by Liz Crowe
“Don’t you start, too,” he said, when he sensed Antony staring him down.
“What the hell is going on with Dominic?”
Kieran leaned on the hood of his hand-me-down vehicle. “I can’t say.”
“Oh? Since when?”
“Since now.” He yanked the door open with a loud screech of metal, cranked the ignition, and headed out of his spot, determined to exit the awkward moment without any more conversation. When he threw the thing in drive, he cursed and mashed on the brake. The dumbass stood right in front of the bumper, his shoulders set in a familiar way. Kieran would have to run his oldest brother over if he wanted to escape without that chat now. He smacked the steering wheel in frustration and rolled the window down with the crank.
“Get out of my way, numb nuts.”
“Tell me what’s going on with our brother.” They glared at each other. “And while you’re at it,” Antony yelled as he climbed onto the hood, making the metal groan in protest. “Fill me in on why in God’s ever-loving name you let that Melinda get her claws into you again.”
“I knew you marrying a therapist had to be a bad idea.” Kieran sighed and killed the engine. “All you wanna do is fucking talk anymore.”
Antony grinned and climbed off the car. “Yeah, it’s a real hazard. Now spill it, Ginger, or I’m gonna give you a titty twister to go with the bitch gouges.”
Chapter Seventeen
Cara sat at the long trestle table staring down at the plate of freshly fried fish, her stomach in knots and her brain reeling. Her fiancé sat to her left, running his mouth, but she couldn’t even manage to acknowledge who sat to her right much less engage in mindless conversation. When Kent draped his arm over her shoulder, she jumped, startled and embarrassed to be caught in her fugue state.
“What’s wrong, hon?”
She shook her head but couldn’t enunciate anything. She needed space, a nap, or something. The engagement tea at his mother’s club was finally in the rearview mirror, thank the good Lord, but it’d been a long, drawn-out trial. Her mother had appeared, stuffed into a dress that highlighted every curve of her obscenely lush frame. She’d drunk too many mimosas and given a long, rambling speech that left Cara fuming and the rest of the well-coiffed crowd of Vivian’s tennis buddies tittering into their expensively manicured fingers.
At one point during the horrible event, Cara had ducked into the ladies’ room for a break, only to be discovered by Kent’s sister-in-law Grace. “Oh buck up now, buttercup,” the woman had advised, reapplying her perfect lipstick and brushing non-existent crumbs off her dress. “Once y’all are married and you pop out a baby or two, Vivian won’t have a thing to say about anything. Trust me. I know. Well, about the married part. Robert and I can’t seem to agree on the parenthood timing.”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“Oh, honey, sure you can.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
Grace had sat by her a while and patted her shoulder while she blubbered. But Cara hadn’t confided in her future sister-in-law. It would serve no good purpose.
So now she stumbled around like a drunk inside her own head, feeling clumsy in her skin, while her brain burned with images and recent revelations regarding her fiancé that she honestly believed would go to her grave with her. The grave she’d occupy after a long, dry, frustrating marriage to a man who may love her in his way, but whom she would never truly satisfy. That much she understood now, for certain.
The annual Labor Day weekend fish fry had been a Lucasville tradition her entire life. But the last ten years or so it had become way too overrun with people she didn’t know. Thanks to all the suburbanites slumming with their native Lucasville neighbors, the ranks of attendees had swelled to a near-unmanageable number, and the town square teemed with people.
The University hospital had glommed on since opening a suburban branch and had made it a fundraiser for their cancer center. That drew a bunch of socialite types who had been angling to throw a Fish Fry Eve Black Tie Event that got blasted down by the city fathers every year much to the relief of the natives.
Escaping the tent with minimal excuses, Cara ducked around a booth hawking T- shirts designed by the local Girl Scout troop and found a quiet spot near the Lucas River that flowed behind downtown. The cool water felt great to her aching feet. Propping on her elbows, holding her sandals in one hand, she let herself drift.
