by J. A. Little
“Don’t do this, Logan. Don’t shut me out.”
“I’m not!”
“You are, and honestly, it’s not fair to me.” He looks at me, confusion evident. “You and Matty mean everything to me. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I have been invested. I have worked my ass off to make sure you are taken care of the way you deserve.”
“That’s your job!” he snaps.
“I don’t do it because it’s my job. If it were just a job, I would have given up a long time ago. I do it because I care about you.”
Logan looks down at his hands again, wringing them furiously. “You won’t anymore,” he mumbles.
“Nothing you tell me can make me care about you any less, Logan,” I say, laying one of my hands over both of his. “I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”
“I don’t need help,” he growls, standing up and knocking his chair over before storming out of the room.
I let out a frustrated breath. I love the kid, but he’s starting to give me a really big headache. I hope Emily will have better luck convincing him to see a counselor, but somehow, I doubt it.
Chapter 29
Kayla
Saturday night, Dean picks me up at my house. He’s wearing a pair of dark-blue jeans and a button-down shirt. He has slight scruff along his jaw, and his hair is just the way I like it.
“You ready to go?” he asks, his eyes raking over me, lingering on my feet—again.
“Is there something wrong with my feet?” I ask. I’ve been dying to ask the question since the day we met. We’re close enough now that I’m not afraid to go there.
His head snaps up. “No! Why?”
“You stare at them a lot.”
Dean coughs and clears his throat in a choked laugh. “No. I, uh, no. Your feet are fine.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He grins at me like a little boy and scratches his face.
“You’re weird.”
He snorts and grabs my coat out of my hands. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
It takes about half an hour to get to my dad and Karen’s house. They live in Woodbury, southeast of Minneapolis, in a modest, three-bedroom house next to a big, open field.
Pulling into the driveway, I see Karen’s Bimmer and my dad’s truck in the driveway, but there’s no sign of Andy and Sara yet. I open the front door and am immediately hit with an amazing aroma.
“It smells fantastic in here,” Dean moans from directly behind me. I turn slightly to face him.
“That’s Karen,” I smile. “She’s a chef. She owns her own restaurant nearby.”
“Hey, kiddo. What’s happening?” I jump away from Dean at the sound of my father’s voice.
“Hi, Dad.” I lean forward, giving my father a hug and a kiss on the cheek, inhaling the smell of Old Spice.
“It’s good to see you,” he says quietly.
“It’s good to see you, too.” Despite his salt and pepper hair and wrinkles, my dad looks younger now than he did fifteen years ago. It’s in his eyes. I remember how tired and depressed he was when my mother left him. He dropped about thirty pounds and drank heavily.
Now, his eyes are bright. He loves his job and his life. Karen is one of those youthful spirits who keeps him active and young. I think he’s happier with her than he ever was with my mother. They’ve been married for thirteen years now.
Dean shifts his weight, and I’m reminded that I have yet to introduce them.
“Dad, this my friend Dean.”
Dean reaches out his hand to shake my dad’s. “Mr. Brooks,” he greets.
“Do you have a last name, Dean?” My dad asks.
“Wyatt, sir. Dean Wyatt.”
My father’s eyes scan over Dean’s face. I have no idea what he’s looking for, but he seems satisfied with what he sees there. It isn’t until their grips separate that I see his gaze flicker down to Dean’s hands. His face hardens in recognition. My dad is the chief of security for the University of St. Paul—after thirty years in security, including ten years at the Minnesota Department of Corrections, he knows prison tats when he sees them. He glances at me for the briefest of moments.
Dean’s posture changes—he stands up straighter; his jaw tenses. He knows what’s going on. The air is thick and uncomfortable. I don’t like it. I can only imagine what he must go through every time he meets someone new.
“Brian? Oh, dear Lord. Are you going to let them in or not?”
Saved by the stepmother. I exhale and turn to greet her.
“Hello, honey. How are you?” Karen smiles affectionately.
