by Kim Bailey
The smile is long gone, and a look of fear mixes with her standard scowl.
“Can I take a leak now?” I bark.
With a huff, she turns and stomps away, her hair flinging out behind her like a final fuck you.
Muffled laughter, followed by a snort of delight, echoes from the opposite direction. Peeking around the doorway, I see a tall, slender brunette, both hands covering her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she says, dropping her hands to reveal her gorgeous smile. “That was kind of embarrassing, wasn’t it?” Her French accent is light and sexy, making her sound as sophisticated as she looks.
Who is this woman? How could I miss a face and a body like that?
“Embarrassing for who?” I ask.
“Well, obviously not you. You handled her like a pro. Kudos for not being a sleazebag.”
“Who says I’m not a sleazebag?”
“Oh, trust me, sweetheart. I’ve met plenty of them in my life. None would have turned down what she was offering.”
“That so? Maybe I was just waiting for a better offer to come along.”
“Ah, so, you’re a sleazebag with standards?” She laughs again, her hazel eyes sparkling. “Who are you?”
“You first. You’re the one slinking around corners playing spy. Who are you?”
“Well, you caught me, so I must be a shit spy. I’m the cousin. Chante.”
“Chante. Like enchanté?” I focus on her gorgeous name instead of her unfortunate relation.
“No, darling, nothing delightful or enchanting about me. Just Chante, or Chantal.”
“I thought enchanté meant pleased to meet you.”
“It could, but are you really all that pleased to meet me?”
“You have absolutely no idea how very pleased I am, Chantal. And you’re wrong about not being enchanting . . . I forgot what we were talking about. I got distracted by images of your sexy lips saying my name.”
“I’d have to know your name first, now, wouldn’t I?” she toys.
“I’m Dylan.”
“Dylan?” The way she says it is nothing like I’d imagined. Her sexy swagger drops, replaced with a straightened spine and a look of such discomfort you’d think she’d stepped in shit. “You’re Dylan?”
“So, you’ve heard of me.”
“Fuck d’ostie,” she swears in a sexy, French-English mix.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Well, I was warned to stay away from you . . . so probably not good.”
“What? You were warned? By who?”
“Eric told me you’re a player.”
“Did he now? ’Cause he’s the authority on that topic, right?”
There was a reason I was escaping, and this is a vivid reminder of why. I can’t handle these people’s perceptions and expectations of me. I barely know most of them, yet they’ve helped to give me a complex bigger than my ego. That’s saying a lot considering how big my ego can be at times.
As I try to turn away from her, Chante grabs the front of my shirt, bunching it in her fist. I can’t help but notice how delicate her hands are, but unlike Celeste’s bright red claws, Chante’s nails are short and color free.
“Don’t go, darling. I said he warned me. I didn’t say I listened. I’m not very good at listening or doing what I’m told.”
Her words slide down my neck, hitting the spot on my chest where she’s still holding tight to my shirt, then continue traveling south like a heated caress.
“No? Not the kind to take orders, huh?”
She shakes her head in a subtle no, the smile never leaving her lips, the soft fall of her hair brushing the knuckles of her hand that still hasn’t loosened its hold on me.
“Bet if I gave you orders nice enough I could talk you into a few things. Bet you might even enjoy that.”
“My, my. You are a bad boy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Didn’t you hear the warnings?” I tease. “Come on, then, Enchanté. I’ve had a bad day. Give me something good. Say my name. Say it nice.”
“Dylan,” she whispers, half taunt, half plea.
“That’s better. That sounds exactly how I imagined. Those lips do my name some serious justice. Thank you for indulging me.”
“That’s all you want from my lips?”
Her question stuns me. Is that all I want?
“What else you got?” I challenge.
Backing me into the bathroom, Chantal holds my stare, not backing down, meeting my challenge head on. When the door clicks softly closed behind her, she leans into me, her lips just a breath from my own.
“We shouldn’t be doing this, you know,” she warns. Like acknowledging this somehow makes it all right.
“Isn’t that why you’re doing it? Isn’t that what makes it fun?”
