Nothing But Trouble (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 2)

by Lindsey Pogue

  “What?” she asks, completely oblivious.

  I want nothing more than to point out to her what I’ve been having to deal with the past five months, but instead I reach for a bottle of wine my mom sent me for my birthday. It’s no doubt expensive given the gaudy, golden etched label.

  I pull the bottle out of the mostly empty wine rack. “Is red wine okay?” I search the junk drawer for a bottle opener. I’m not sure I’ve used it since I moved in.

  “Yeah, that’s perfect, thanks.”

  I peel the casing off with a knife and take my time with the cork. Finally, it comes out with a suctioned pop.

  “You don’t strike me as much of a wine drinker,” she says. I can hear the amusement in her voice. When I glance behind me, she’s smirking. “But you did that surprisingly well.”

  “I, ah, have a mother who loves wine,” I say, recalling my earlier years as a troubled teen. “Needless to say, I opened some of her most coveted bottles as an underage, delinquent kid.” I pour us both a half a glass.

  “I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

  “You’re not?” I chuckle and hand Mac her glass.

  “Thank you,” she says, wide-eyed and waiting for me to take mine in hand. “Cheers.” We clink our glasses together, not breaking eye contact for a single moment, and take a sip.

  When she heads back toward the living room, she stops at the Christmas tree. I watch her profile, appreciating the way her hair falls down past her shoulder blades and remembering how soft and silky it feels between my fingers and the scar on her back that she seemed to want to hide.

  Her silhouette against the tree is breathtaking as she reaches out and touches the pine needle fringe. “Are you pleased with the tree?” she asks, admiring the paper chain she and Casey made. She’s beaming, and when she looks at me and her smile broadens, I almost forget to answer her.

  “Uh, it’s one of the most pitiful trees I’ve ever had,” I say, truthful. It’s full in some places and pathetically lonely in others. “But yes, it’s perfect.”

  “Casey picked a good one.” Mac turns to me, oblivious to anything going on inside my head. “What are you going to get her for Christmas?”

  I’m prepared to make a joke and then wonder if I’m actually being serious as I consider my options. “It crossed my mind that maybe she’d actually prefer purple fingernail polish to anything I was going to make or buy her.” I shake my head because my five-year-old daughter wants to paint her fingernails now, and it’s only a matter of time until it’s makeup and shaving her legs. Then boys.

  I sit down on the couch with a groan. “I can see it now. Not only will we be watching The Little Mermaid on our weekends together, but we’ll be painting each other’s fingernails while we’re at it. She’s already asked me if she could play with my hair.” I give Mac a sidelong glance. “Of course I let her.”

  “Of course you did.” Mac grins and takes a sip from her glass. “That’s because you’re a good father.” She comes to sit down beside me. “My dad’s a softy at heart, too.” Her smile broadens. “He let me play with his hair a couple times, and he’s not opposed to clear fingernail polish.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Tattoos, hair pins, and nail polish. Oh, the visuals.”

  She pulls one leg beneath her and tucks the blanket over her lap again. “So, is that what you needed my advice about? Nail polish colors?” Her voice is soft and I wonder how exhausted she must be with everything going on in her life right now. I find myself wondering if she’s talked to her mom and if she’s any closer to getting her own place. I don’t like the emptiness that fills me at the thought.

  I shake my head. “My mom wants me to bring Casey to San Francisco to visit her.” It sounds like a ridiculous problem to have the instant I say it.

  Mac looks down at her wineglass, thoughtfully swirling its contents. “I got the impression from Casey that she doesn’t see her grandparents much.”

  “My parents are—different than me. And my dad and I—we don’t get along well. In fact, I haven’t seen him since he told me he was tired of being disappointed, and I left.” I lean my head back on the cushion. “I saw my mom off and on when I was living in SF, but not since we moved here.”

  “Are you worried about how your dad will treat Casey?”