I hug her, and she wraps her arms around me. Karen has the ability to comfort me in a way that no one else does. My dad had no idea what to do with me when my mother and Richard kicked me out and sent me to live with him, and I certainly wasn’t willing to let his wife into my life as a mother figure. But now Karen is more of a mother than the woman who gave birth to me.
“He’s cute,” she whispers softly in my ear. I laugh and grab Dean’s hand to pull him closer to me and away from my dad’s scrutiny.
“Karen, this is Dean. Dean, Karen.”
Dean is polite, smiling and trying to ignore the fact that my dad is still analyzing him.
“Well, come on in. I have some wine chilled. Or beer if you prefer, Dean.” She urges us forward, joining up with my dad. “Knock it off,” I hear her scold. My dad grunts, but doesn’t say anything else.
“Are Andy and Sara here yet?” I ask as we enter the main living area.
“Not yet, but they should be on their way. I’ve got a beef brisket in the oven along with some roasted potatoes and asparagus. Is that all right?”
“Yes,” I grin. “That sounds fantastic.”
“Have a seat,” she urges, motioning toward the couch. “Wine?”
“Of course.” I nod.
“Dean?”
“A beer would be great, thanks.”
Karen serves the drinks and sits down. My dad is quiet as she tells us about the new manager of the restaurant, who is apparently a genius and has allowed her to take more time off in the last month than she’s taken in ten years. She and my dad are actually considering a trip.
“What is it that you do, Dean?”
“Hello, hello!” Andy calls.
Karen is distracted by her son’s entrance, letting Dean take a breather. She jumps up, dragging Dad with her. Dean runs a hand through his hair.
“You okay?”
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” he asks, wringing his hands.
“Because you like me.” I lean into him, batting my eyelashes playfully and putting my hand on top of his to stop his fussing. “Besides, I had to meet yours before we were even friends. So there!”
“That was not my fault.”
“Uh-huh.”
I stand when Sara and Andy come into the room. Sara’s mouth forms an o when she sees Dean.
“Wow. Date?” she asks quietly when I give her a hug.
“No. He’s here to rile up your boyfriend,” I snicker.
Sara slaps me on the back. “You’re mean.”
“Hi,” I greet Andy as he comes up behind her. Sara moves toward the kitchen with Karen. Dean was right—my brother isn’t amused.
“He’s your friend?” I nod, grinning madly. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. What do you have against him, anyway?”
Andy looks over at Dean. “Nothing. I just… Okay, look, I’ve been keeping my mouth shut, but do you know what he went to jail for?”
“Yeah, Andy. I do. And it’s not what you think, so please don’t go there.”
“What do you mean, it’s not what I think?”
I grit my teeth.
“Oh, please don’t tell me you fell for the ‘it-wasn’t-mine’ excuse. That’s the oldest excuse in the book.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. It doesn’t matter if it was his or not. It was ten years ago.”
“Once an
addict—”
“Would you just stop? He’s not an addict; never was. Stop talking about shit you don’t know anything about.”
Andy grumbles under his breath. “You couldn’t have warned me?”
“And have you do this without the safety of parental scrutiny? Absolutely not.”
“Chicken.”
“Andy, honey,” Karen calls. “Come help me set the table please.”
Dinner isn’t too bad. Dean’s a little stiff and uncomfortable, but not overly so. For the most part, he’s quiet, listening to the conversations around him. When he’s asked a question, he keeps his answers short, but polite. My dad continues to analyze him. It probably wouldn’t be obvious if I weren’t sensitive to it.
When we’re done eating, I offer to clear the dishes. When my dad follows me into the kitchen, I know what’s coming. I barely get the plates into the sink before the interrogation starts.
“Who is he? And don’t give me some bullshit answer.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by some bullshit answer, Dad. He’s my friend, Dean.”
“That’s a bullshit answer right there.”
