Private

by Xavier Neal

  “I'll get it taken care of as well, Wes,” Clark's voice penetrates the impending panic. “You wrap up whatever business needs to be tended to and take some time to clear your head. Dinner with Miss Brynley will be better than you expect. Trust me.”

  I offer a forced smile, stroll around him, and pull out my phone to call J.T. At least there's one thing I can do right for her before I yank open ten-year-old wounds to pour salt in. I just hope by the end of the night there aren't additional penances to pay for.

  “Do you even own a colored shirt?”

  “Black is a color.”

  J.T. scrunches his face in objection. “You really are Batman, aren't you?”

  I grimace. “What, should I wear the gray one instead? Perhaps the white one?”

  “Own anything a little brighter? Maybe a green?” His suggestion causes my head to turn sharply. “Blue?”

  “No. My colorful wardrobe died with everything else that night.”

  J.T. surrenders his hands to the unfair remark.

  Knowing it was more callous than he deserved, I rub the back of my neck and attempt to apologize. “I'm sorry. I'm...edgy.”

  “Nervous,” he corrects with a smirk.

  And who would blame me? A decade of hiding from the entire opposite sex, whose paycheck I don't sign, and I suddenly decide to ask one out on a date. Well, not out on a date as opposed to in on one. If it is even a date. To Brynley it could just be the welcoming meal she never received upon arrival. The possibility of this night being something meaningless to her causes undeserved dejection to grip the back of my neck.

  “Is this a date?” J.T. repeats the question I can't seem to settle on an answer for.

  I give him a short shrug and adjust the collar of my dress shirt.

  “Hm. So I could join the two of you?”

  “Don't even consider it,” I instantly snap, sparking his laughter. Hearing the outrage in my voice forces me to confess, “I don't know if it is officially a date or not-”

  “But you want it to be,” he finishes.

  I innocently shrug again.

  “Admit it or I'll tell Lucky to prepare his meal for three.”

  Another glower escapes as I cave. “Yes. I want it to be.”

  “So you're going to treat it like it is one then?”

  “Yes.”

  J.T. nods, folds his arms, and states, “Since I've done this just slightly more recently than you, can I make a few suggestions without fear of losing my main house television privileges?”

  The less than subtle joke about my temperament receives him an eye roll.

  “Don't force her to do all the talking. Take some initiative and ask her questions. Engage actively in the responses. This isn't a business meeting or a conference call. Brynley's interested in learning about you not what you can do for her.”

  I'm not sure the last time I had a conversation like that with people other than Lauren, Clark, and J.T.

  “And tell her the truth about what you're hiding.” When my eyes drop to the ground he sighs, “Let her decide whether or not you're as guilty as you have deemed yourself. If I know anything about that bombshell, it's that she prefers to form her own opinion about things.” I shift my eyes back to his and he chuckles, “You're pissed I called her a bombshell, aren't you?”

  More than I care to admit too. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Don't sleep with her on the first date.”

  The accusation stitches annoyance into my expression. “What?”

  “Bryn's not exactly the type of chick opposed to doing that on the first day-”

  “You're saying she's slutty?” I try to dial down the hostility.

  “I'm saying she's not the type to believe in traditional rules. She dances to the beat of her own pop song and believes in going after what she wants, when she wants, how she wants. It's been ten years since you've been on a date and longer since you've had sex. You don't have to squeeze all that shit into one night. Let's get you crawling before jumping.”

  Just the idea of Brynley against me, demanding I submit to what her body is desperately needing has my mind actively commanding I disregard his last suggestion.

  Before the thoughts can spiral out of control, Clark appears in the doorway. “Everything is set, sir.”

  “Then I'm gonna go,” J.T. announces cheerfully. “There's an episode of Gotham waiting for me to watch before I fly out in the morning.”

  “Is that show the reason you can't seem to help yourself from making Batman jokes lately?”

  He chuckles and gives my shoulder a hard pat. “Flight's at 5 so remember that if tonight doesn't go well and you feel the need flash the bat signal.”

  I roll my eyes at the lame joke. J.T. exits my bedroom while I give myself a final once over in the full-length mirror that also hasn't had a true purpose in years. The only reason I've kept it all these years, is because it's a family heirloom. Given the amount I loathe my appearance it has been preserved under a sheet that's only removed for periodic dusting. With a nervous nod, I mumble under my breath I can do this, and make my way to the formal dining hall.

  The segregated space is littered with lit candles on the long, wooden table and surrounding serving areas. While I appreciate the dimmed chandeliers, I would actually prefer them completely off to better disguise the dark distinguishing marks haunting my flesh as much as my conscience.