Relaxing had become a real trial in the past few days. The sensation of walking around on eggshells, snapping at anyone who spoke a word to her, wondering how in the hell she could possibly carry on with the charade Kent insisted on fulfilling all the way to the altar, never left her. Even his mother seemed halfhearted about the whole thing since the miscarriage.
She lay all the way down, willing time to run backwards to that moment when she’d decided in a fit of early-college foolishness that she no longer wanted Kieran Love in her life. Her thoughts drifted further, coalescing around what she’d seen a few nights ago on Kent’s smartphone screen. Words that had taken her a few minutes to process because they were so out of context danced across her consciousness now in red type, screaming at her.
The conversation with his lover had obviously been going on for a while. He’d hidden it deep in some innocuous app that he’d inadvertently left open on his phone. They used fake names. She’d sorted that out pretty quickly. Kent was Grant and the man on the other end claimed to be Paul.
Kent had gone out for his bachelor party and come home more shit-faced than she’d ever seen him, the night she’d figured it all out. His law partner had shoved him in the front door, waved at her then stumbled to the limo they’d rented. She’d managed to get him as far as the couch while he mumbled and groped at her, declaring his undying, everlasting love for her and their future progeny.
Still half-asleep herself, she’d tossed a blanket over him even as he snored. His phone had bounced onto the floor with a loud thunk when she stuck his arm under the cover. Snagging the device, she’d glanced at the screen that had been live a few moments before.
I don’t know why you keep pretending, the little message bubble from Paul had declared at the end of a long conversation string. She’d sat down with a yawn, not fully realizing what she’d found until she thumb-scrolled through the last few messages.
Then she found the photos, dated almost a year ago, followed by more and yet more. She never saw anyone’s face. But she’d recognize Kent’s naked body anywhere. Paul had a stocky, compact build and bronze-tinted skin covered in tattoos. She shivered, recalling the close image of a man’s large, erect penis that had some kind of piercing in the end of it.
She squealed when something cold dripped on her cheeks and eyelids, forcing her upright. Swiping at it, she fought off the grogginess from the near-sleep state and the memory of the photos of her future husband’s torso, naked, of his erect dick, that he had sent to someone else on his phone as recently as three months ago. The photos had dried up after that, but their chatter had carried on all the way to the night of Kent’s bachelor party.
Kieran crouched down beside her, grinning ear to ear. He stuck a straw down in his drink then spit more liquid right at her nose.
“Stop it,” she shrieked, reaching for him, blinded by what smelled like lemonade. He laughed and took off running. She gave herself a minute to admire his rear view—dark jeans, Love Brewing-labeled gray T-shirt, rich auburn-colored hair grown out enough to cover his neck.
They shot past the row of fryers, the smell of fish-scented oil filling her nose. When they reached the Love Brewing tap truck, he seemed to vanish. She cursed and stopped to catch her breath. At that moment, winded and sticky, she felt great—better than she had in weeks thanks to the spurt of physical activity. After making a mental note to stop making excuses and get to the gym more often, she took the cup of beer Angelique held out to her. The girl winked and jerked her chin to indicate that Kieran had ducked behind the trailer before focusing her one-hundre
d-watt grin on some boy practically climbing onto the makeshift bar to get her attention.
Cara took the cup and tiptoed around the corner. Stacks of empty kegs were piled everywhere but she caught sight of his shoes sticking out behind some. Grinning, she waited a few seconds to lull him into a false sense of safety. Sounds of the event drifted around the trailer—feminine shrieks of laughter, childish giggles, the occasional baby scream of protest mixed in with the live bluegrass music that played nonstop on the stage across the square. She waited for a count of twenty then fifty. At eighty-five he made his move so she tucked in next to the nearest stack of stainless steel.
“Gotcha!” he yelled, jumping in front of her and dumping the lemonade on her head at the exact moment she tossed the beer at his face. Giggles burst out of her at the sight of his drippy dismay. Her giggles became a belly laugh that bent her over double. He chuckled then laughed as hard as she, and they ended up hanging onto each other wiping their faces.
“I’m all sticky now, you asshole.” She ran her fingers through her stiffening hair.