“Are you doubting his name? I’ve met his mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew. Oh, and his cousin, too. I’m pretty sure if he were impersonating someone, I’d know by now.”
“Stop being a smart-ass, Kayla. What did he go to prison for?”
“Dad, please don’t,” I groan, turning around to face him.
“You’re dating a felon and you want me to be okay with that?”
“No! God, Dad. Chill out for a minute. He’s not a felon.”
“He’s not a felon?” He looks at me pointedly. “Those marks on his knuckles tell me otherwise.”
I know my dad is just going to look him up the second we leave, but it’s not my place to tell him Dean’s story.
“He’s Dean Wyatt of The Wyatt House Group Home. They take on some of the most difficult cases in DHS. Yes, he’s been in trouble. Yes, he’s got tattoos. But Jesus, Dad, give it a break. Can’t you trust me? Please?” I plead. I’ve never actually brought a guy home to meet my dad before and, while this isn’t exactly how I’d imagined doing it, I want it go well. “And we’re not dating,” I add quietly.
My dad shakes his head and sighs. “I just want to know you’re being safe, Kayla. I worry about you.” He draws me into a hug. I know he feels guilty for not fighting for me when I was younger. When I graduated from college, I decided it was time to confront him so I could move past it. Andy sat with me as I told my dad about my overdose and the struggle of never really knowing where I belonged. I think he went through the five stages of grief in about two minutes, but overall, he was devastated.
“Trust me, Dad. I’m more than safe with Dean. Those tats you’re so worried about scare the jackasses away.”
“What was he in jail for? I’m not asking for his Social Security number, but I’d like to know.” I can tell he’s not going to let it go.
“Oh my God. You and Andy are absolutely driving me insane. Fine—he went in on drug charges. And before you start freaking out, he wasn’t doing them, and he wasn’t selling them. He was a kid who got mixed up with the wrong people. They wouldn’t let him run Wyatt House if they thought he was a risk…and I wouldn’t have brought him here, either.”
My dad stares at me, his lips pressed into a fine line. Finally, he lets out a breath.
“All right. Fine. I’m gonna trust your judgment on this one,” he acquiesces.
“I appreciate that.”
He helps me rinse off the dishes and put them in the dishwasher before we rejoin everyone else. Dean watches me as I reenter the room. I wink at him to let him know everything’s okay, eliciting a smile.
The rest of the night, my dad seems much more relaxed. He even engages Dean in conversation about Wyatt House. After a dessert of chocolate ganache brownies and coffee, it’s time to leave. Karen takes Dean to the kitchen to make him a plate of leftover brisket while I grab our coats.
“I’m, uh, probably not gonna be home tonight,” Andy mumbles.
I make a face at him. “If you’re going to be spending a lot of time away, maybe we need a dog.”
“Do you want me to come home?”
“No,” I laugh. “Go be with your woman. Dean can keep me company.” I waggle my eyebrows at my scowling brother.
“Leave her alone, Andy,” Sara scolds, coming up behind us. “I’ll see you on Monday?” She kisses my cheek.
“I might come home,” Andy calls as they walk out, making me giggle. Dean appears seconds later, a full plate in his hands.
“That’s a huge piece of meat you have there, Dean.” I smirk as he glances down and then back up.
“You’re pushing your luck with that dirty mouth, sweetheart,” he warns.
“Oh, yeah? Why?” I test. “Watcha gonna do?”
And there it is—the conflict in his eyes. I saw it the night I kissed him at his place. But seeing it again, I can tell he’s fighting against me. I’m not sure why, but I need to figure out how to encourage him without making myself look like a completely desperate fool. The look disappears when my father and Karen appear to say their good-byes.
Dean and I don’t talk on the way home, but it isn’t tense. He has music playing—it’s soft and kind of erotic. I’m not sure if that was his intention or if I’m just interpreting it that way, but it charges the air between us.