  I stare at the drips of wine, easing their way back down into the glass. “No, he’s not really a violent or mean man. I guess I’m more apprehensive about seeing him for the first time in nearly seven years and what that will be like. I don’t want Casey to be uncomfortable or witness what our unhealthy relationship looks like.”

  “Are things that bad between you?”

  I laugh bitterly. “My dad thinks I’m a fuckup. And that was just the last time I saw him. He’s got a lot more ammo now.”

  Mac’s silent too long and I look at her from the corner of my eye. The way she wears incredulity is enough to make me feel like the biggest of fools. “You have a stable job, a nice apartment, you’re a good dad … you’re in Casey’s life, Colton. Not all kids can say that about their parents. What part of all of that says fuckup to you?” Her expression shadows and she frowns.

  “It’s taken me a long time to get here,” I say, recalling dark, unwanted memories of a brokenhearted kid who did desperate things to make the pain go away. It inevitably almost killed me. “I stopped caring much about anything for a while.”

  “The accident.”

  Her expression houses a hundred questions she’s burning to ask. I appreciate her willpower to keep them to herself now more than ever.

  “The scars,” Mac whispers, and for some reason the emotion I hear in her voice makes my stomach drop and the memories come rushing back, more vividly than usual. The shame. The anger I felt for my parents for making me feel like less of a person, unworthy of them; my anger towards Kylie, and my own self-loathing.

  That day was so long ago, but I still remember the insatiable itch to do something to distract myself, the need for fear and fury and to drive faster. The naïve notion that I didn’t care what happened. They wanted to be disappointed, so I did my best to show them just how disappointed they could be.

  “You think about death differently after you’ve felt it creeping in on you,” I say, staring at nothing in particular. “I didn’t care if I died that day, that is until I realized my clothes were covered in flames and I wasn’t just going to die, I was going to burn to death.” The sharp scent of charred flesh is branded in my memory. “My dad never even came to see me in the hospital.” I look down at my right palm, flexing my hand into a fist, feeling the muscles twist and turn, the scars moving on my skin. “I’m not sure his sentiments could get much clearer than that.”

  Malcom’s big, toothy smile and kind hazel eyes flash to memory. “I got the tattoos because I was ashamed of the scars and my stupidity.”

  “Do they mean something?” Mac’s voice is quiet but stirs me back to now, to Mac and me, sitting in the living room together. To her.

  I clear my throat. “Malcom, the guy who owned the shop I was working at during the time, was Maori. He told me to wear my scars with pride and as a reminder of how strong I am—and who I’ve had to be to become who I am. I just wanted to cover up my scars, so he designed the tattoo for me.”

  She watches me a moment, measuring her thoughts or perhaps what she’s going to say next, then she shuts her eyes and parts her lips. “The scar on my back is from my brother, David.”

  I’ve never heard any of them talk about David, but I already don’t like him.

  “At the risk of sounding like a sixth grader, if I tell you something,” she starts tentatively, “do you promise to never tell a living soul?”

  I stare into her eyes for a few breaths and recognize the vulnerability reflected in them. I nod, my heartbeat quickening for a moment as I brace myself for whatever comes next.

  “I was a junior in high school and track practice was cancelled.” She twists her wineglass around and around, stud
ies her fingernails—anything to keep from looking at me. “I got home earlier than usual from school, and David was home; he’s three years older than me and was supposed to be at work, but he had a group of friends over instead. Sean was there.”

  Mac pauses, and when she looks at me my body tenses. “He’s the one,” she says, and I know immediately what she’s referring to. “He was an asshole, I knew that, but David let him flirt with me and say inappropriate things all the time—he acted like he didn’t care at all that his friend treated me like I was just some random chick he could demoralize and harass every time I walked by him. Now, when I look back, it’s obvious David was always high or drunk, but at the time, I just knew he was a horrible brother who’d always treated me like crap, and I knew I didn’t deserve any of it. I wanted to hurt him, the way he always hurt me, but it backfired.” Her cheeks redden and she takes a sip from her glass.