I want to wait and see if she’ll follow through on the suggestion I’ve given her. Want to see if the challenge is something she can meet. However, impatience gets the better of me.
Grabbing a fistful of her long, incredibly silky, dark hair, I smother her mouth with my own. It’s possibly the most desperate kiss I’ve ever initiated.
It’s more than just an escape from misery. It’s more than a need to prove power or control. It’s a desperate need to see if those smart, smooth lips feel as good as they look. It’s a need to let go for a minute, to stop worrying about appearances. To find the part of myself I’ve hidden away.
Her response is immediate but unexpected. She melts under my touch, her mouth opening for mine, eagerly inviting, willing me to do as I please. Silently begging me to lead her where it seems we both want to go. Her hands clasp my shirt and my shoulders, pulling me closer until our bodies are plastered together. Her leg wraps around my hip, and I thrust my erection against her core, pushing her backward into the closed door.
My lips don’t stop their assault. I taste every inch of her mouth, licking her inside out. She’s a mix of sweet and salty, like kettle corn or chocolate covered pretzels. Fucking delectable. I can’t get enough of her teeth nipping at my lips or her tongue sweeping over my own.
My mouth isn’t the only part getting in on the action. My hands have discovered how firm her thigh is, her trim waist, how hard her nipples are under my touch.
I’m so fucking desperate—she’s so fucking hot—I could come with just a thrust. Hell, I could come just imagining a thrust into her tight heat. And she’s urging me on like she wants that, too.
Unfortunately, desperation and urgency aren’t enough to block out the warning bells going off in my brain. Hell, she said it herself. We shouldn’t be doing this.
I really shouldn’t be doing this.
This proves right every single one of the pretentious and arrogant comments Eric’s ever made about me. I’m a player? Yep, this moment confirms that theory. Bad dad? Guess fucking so. It doesn’t matter what else I do; if I take this any further with Chantal, I’ll be cementing my own fate.
Breaking our kiss, our breathing still heavy, I regretfully tear my hands away from her body, bracing them against the door instead. Her leg is still hugging me tightly to her center, but I try to ease the pressure.
“We have to stop,” I tell her in a pained whisper.
She looks uncertain. A bit confused, maybe. Turned on, definitely. “We do?” she asks.
“Yeah. This isn’t right.”
Her expression morphs from sexed-up desire to hurt anger. She drops her leg, firmly planting her hands on my pecs in an attempt to push me away.
I refuse to budge.
“Don’t be angry. I didn’t say it wasn’t good. I said it isn’t right.” I sigh in defeat. “Look, I’m not that guy. This”—I motion back and forth between us—“isn’t something I do. I’m not saying I haven’t in the past, just that I don’t anymore. I can’t be that guy.”
“I don’t know what kind of guy you think this makes you,” she says, “or what kind of woman that would make me, but this isn’t my usual M.O., either. Now I feel like the pathetic one. More pathetic than
my cousin, Celeste. Now that is embarrassing.”
“I’m the one that should be embarrassed. I don’t want you to think that I’m the deadbeat they’ve made me out to be,” I admit.
“I didn’t think that . . .”
“Yeah, you did, but it’s okay. Hell, they’ve practically convinced me of it. But this situation—this timing and this place—it’s wrong. You didn’t feel wrong. Hell, you feel amazing, but I can’t do this here. Not right now.”
“Did I miss something? Other than the fact that we’re in my aunt and uncle’s place? I mean, I get this is a little weird, but I know we’re both capable of being discreet. And I know you’re just as into it as I am. I’m not imagining the giant erection in your pants, am I?”
Ignoring her unintentional seduction—her use of the word “giant” does not go unnoticed—I point toward the backyard, where it’s not very likely that anyone’s even noticed me missing. “You weren’t out there?”
“No. I got here like five seconds before I stumbled across your intimate moment with Celeste. I actually needed to use the facilities. I just drove in from Montreal.”
“Shit.”
Pushing away from her, I stride to the other side of the room. It only takes three steps considering the limited space. I need to stop touching her. I really need to get the hell out of here. Now.