When we get to my house, Dean turns off the engine and climbs out of the car. Normally, I would just hop out. Instead, I wait for him to come around and open my door. It’s old-fashioned, but I kind of love that he does it. He walks me to the door, his hand resting on my lower back.
“Do you want to come inside?” I ask, unlocking the front door and pushing it open.
Dean closes his eyes and laughs.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’d love to.”
He follows me in, taking off his coat and setting it over mine on the back of a chair.
“Uh, do you mind if I take this off?” he asks, fiddling with the buttons of his button-down. “I’ve got a T-shirt underneath.”
I nod.
“Yes, you mind?” He smiles and lifts his eyebrows.
“No! I don’t mind. Yes, you can take it off.”
I watch his fingers nimbly worki the buttons through the little holes. I’m glued to the spot, mesmerized by what he’s doing. His chest pushes forward as he pulls the long-sleeved shirt from his arms, revealing a simple, white cotton tee. His tats are on display. Apparently, he’s not ashamed or afraid to show me now. He scratches roughly at them.
“My skin still gets agitated when it rubs against rougher fabrics,” he explains.
I swallow thickly and walk into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask to distract myself from the ridges of his muscles that are just barely noticeable through the shirt.
“Water’s fine. I still have to drive.”
My heart sinks a little, and I shove my thumbnail into my mouth. He intends to go home. I don’t know what I expected. I don’t even know what I hoped. But he just got here, and I don’t want to think about him leaving.
When I look up, he’s suddenly in front of me. His fingers tug softly at my thumb.
“Why do you do that?” he asks, his voice low.
“Do what?”
“Bite your nail like that?”
I shrug. “Nervous habit.”
“Am I making you nervous?” He smiles lightly.
“A little,” I admit. His smile fades, and he lowers his hand. He’s about to take a step back, but I grab onto his shirt. “Not in a bad way.”
His eyes dart down to my mouth, and he licks his lips. There’s no doubt, when he leans forward, what he’s about to do. My heart speeds up, and my mind begins racing. Is he really going to do this? What does it mean? I’ve thought about this for such a long time—fantasized about him kissing me. But he was so adamant about us remaining friend
s. Why now? His lips meet mine slowly, and suddenly my thoughts are completely silent. His hand slides around the back of my neck, holding me in place as he puts more pressure against my mouth—as if I would ever move.
Our mouths slide against each other. His grip tightens on my neck, his nose pressing against mine. It feels like he’s holding back, but I have no idea how to tell him that he doesn’t have to. He’s being very careful, and I’m afraid that if I’m too enthusiastic, he’ll pull away.
I inch my tongue forward, swiping it across his lower lip. His mouth opens just enough for me to feel the tip of his tongue meet mine. It’s not aggressive or demanding or any of the other things I expected from a guy like Dean. It’s cautious and hesitant.
The hand that’s still gripping his T-shirt pulls him closer, and I put my other one on his hip in an attempt to tell him this is what I want—what I’ve wanted for awhile. His breath stutters. And just like that, he pulls away. When I open my eyes, I want to cry. His remain closed, but the expression on his face is anguished.
“Dean?” I whisper, my voice betraying my emotion. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t know what I’m apologizing for exactly. He’s the one who initiated the kiss. But I’m afraid he’s going to start pulling back again. The last several weeks have been amazing and fun. I adore him, and if it pains him to have our relationship become physical, then it won’t. I’ll take whatever I can get.
His eyelashes flutter for a second before his eyes open. “I can’t do this,” he chokes.
“It’s okay,” I reassure. “We don’t have to. I thought… I just…” I huff in frustration. I’m agitated that I let this happen. We were in such a good place.
Dean shakes his head. “Kayla, it isn’t you.”
Great. I’m getting the “it’s-not-you-it’s-me” talk. I turn to grab glasses out of the cabinet and fill them with water.
“I’m fucked up. You know that,” he says quietly.
I’m holding myself together by the skin of my teeth. I’m hurt, but I don’t want to show him just how much.