  “The moment I let Sean touch me, I regretted it. I hated everything about him—he was the worst type of guy—but at the same time I didn’t have the guts to stop it.” She cringes, and it’s all I can do to stay seated and control my disbelief and anger and hatred for a guy I’ve never met. I set my glass down so I don’t crush it in my hand.

  “David walked into the garage, and I got what I wanted. He was furious.” She glances up at me. “He beat the crap out of Sean. Then, he came after me. I ran upstairs, but he caught me outside my room. He pushed me so hard I fell back—cut my shoulder open on the corner of the chest at the end of my bed. When he heard the smack and saw the blood, he snapped out of it.” I see the distance in her eyes turn to shimmering memories I can almost feel, and an incomprehensible hatred fills me. “My dad doesn’t know that I’m the reason David left that day, and it’s because of me and what I did that he’s barely been home since.”

  Adrenaline hums through me, and I lean forward. The last thing I want to do is upset her more, but the fact that Cal is ignorant about what happened to his own daughter is almost too much to swallow. “He doesn’t know about any of it?”

  Her gaze drifts to mine. “No one does. Not even Sam.” Before I can say anything else, hurried words fall from her lips. “It doesn’t matter that it was my fault, he would’ve killed Sean, I know it. My dad would be in jail if he’d found out and then what would’ve happened to us? My mom was gone. I begged David not to tell him. Plus, I was too ashamed. Just knowing that David knew made me hate myself even more; I didn’t want my dad to think about any of that every time he looked at me.” Mac’s pointed stare is striking and wraps around me. I can actually feel her anger and resolve. “And I also know that if I would’ve let David tell my dad, he might’ve stayed.”

  “I doubt it,” I say. I can’t help it. The words are as calm as I can manage, but I have to look away from her.

  “Now who’s the disappointment?” she asks.

  “Are you serious right now, Mac? He should’ve protected you. He’s your fucking brother.”

  Her expression is unchanging. “Yeah, and when he saw what was happening, he did. He could’ve killed Sean. And that would’ve been on my conscience, too.”

  “What does Cal think happened to your back?”

  “He thinks I hurt myself at track practice, jumping over one of the hurdles. I was clumsy enough, so it was easy to convince him.” An incredulous look blankets her face. “I don’t remember it hurting, strangely enough, even though I had to get stitches.” With a humorless smile, she shakes her head. “So, if you’re a fuckup, then I am too.” Her cheek twitches and her smile falls.

  I shake my head. “That’s different—”

  “Would you have had Casey if you’d made different decisions?”

  The question surprises me, and I stare at her. “I don’t know, probably not.”

  “Then it sounds like you had to go through what you did to get here,” Mac says easily. “Just like for some fucked-up reason, I went through what I did, so that maybe I would meet you.”

  “And how do you figure that?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe if I didn’t have this mental block around guys, I’d have a boyfriend right now or be married already. Maybe I wouldn’t be working at my dad’s shop, and I never would’ve met you.”

  I study her a moment, watching the way her eyes assess me and the way she’s lost in some thought I cannot see. She sets her wineglass down on the table and leans closer. “Even though it makes me sort of sick that you know, it feels good to finally tell someone,” she admits.

  My heart climbs up into my throat, and I watch as Mac reaches for my tatted arm. When she pushes up my sleeve, my arm tenses. Her fingertips traverse the swirls and shapes inked on my arm and I have to catch my breath. Everything about her makes me feel alive, and the simple brush of her soft fingers against my skin is no exception. I revel in the moment, so chaste and disarming; I shut my eyes to memorize the sensation.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually, the pressure of her fingers disappears and, slowly, I open my eyes. Her lightly freckled nose is mere inches from mine, and the green in her eyes pulls me in, beckoning me to stay in this moment with her forever. “So,” she says. Her voice is almost too quiet to hear. “What are you going to do?”

