow, scrolling through my mental list of repulsive things. “People who make canned seafood?”

  Tristan pulls a face. “Canned seafood is an abomination.”

  “I know, right? I’m not a cat, don’t try to feed me tuna you’ve ruined with gross processing and shoved into a can.”

  He shudders. “Or lobster you’ve mixed with corn and expect me to nurse back to life with milk.”

  “Canned chowder is repulsive. Do not want.” I stick out my tongue with a gagging sound that makes Tristan laugh. “Yeah, I judge those people. Hard.”

  “Me, too.” He glances over his shoulder. “But don’t tell Zoey. She brings a tuna salad sandwich to work for lunch at least once a week.”

  I wave a hand through the cool air. “Oh no, we’re not judging Zoey, just the people responsible for putting the seafood into the can in the first place. She’s as much a victim of this sick conspiracy as anyone else.”

  “Agreed.” His smile widens as he gently knocks his knee into mine. “Thanks for the talk. It cheered me up.”

  “Anytime.” I pull him into a one-armed hug. “Next time we can discuss the abomination that is vanilla ice cream.”

  Tristan returns the embrace. “Vanilla ice cream does need to level up.”

  I nod. “Totally. Like, get a job, vanilla ice cream. I hate you.”

  “Hate who?” a deep voice asks from not far behind us.

  I pull away from Tristan to see Rafe walking up the hill beside Zoey, holding two lightly sweating beers in one hand and looking good enough to pound in one big, long gulp. Seems like someone finished his work early, and someone else’s night just got a whole lot sexier.

  Chapter 16

  Rafe

  It was just a friendly hug.

  I know that. I know it the way I know that the sun is hot and ice-cold beer is a gift from the gods and that no matter how many pairs of matching socks I buy, I will always end up with a useless orphan hanging out in my drawer clogging up the joint. But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed seeing Carrie in my brother’s arms.

  I didn’t.

  Not one fucking bit.

  I enjoyed it so little that, after we finish our beers and Carrie agrees to leave her car at the shelter so she can join me for a night ride, my jaw remains clenched the entire trip out to the coast.

  And when we get to my usual picnic spot, I don’t say a word as I gather blankets from the saddlebags and an armful of wood from my hiding spot behind two rocks.

  “You okay?” Carrie asks, trailing after me as I lead the way down the rock path to the secret ledge overlooking the churning ocean. It can be a tricky walk when it’s cloudy, but tonight the moon shines over the midnight-blue waves below and casts the cliffs in a soft, pearl glow.

  It would be beautiful if I weren’t so fucking pissed for no fucking reason.

  Even if Carrie and my brother had been hugging as more than friends—even if they were ripping each other’s clothes off as often as they got the chance—I would have no right to feel jealous. Carrie and I are buddies with benefits, nothing more.

  I don’t want more. I truly don’t.

  So why are my panties in a fucking twist?

  “Rafe?” Carrie’s voice is gentle, but probing, making it clear she realizes something’s wrong and that she isn’t going to let it go.

  But I’m not having that conversation. No way in hell am I telling her that seeing her arms around my brother made me want to throw her over my shoulder, hop on my bike, and keep driving until we’re in another time zone.

  “I’m fine. You?” I drop the firewood into the ring of stones and spread the thickest gray blanket out beside it. “Cold?”

  “Not too cold. We don’t have to build a fire if you don’t want to.”

  “We’ll build a fire.” I toss the extra blankets onto the ground before turning back to Carrie. “But I need to do something else first.”

  Her lips part, but before she can respond, I’ve pulled her against me. My lips find hers in a bruising kiss, claiming her mouth with deep strokes of my tongue as I jerk her jacket over her shoulders and down her arms, summoning a moan from low in her throat as she rips her hands free and reaches for the close of my jeans.

  Yes, this is what we need, a visceral reminder that we’re about sex and pleasure, pure and simple, with no room for anything else.

  We tumble to the blanket, tearing at each other’s clothes while devouring
each other like starving people. I pinch her nipples tight, rolling them between my fingers and thumb as I rub a rough hand between her legs, grinding the heel of my palm against her clit through her panties.

  I don’t have the patience for gentle or slow right now. I need to be inside her, fucking her hard, taking the only thing she’s given me permission to demand.