  Almost immediately after I'm settled in my seat, Brynley slips into the one beside me, leaving no more time for deliberations or self-loathing. Any air in the room absconds. A sudden inability to move inhabits my nerves. I simply stare into a set of remarkable blue eyes that don't seem to be filled with judgment or pity while waiting for my paralyzed position to waiver.

  Her glossed lips spread into a wild smirk. “So you really do have one brown eye and one blue.”

  Intrigue battles with babelism over the notion that her attention would naturally settle there rather than the blemishes burned into my flesh. I cautiously nod in response.

  “Kinda hot,” she compliments, eyes still locked with mine. “Never met a guy with both.”

  Her words successfully entice my shoulders into relaxing.

  Brynley leans forward onto one hand and coos, “Next time we have dinner you should wear a blue shirt. It'll bring out the color more.”

  I helplessly grunt. “Next time? How do you know we'll make it through this time?”

  “Because I'm like Pringles baby. Once you pop you can't stop.”

  The comparison releases a laugh from both of us.

  “Look at that,” she teases. “Your laugh is almost as beautiful as your eyes. You should do it more often.”

  I quietly counter, “Keep giving me a reason to and I will.”

  Excitement flashes across her expression while I adjust myself in my seat, surprised by not only what I said but the fact I meant it.

  I drink in the vision she truly is. Her curves are cultivating a thin, loose, black sleeveless dress. Her dark strands are pulled into a messy yet sexy bun on top of her head while her face is free of all makeup except the infamous blue eyeliner and mascara. “You look beautiful by the way. You always look beautiful.”

  The moment the words touch her ears, her fingertips drop to mine where she lightly strokes. “Even better up close, right?”

  My mouth betrays me, “God yes.”

  She giggles victoriously as my cheeks redden. “You regret it taking so long?”

  Part of me does. The other part of me still can't believe I'm presenting her with the opportunity to judge me up close in return. To shame and banish me from further clouding her existence. Knowing that despite the tenderness of her touch, she should hate me, forces my voice to a whisper, “It's not that simple.”

  “It's not that complicated,” she disagrees at the same time we're brought in an assortment of chips and dips to munch on.

  Thankful for a chance to the change the subject, I state, “I wasn't exactly sure what you would be in the moo
d for to start, so I had Lucky gather us an assortment of dips.”

  “I love chips and dip.” Brynley's touch is redirected to a tortilla chip and a longing to be the bread product immediately appears. “What's for dinner?”

  “Lobster mac and cheese.”

  After a small gasp, she announces, “I've never had that before. Which is quite surprising considering it is my all-time favorite food.”

  “I did know that.”

  A look of intrigue coats her bright blues. “How?”

  “Lauren talks a lot about you. One of my favorite stories is how you basically lived off the food from four to six and she had to become inventive with it.”

  She giggles and takes a bite of a chip. “First time she ever got me to eat cauliflower was when she spliced it with my mac and cheese.”

  Still too uneasy to eat anything, I simply follow the path of Brynley's food to the full lips I want to practically beg to touch me.

  “Not a huge lobster fan, but I'll give it a shot. Lucky hasn't failed my taste buds yet.”

  I smile at the comment and continue to listen to her take off on the topic of his cooking. She awes over the basic dishes as well as deluxe that she's had in between telling correlating experiences with them. For the first half an hour our conversation gravitates around a topic I never imagined I would ever find comfort in. Surprisingly enough, the anxiety over the unasked questions and unannounced history gluing us together seems non-existent. It's as if there are no marks on my skin or black spots in my past. I'm normal. Just some random guy who was fortunate enough to be graced with the presence of a brown skinned angel who has a slightly broken halo.

  “Tell me about your parents,” she commands, seconds after the gourmet entre is placed in front of us. “Your father obviously had remarkable taste in cars given the selection rotting away in the garage.”

  “It's not rotting,” I argue. “I make sure to get their engines roaring, keep them clean, and detailed. They were his favorite toys.”

  “And what are yours?” The wiggling of her eyebrows reignites my subdued arousal.

  Pushing past the groan, I answer with a shrug, “Don't really have any. Not anymore.”

  “What did you used to have? What used to get the playboy billionaire's heart pumping?”

  Her follow-up attempt at sexual implication has me too distracted to even care about dinner. “What makes you think I used to be a playboy?”

  “Because I have eyes,” she playfully sneers, scooping up her first bite. “And with ones like yours, a smile that drops panties, and the build of a guy who visits the gym like it's a temple of worship rather than a chore to check off, you couldn't possibly have been anything less.”

  Conflicted between enjoying the sly remarks and loathing them, I press my lips together and simply watch her consume her first taste of the dish. Brynley lets out a long, heated moan while her eyes shut, lost in a celestial experience. Visions of being the reason she repeats those actions begin to bombard themselves into my brain until the desperation to make it a reality becomes too overwhelming. I drop my head and shut my eyes, erotic pictures still tumbling around.