  “Kiss you,” I breathe and lean into her. The shadows of the past that darkened the mood before are long gone. My mouth covers hers and I taste her tongue, warm and tannic against mine. I breathe her in, savoring every scent and absorbing every sensation, before I pull away. It’s been so long since I’ve had this—any of this. A connection with someone. The desire to share myself and give every inch of who I am away, even for just a single moment. I want her, to feel her beneath me and in my arms, but I want to protect her, too. I want her to feel safe and to know that whatever happens between us, I will never hurt her.

  Forty-Six

  Mac

  Colton leads me into his bedroom and stops beside the bed. It’s cooler in here, away from the fireplace, but the brisk air feels good against my heated skin. I can barely catch my breath, and it’s not just the promise of what is to come—not just the excitement and yearning for him.

  We kiss. Our tongues tangle, and he tastes like smoke and cherries. He holds me in the protective embrace of his arms, like he’ll never let me go, and I know that this is different than the other night. It feels like a promise more than a claiming—a declaration that maybe we can be more than what we’ve been. That everything is different now.

  Playfully, I lick his mouth and step away, leaving him to groan in my absence. I pull off my sweatshirt and let it fall to my feet. I step out of my pants, leaving them in a discarded puddle on the floor.

  When I register Colton’s eyes, wide and appraising as they scour me in the moon shadows, my heart begins to race. Standing in front of him without the craze of movements and the flurry of limbs groping and tangling, I take a step forward and give myself to him.

  “You’re perfect, Mac,” he says in awe, and leans in for a gentle, unhurried kiss.

  My eyes close of their own accord, and my arms wrap around his neck. My nails rake up his neck and into his hair as I press myself against him, needing to feel his heartbeat and warmth.

  His lips graze the skin beneath my jaw… his tongue trails the length of my neck and he kisses my shoulder … my collarbone. When he pulls my hips into him, the bulge of his pants hits me just so, and I can’t help but whimper. The pressure of my bare breasts rising and falling against his chest—the proximity and heat of our bodies—makes my body tremble with need. And the moment I feel his fingertip brush one of my nipples, I gasp and rest my forehead against his. I peer down at his clothed body.

  “That’s not fair,” I murmur. I want to explore Colton the way I wasn’t able to in the shower.

  Unzipping his jeans, I look up at him. His eyes are glazed over and dark, but focused on me. He cups one of his palms against my cheek, crushing his lips against mine as I tug his pants down, then his boxers before I remove his shirt.

  “That’s b
etter,” I purr. The need to mesmerize every part of him is so strong, patience is lost on me. Necessity takes over completely, vanquishing every trepidation, every lingering fear and uncertainty.

  Colton’s eyes widen and a wolfish grin parts his lips as I push him back onto the mattress and crawl up onto the bed and straddle him. I press my lips to his neck, let my hands wander and explore the planes of his chest. I take my time, building my momentum, refusing to let this be a crazed blur.

  When his greedy hands grab at my hips, I shake my head. “Patience,” I say and press my lips to his. He groans against my mouth as I force his hands back down on the mattress above his head. My fingertips trail from his sternum to his abdomen and lower, and when a growl rumbles in his chest, my tongue quickly follows.

  Forty-Seven

  Mac

  “Can we turn this whiny crap off?” my dad asks, leaning over to change the station. He’s always been a rock ’n’ roll man, but my country music preference should be no surprise to him.

  I purse my lips and raise an eyebrow. “You’re in my car, you know. And you insisted on coming with me.”

  “That’s because I’m your father, and I have every intention of you finding a safe, decent place to live.” He turns the heater down, too.

  “Your confidence in me is overwhelming.” Although I enjoy giving him a hard time, the truth is it’s nice to have him with me. This town is so small and the options are slim, at least when it comes to the combination of needs on my list: affordable, safe, clean, good landlord, utilities included …

  “You liked the last studio,” he says, gruff and judgmental, like that explains everything. “You shouldn’t even be considering it.”

  Obviously he disapproves, but he hasn’t been looking at what I’ve been looking at the past couple weeks. “I didn’t say I loved it, I said it’s not bad, considering.”