“I smell even more like a fraternity basement now, you bitch.”
She went into his arms for a friendly hug, tilting her face to his and touching his damp cheek for reasons she didn’t want to analyze. The moment shimmered in her brain as the sounds of the event faded. He covered her lips with his so fast she couldn’t escape. And after a few minutes, she didn’t want to.
They slammed into each other mouths-first, grappling for hair, arms, asses. He pressed her between the stacks of kegs, hiding them from view, not that she cared at that moment as long as he never stopped kissing her.
Bracing himself on the trailer behind her, he broke from her lips. She tried not to whimper and beg. Every inch of her skin burned like fire. Her legs shook, her ears were full of white noise, but when she met his gaze, she calmed.
“This is not a good idea,” he said, his voice hoarse. It made her want to cry with memory. He used to get so emotional when they’d have sex as teenagers, like John Cusak in one of those sappy eighties movies she loved. Kieran had grown out of that, and they’d found their rhythm and groove somewhere in the middle of kinky and romantic. And she’d gone and ruined it all with her naïve ideas about experiencing life outside of her boyfriend’s immediate vicinity.
She nodded her head in agreement even as she spoke. “No it’s not. But…it’s perfect.” Rising on her tiptoes she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, sensing his desire like a coiled animal, not to mention the press of his erection against her hip. Eager, horny and horrified, she propped one foot on a nearby keg so she could get him closer.
He threaded his fingers in her hair, parted her lips with his tongue, and nothing existed for her except that moment and the man in her arms. Not Kent or his issues, or his boyfriend or his bitchy, bossy mother, passive-aggressive father or his insistence that she leave her job and life and move to Louisville with him.
Kieran pulled up her shirt, flicking open her bra like an expert before ducking down to get at her nipples. And Lord help her slutty heart, when he popped open her shorts and stuck his fingers down the front of them, she let him do that, too, making noises of delight until he covered her mouth with his palm. Once he’d teased her to orgasm, he replaced the hand over her lips with his as she yanked his zipper down. He came fast, with an exhalation and sigh over her head.
Tears burned tracks down her cheeks and she dropped to her ankles, her knees suddenly unreliable. Wiping her sticky palm on the grass, she sniffled and cursed. He zipped his shorts then tugged her to her feet, folding her into a lemonade, beer, and lusty-smelling embrace. She gripped his shirt and held on tight. A high-pitched female voice floated back to them.
“Kieran? Honey? You here? Dom said you were changing kegs or something.”
Cara jumped away from him and fumbled with her shirt, buttoning her shorts so fast she pinched her finger. Kieran just stood there, hands on his hips, gawking at her like a dunce. He blinked when the voice got louder. A woman, who must be that Melinda Mrs. Love always talked about when referring to Kieran’s woman, appeared in the growing gloom.
Tall, sleek, and put together with her slim skirt and silky blouse, if a bit of out place at an event like this, she had long black hair draped over one shoulder like a model’s. Her icy-blue eyes shone with what Cara instantly recognized as jealousy. The silly, old-fashioned saying her mother used filled her brain: a woman knows when her man is dippin’ his wick in someone else’s candle.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Melinda declared, crossing her arms. “You must be the high school sweetie I keep hearing about.”
Making a noise approximating Hi, excuse me. I gotta go find my boyfriend, Cara scuttled past the woman, leaving Kieran to fend for himself. She wanted him so badly it was a physical ache in her chest. But the fact she had a perfectly fine man waiting for her out here somewhere crowded out everything else in her mind. Good thing, too, since it seemed pretty obvious Melinda had come here seeking Kieran.
“No, it’s nothing,” he said loud enough for her to hear. Cara whirled around and caught him staring at her. Melinda had one hip cocked, her long slim legs ending in open-toed heels entirely too dressy for the beer-soaked mud and grass at their feet. Kieran glared at her. “She’s nobody.”
Her face flamed hot and every place he’d touched her—including between her legs—stung. He raised an eyebrow at her then focused on Melinda, reserving his grin for her.