Cake and goodbyes be damned. Hunter will forgive me when I take him out next weekend and teach him how to shoot the pellet gun I gave him for his birthday.
“Seriously? What’s going on?” she demands.
“Eric and Jamie are getting married. They just told everyone before you stumbled across me.”
“Oh, shit. And that’s why Celeste was offering to cheer you up? For real? Why do they all think you’re still so hard-up for Jamie?”
“Because I am. And I’m ridiculously obvious about it. Even when I flat out deny it, I can’t hide the way I really feel about her. I’m a lovesick loser.”
“Well, you sure know how to stroke a girl’s ego. Score one for me.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I say, hanging my head in shame. “That’s what I meant about this being wrong. My head’s in the wrong place. You’re gorgeous. Kissing you . . . Well, I sure want to do a hell of a lot more than just kiss and grope you. But like I said, it wouldn’t be right. I really am sorry.”
“Dylan?” Her concerned tone has me raising my head to meet her gaze. “You’re not a deadbeat, or a player, or a loser. You actually seem like a pretty decent guy. And you’re hot. Incredibly fucking hot. I understand why Celeste wanted to molest you. But I feel like I just took advantage of you, even if it was unintentional.”
“I wish I was in the right headspace. I’d love for you to take full advantage of me.”
“Maybe next time. Right now, unless you were in here for the same reason, I really need to pee. Could I have the room to myself?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take off. It was nice meeting you, Chante. Enchanté.”
“Next time, Dylan. Next time,” she says with a peck on my lips as she pushes me out of the room.
Unsure if I’ll ever be able to show my face around this family again, there’s not much hope for a next time.
I can’t believe I’m back in this house. On New Year’s Eve.
Sylvie Anderson is a very persuasive woman. It must be something about that thick French accent that gets to me. It’s luxurious and reminds me of my encounter with her sexy niece. An encounter I’ll likely never forget.
Unfortunately, Chantal won’t be here this evening, or so I was unexpectedly informed by Caleb. He’s an all right kid, even if he is Eric’s brother, but he’s either a mutant mind reader or just way more in the know than he should be. No surprise. Everyone seems to tell him everything. Makes sense since talking with him feels a bit like going to confession. He makes you feel like it’s okay to open up, to tell him all your sins. I know this from personal experience.
So, it’s the last day of the year, I’m back in a place I promised myself to avoid, and my one hope of having a good time won’t be here.
Well, at least there’s booze this time, not that I’ll be getting drunk. No way I’m giving this family any ammunition to use against me. Having a drink in hand is a nice crutch, though.
But I have to admit, being here’s not too bad. I don’t feel quite as shitty as I did last time. I’ve had time to process stuff. And lots more time with my son. I’m feeling a hell of a lot more confident than I was six months ago.
That has a lot to do with the fact that Jamie and Eric didn’t rush to the altar the way I’d anticipated. In fact, their wedding isn’t planned for another eight months.
Two hundred and twenty-eight days to be exact.
That gives me time. Time to either put a stop to it or come to terms with it. I haven’t decided which direction I’m going yet.
“Dad, can I stay up ’til midnight and watch the ball drop and have the toast with everyone?” Hunter pleads in a way that has me questioning who he asked before me.
“Do you really think you’re going to make it? I saw you covering your mouth earlier. It’s only nine o’clock and you’re already yawning.”
“I wasn’t yawning. I was trying not to spit out the food I was eating. Caleb was making me laugh.”
“Nice excuse. Seriously though, what did your mom say about staying up?” No way I’m getting outmaneuvered by my eleven-year-old. Not again.
“I haven’t asked her, but she said no last year. It’s not like I’m not going to sleep anyway, so I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Honestly, I don’t see what the big deal is, either. If it were up to me, the kid could stay up as late as he wanted on nights like this. It’s a rite of passage. However, even though I’m his father, I’m still not in charge.
“The big deal is your mom’s the boss here. You need to ask her first. And quit trying to guilt me into saying yes to stuff. You know it’s not going to work.”
“Got me Mojo last year, didn’t it?”