  As soon as her panties are off, I nudge her thighs wide and drive inside her pussy to the hilt, summoning a cry from her lips that I swallow with another penetrating kiss. I fuck her mouth with my tongue as I ride her, ramming into her slick heat, claiming her with sharp, brutal strokes as her nails dig into my shoulders and her breath comes in shallow gasps and sexy little whimpers.

  For once, we don’t talk. We fuck.

  Or, more accurately, I fuck her. I take her, and in the process, I somehow manage to confess everything I’ve been trying to hide.

  Not a single word is exchanged, but how much I want to possess her is clear in every kiss, every caress, every thrust deep into her body. I lay claim to her with my tongue, my fingers, my cock, making demands I have no right to make. But that doesn’t stop me.

  I can’t stop. I can’t pull back, I can’t hide the crazy things she makes me feel.

  I ride her until she comes screaming my name and when my balls start to clench, I make sure I’m buried as deep as possible in her pussy before I let go, coming with a force that wrenches animal sounds from deep in my chest as I mark her with my release.

  For a long beat after, the only sounds are our labored breath, the thud of my pulse heavy in my ears, and the crash of the waves far below.

  I don’t know what to say. Or to think.

  Finally, Carrie says in a soft voice, “I’m cold now, how about you?”

  “On it.” Feeling more awkward post-fuck than I have in years, I pull out, get dressed, and set about building the fire while Carrie pulls on her clothes behind me. My hands move on slow, methodical auto-pilot—arranging kindling and tinder beneath the larger chunks of wood and striking the matches—but inside my thoughts are racing.

  What the fuck was that all about? What is wrong with me? And how the hell am I going to explain myself to Carrie when I have no clue why I’m losing my shit?

  As the fire catches and spreads, Carrie pulls one of the blankets around her shoulders, staring into the flames that cast her somber face in a warm light. I shrug my sweater on and sit down beside her, wishing I could turn back time and redo the last twenty minutes. Yes, the sex was lava hot, but it wasn’t honest or easy.

  It was…complicated.

  And now the energy between us is fraught. Carrie wasn’t thrilled about being asked on a no-strings sex-cation, I can only imagine how spooked she’s going to be once she fully processes the possessive energy I was channeling a few minutes ago.

  “Want to head home, then?” I ask, though the words make my chest ache. I don’t want to take her home. I want to take her in my arms, pull her close, kiss her forehead and tell her I’m sorry for being a dick.

  “Why don’t you do relationships?” She draws the blanket tighter around her shoulders as the wind picks up. “Did you just emerge from the womb that way?”

  I hold my hands out to the fire as an excuse not to look at her.

  So we’re having this conversation, are we?

  Fuck…

  But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, and I owe her a truthful answer after the way I just behaved. “No,” I say after a long beat. “I was about five when I realized long-term commitment wasn’t for me.”

  “Bad kindergarten breakup?”

  My lips curve. “That’s when Dylan came to live with us. When my mom left.”

  “Left?” Carrie’s brows lift. “Your dad?”

  “And us,” I say, ribs tightening. “She was so pissed about my dad’s secret kid that she flew to Italy to hook up with this guy she used to date before she came to the States to go to college. Tristan and I didn’t see her for six months. Tris was only two, so he doesn’t remember, but…” I shrug, uncomfortable, but not as tied in knots as I usually am when talking personal shit. “It doesn’t seem like that long now, but at five, six months felt like forever. An eternity. I didn’t think she was ever coming back, and when she did…” I curl my hands into fists, watching the firelight flicker on my knuckles. “I wished she’d stayed away.”

  Carrie nods, studying me solemnly. “You were angry. You had every right to be.”

  I stretch my head to one side, but the knot in my neck only gets worse. “I guess so. But at the time she was just a reminder that my family was broken, and I didn’t want to remember. I wanted to turn back time and have things be the way they use to be, or go forward the way we were, just me, my dad, and my brothers. It wasn’t as warm or fun, but it was safe. Easy.”

  “I get that, too. Change is hard for kids. We’re all creatures of routine. We need it to feel safe, especially as children.”

  I shrug. “For a long time, whenever she’d come to pick us up, I’d hide out in the woods and make Tristan go visit her alone. I hated how out of control I felt when I saw her. Like I could run forever but I’d never be free because the thing I was running from was trapped inside me.”