  “Wes,” she whispers.

  The sound causes my cock to stiffen past the point of pain.

  “Are you okay?”

  Under my breath, I mutter, “Define okay.”

  Her fingertips lightly slip with mine. “What's wrong?”

  “You.”

  “What about me?” When I don't respond, she pushes, “What is it about me that makes you feel the need to hide?”

  I keep my eyes shut during my confession. “Everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Brynley, I've spent the last ten years of my life hiding from people. From their stares of horror or less than sympathetic glances. I've spent the last decade shut away for the pain I caused. For the lives lost from my own selfish mistakes.” I give my forehead a brief rub as I prepare to drop the unknown truth. “The scars that cover my skin? They're from the flames that licked my flesh while I listened to the screams of my parents dying, while I listened to the screams of your father dying.”

  Her hand snatches itself away. “What?”

  Refusing to watch the color drain from her gorgeous face or glowing eyes, I shut mine tighter, and continue. “Your father was the pilot the night our plane crashed. Our private pilot had been given the duration of our vacation off, so when I made the demand to leave unexpectedly, we had no choice but to search for another. Your father was the only one willing to fly despite the weather advisement against it. I knew the conditions weren't ideal, but I didn't care. The only thing that mattered to me was getting back home to Samantha. She....she was being hospitalized with the flu. I swore it was my duty to be there. I was her goddamn boyfriend. That's what good boyfriends do, ya know? We're there when you're sick in bed. We're there when you need to go to the doctor and we're damn sure there when you need to go to the hospital. After a heated argument with my father, he caved, and cut our vacation short.” Air abandons my lungs. “It was my fault they were all on that plane. It's my fault your mother became a widow and you...and you....” The end of the sentence doesn't seem possible.

  She quietly questions, “Hiring her wasn't a coincidence, was it?”

  “No.” I clear away the guilt. “I sought her out in an attempt to make the situation right. I had stolen her husband, forced him to give his life for nothing. For some girl who took one look at my disfigurement and bailed.” The bitter memory causes me to shake my head slowly. “I had J.T. do a little digging, being the computer genius he is, he found your mother within a couple days of me asking. I apologized to her face before offering her enough compensation to retire. I was shocked when she refused to take it.”

  There's a small laugh out of her. “Of course she didn't take it. That's not who my mom is.”

  A smile tries to join my face. “No...it's not.”

  “So you countered and gave her a job.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she took it, not because she needed the money, but because she knew you needed her.” The words furrow my eyebrows and Brynley demands, “Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Reluctantly, I do.

  “Wes, my mother is the reason I am the way I am. While she's overwhelmingly supportive, and nauseatingly optimistic at times, she's a firm believer in independence. She believes in a person paving their own path and in a person's ability to fend for themselves. My father spent most of their marriage battling his gambling addiction, which constantly left her in a situation where the only way to survive was to do things on her own. It's the reason she started to teach me to cook at seven and do laundry by eight. She didn't want me to end up in a relationship like hers. Before my father she had spent her entire life being taken care of, so the drastic change the first time he gambled away their savings shifted her decisions. Taught her to raise me to not be lazy or helpless, to be able to fend for myself. My guess is over the past few years while she's been encouraging me to find a way to my calling, she's been encouraging you to rejoin the outside world. Find life again.”

  With my eyes held by hers, I deny, “I don't deserve to. And I know that. I could've had surgeries to remove and replace the skin, but I refused. I wear it as a reminder of who I hurt. The lives lost over one selfish action.” A long deep sigh escapes. “You should hate me. You should hate looking into the eyes responsible for breaking your family. I've done nothing but cause your family pain.”

  All of a sudden Brynley's hand links with mine. The tender action tenses my body. “Unless you personally tampered with the plane, it wasn't your fault. It was just an accident.”

  “But-”

  “No,” she cuts me off. “Sure, you were a pushy 18-year-old, but you were a kid in love. Driven by a desire to be there for the one you loved. And your parents were driven by the love for you to do whatever they could to make you happy. As for my father? He took that job because he wanted to make up for his latest fuck up to my
mother. He was also doing something out of love. Stop punishing yourself and stop living life in vain over it.”

  She uses her free hand to lift her fork and return to eating yet I remain completely still.

  The next few minutes pass in silence as I stare admirably at the unexpected woman who dropped into my life. Most people wouldn't bother trying to see past my selfish decision. Most people would've called me a monster, cursed me, and had me swear to stay away from them. How she can sit there and see the underlying truth about a decade-old demon is beyond remarkable. I swore off dating not only because of the scars but because of how the previous relationship ended. I caused the death of three people trying to get to her and she couldn't bother sticking around long enough for me to get out of the hospital. Being alone seemed safer as well as the smarter decision than ever putting someone's life on the line again.