“No, wise guy, you got Mojo because your mom and I agreed you could have a dog. Now quit causing trouble and go do the right thing.”
“Yeah, okay. Sorry, Dad.”
He’s a sarcastic brat with me sometimes, but I guess he’s earned it. Especially since he’s right and we’d agreed to buy him the dog after he basically tricked me into it. In my defense, dogs are called man’s best friend for a reason, and I was happy to help my kid experience that.
Hustling over to his mom, Hunter’s begging is animated and wildly excited.
Watching him and Jamie interact always makes my insides heat. It’s a warmth that radiates throughout every corner of my body. The love Jamie shows our son, even if it’s somewhat tainted by her exasperated sigh, reminds me of the affection she used to show me. Seeing the two of them together mixes me up in a way that nothing else can. I want to take ownership of them. Claim them as my property.
Which is fucking stupid and pathetic, seeing as they’re people and not possessions, but I can’t help that possessive feeling.
It’s mixed with a weird melancholy.
I’ve missed so much: Jamie’s entire pregnancy, Hunter’s birth, his first big milestones. I didn’t think I was ready to be a dad at seventeen. I was scared out of my mind. But after Jamie ran away—after I pushed her away—I realized I wanted it. I wanted her. I wanted our child. Missing it all sucked and it fills me with a primal need to take Jamie somewhere private and knock her up all over again just so I can relive it the right way.
But the sight of Eric running his hand over Jamie’s shoulder as he smiles down at Hunter—as if he holds the title of dad instead of me—has my body heating in another way. It’s a vibrating anger that makes me want to drag Jamie down to the floor and fuck her in front of everybody. To show them all she belongs with me.
I’m completely messed up. No doubt about it.
“Kids are fun, aren’t they?” a baritone asks from beside me.
Look
ing to my left, I acknowledge the guy who’s joined in my appreciation of Jamie and Hunter. This dude is big. Tall and kind of burly looking. Messy, reddish blond hair tops his head, and a massively bushy, almost copper beard adorns his otherwise boyish face. He looks like a lumberjack. Or a homeless person.
“Depends on who’s asking.”
His laugh is jovial and good-natured. It’s the kind of laugh that draws attention, making you smile, whether you want to or not.
“Don’t worry, man. It wasn’t a test. I like kids but am always super glad when they go home with their parents.”
“Well, you’re one up on me, then. I don’t like most people’s children. I love mine like crazy, but he rarely comes home with me. He’s usually with those two,” I say, motioning my head toward Jamie and Eric, who’ve now got their arms wrapped around each other. Hunter runs off, probably in search of Caleb and whatever trouble they can get into.
“So, you’re just the baby daddy, then, eh? That’s gotta suck.”
“No, doesn’t suck at all, but thanks for bringing it up.”
More laughter assaults my ears, bringing out my own small chuckle.
“I’m Sean,” he says, offering me his hand to shake.
“Dylan,” I offer in return, making sure my grip meets the proper manly standard.
“How’d you get suckered into this shindig? Especially if that’s what you’ve got to deal with?” Sean motions back to Jamie and Eric, who are now locked in a disgusting display of sweet, affectionate kissing.
Sean’s attitude toward them seems like my own, his distaste for their love evident on his face. Although, I doubt his disdain is as deep rooted as mine. And I seriously doubt he’s considering knocking Eric’s teeth out the way I am. It’s an urge programmed to appear every time I see him touching her.
“I have no idea. Sylvie keeps inviting me to stuff, and I keep trying to turn her down. Guilt, I guess.” I shrug, not sure if there’s a rational explanation for it. “What about you?”
“Same.” He smiles, warm and friendly. “She’s a hard woman to say no to. Plus, I kind of owe her husband my career.”
“Really?” Interesting seeing as Glenn Anderson, while incredibly brilliant and uncannily intuitive, is not the kind of guy to be given credit for anyone else’s success. He’s a psychiatrist. Not too many people want to admit he’s helped them. “You a doctor, too?” I ask skeptically. I can’t really see anyone trusting this mountain man with any of their psychological secrets.