  Carrie shifts her foot until her boot rests gently on top of mine. She doesn’t say a word, and there are layers of fabric and leather between us, but the touch helps. It takes the edge off the ugly memories.

  She really is a good listener.

  I squeeze her calf through the blanket in silent thanks. “We’ve got a good relationship now, but some things never changed. I love my mother and I forgave her a long time ago, but I never saw a reason to alter my thinking on relationships. Like you said, marriage isn’t natural, and it certainly doesn’t seem to work out that often.”

  Silence falls, and I figure that’s the end of the conversation, until Carrie says, “It’s crazy, isn’t it? How much parents can mess you up. None of the men I dated had a chance to break me. I was already screwed-up way before I was old enough to date.”

  I squeeze her calf again, this time letting the touch linger. “I’m actually okay with my history. I wouldn’t undo my mom leaving. Is that crazy?”

  She looks up at me, her gaze clear, unguarded. “Why? Because the disillusionment would have come eventually? Better to get it over?”

  My lips hook on one side. “That’s about the size of it.”

  “I get it.” Her hand emerges from her blanket cocoon to rest on my cheek, her thumb brushing lightly across my bottom lip. “But five is so young. If I could go back in time and talk some sense into your mother, I would. And I’d give baby Rafe a big hug. I bet he needed one.”

  My jaw clenches and emotion floods my chest, but I don’t want to pull back or run from it. I want to lean in, to get close. I want to cut myself on the sharp edges of her compassion, to catch fire and burn in the light in her eyes. Even more dangerously, I want to kiss her, pull her body on top of mine, and show her how close I can get to really connecting.

  Talk is cheap for me—always has been. It’s something I can control and shape to meet my needs.

  But touch…

  Well, I proved again tonight that touch is where my edges blur. Where—if I’m not careful—fucking can become something so much more. Where a kiss can become “I want you” and skin hot against skin can become “I need you” and sliding inside a woman becomes an even bigger confession.

  My lips have never formed the words, but my body has said “I love you” dozens of times. With Beverly, the girl who took my virginity in our hayloft when I was thirteen and she was fourteen and my boy-man brain was still too young to tell the difference between pleasure and love. With Nora—sweet, damaged Nora who drowned her pain in my body for a year before checking into an addiction treatment facility and never coming back to me the way she’d promised.

  There were times with Vicky and Layla, too, and with Wendy, the leader of an all-girl biker gang with the biggest smile in the world, but nothing rec
ently.

  Nothing since my thirtieth birthday. Looking back, I know it was around then that something shifted inside of me. The protective shell around my heart expanded to take up more real estate, to encapsulate my entire self, ensuring no one gets too close, not even when we’re naked.

  Especially then.

  The shield has a mind of its own. It knows when to firm up its boundaries, when to hold strong against pleasurable sensory input that could so easily be mistaken for something more. The shield protects the brain and the body from themselves. The shield is a friend, a weapon, a superpower.

  The shield allows me to walk among the other mortal, suffering, needing, lost, and drowning people and keep myself above the fray. Without it, I’m as vulnerable as any other man, wandering around with my heart beating outside my chest and all the fears and desires I think I’m keeping so close exposed for the world to see.

  I can take one look at either of my brothers and know exactly what they’re feeling, what they’re thinking, what they’re afraid of losing or finding on any given day. And though I would die for either of them, I don’t want to be like them.

  I can’t be like them. I’ve come too far to regress, to go back to being naked and shivering in the cold. I know how good it feels to be warm. To not only be clothed, but to be tricked out in impenetrable armor, riding atop a horse big enough to give me a clear view over the sea of humanity, where I can keep my eye on the prize.

  There are things I want from life, things I’m willing to take risks for, but this isn’t one of them. Love with another damaged person—someone who would make me feel less alone for a few months, a few years at best, before our sharp edges wear away the ties that bind, leaving us even more broken than we were before.

  So I don’t lean in. I don’t kiss Carrie, even though every cell in my body is dying for a taste of her, howling for me to get her out of that blanket and under me, to push inside her and make her come for me, with me, crying out my name because I do things to her no other man has ever done.

  I’m not special to Carrie, and she isn’t special to me, and this has gone on long enough. I have to step back, to put enough distance between us that time and space can rush in and cool the heat, banish the longing, make me forget that I was ever this close to the edge, staring down into her big blue eyes and wondering if drowning in her might be worth losing all my hard-won control.