“Sorry, babe. Come on, let’s get something to eat.” He glanced at Cara right before laying an unnecessarily enthusiastic lip lock on Melinda. Cara ran from the scene, realizing she deserved no less.
She, Cara Cooper, had looked him in the face all those years ago and claimed she didn’t love him anymore. She’d best live with it now, face her reality, marry Kent, and pretend for the rest of her life to be happy with whatever arrangement that entailed. The crowd noises rose again, deafening her. Shoving through the laughing, flirting throng surrounding the beer taps, she stopped when she caught sight of her mother at one of the long tables under the beer tent with Lindsay Love, laughing in her usual, annoying, too-loud fashion.
She tried to disappear into the crowd before they spotted her, but Lindsay waved her over. “There she is. Get on over here, Miss Cara,” she called out, sending a jolt of unwelcome memory down her spine. Miss Cara is what both of Kieran’s parents called her years ago, and it had stuck all the way through her and Kieran’s dating years.
Her own mother didn’t acknowledge her, just drank the rest of her beer and waved it in the general direction of the bar. Aiden scurried over to snag it, refilled and returned it to her with a charming smile. She patted the young man’s cheek. Cara winced at the sight of her newly done nail gel wraps, sparkly with glitter in honor of the impending wedding.
Lindsay kept motioning for her, so she plodded over and sat across from the two women.
She accepted the cup that Aiden plunked in front of her on his way to deliver beers to a table behind her.
Her mother reached out and patted her arm then pressed down on it, holding her in place. “I’m so proud of this girl,” she said, glancing over at Lindsay. “Makin’ such a fine catch.”
Cara frowned at her mother’s rudeness. If nothing else, the woman did insist on politeness in every possible social situation. Lindsay raised an eyebrow in reaction to the mild slam on her own son.
“Yes, well, um....” Cara tried to pull away, but her mother wouldn’t let go. “I’m glad that, uh, Kieran has, you know, gotten things worked out with that Melinda...I mean.” She bit the inside of her cheek, realizing she’d used Lindsay’s pet phrase when referencing Kieran’s fiancée or girlfriend or whatever her status was that week. “You know. Seems like things are working out...for him,” she finished, wishing she could disappear into the bench.
“Oh no, honey.” Lindsay waved her fork to someone over Cara’s shoulder. “That Melinda is history, thank the good Lord.” She exchanged
an arch expression with Cara’s mother.
“Well, she’s here. I mean. I saw her, found her, she found...never mind.”
Her mother tightened her grip. “Ow, Mama,” she said, realizing someone must have figured out that she and Kieran had been absent and together.
“You have a good man in Kent Lowery. You’d best remember that.” Her mother’s gaze was dark.
Lindsay broke the tension. “Well, now, you gotta tell me all about this Mary Kay thing. You know, I’ve been thinkin’ I should get on that. You know, do somethin’ about this embarrassing pale skin of mine.” Cara’s mother let go and grabbed her freshened beer before focusing her attention on Lindsay and going into sell mode. Cara breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hey, babe.” The man under discussion straddled the bench next to her and pecked her cheek. She moved away slightly, still smelling Kieran on her and terrified Kent could, too, not that it mattered. The irrational urge to show her mother how dirty her fine catch of a future husband could talk with his boyfriend or how much he liked getting ass-fucked by him very nearly overwhelmed her. Cara’s entire body broke out in goose bumps.
She studied Kent in profile while he charmed everyone in hearing distance. When he met her eyes, his face curious, the words she needed to speak dried up in her mouth like so much cotton. He touched her shoulder.
“You all right?”
She tried very hard not to scream. All this posturing, faking, and pretending made her sick. Maybe she should reach out to the boyfriend, form a club with him or something. She cursed her own inability to confront, mentally thanking her mother for her passive-aggressive conflict-avoidance tendencies.
“I’m fine,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You kids go on now,” her mother declared, a little too loudly. “You all are staying here tonight, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kent said, getting to his feet and stretching before holding out his arm to help Cara. She stared at it, her brain fuzzy, and wishing she’d not come to the dumb fish fry.
