by Liz Crowe
Austin turned as he was about to head out of the door. “Are you staying at the house?”
“Nope. I wasn’t invited and didn’t think it would be politic to show up for breakfast with the family in my PJs without Trent inviting me.”
“Good call. So you’re at the Inn?” He named the centuries-old set of cabins on Lake Michigan where they’d spent a fair share of summer fucking-around time as boys and teenagers. Their mother now owned half the deed, along with her Fitzgerald in-laws. The place wasn’t used anymore, given how busy Austin and Evelyn were with the brewery and the fact that their closest cousins were west-coast dwellers and had been for several decades. The collection of buildings included one large, genteel but ramshackle main house and four more updated cabins that were managed by a rental company.
“Yeah. I figure it’s about time someone blew the cobwebs off the furniture up there.”
“Watch out for the ghost.”
Brock shot him a thumbs-up. “I’m counting on him for company. I don’t see this as a sleepover sort of weekend for me and the current object of my heart’s desire.”
“Good plan.”
“Give me some credit,” he quipped as he put his work away in his worn backpack. “Go on, Judge-y McJudge Face. I gotta feed the peanut gallery then get on the road. I am invited to a family dinner tonight, I’ll have you know.”
“Good for you, Brock,” Austin said. “I’ll catch up with you at Trent’s house tomorrow.”
The two-and-a-half-hour trip flew by too fast and before he was ready to face it, he was parked in the long driveway in front of Trent’s massive lakefront mansion. Memories of his last trip here filled his head like smog. He’d been sure he and Caroline would make the friends thing work, but of course they hadn’t been able to stay out of each other’s pants. They were both too pre-programmed for that sort of abstinence.
And it had ended here—or rather Caroline had possessed the grownup ability to end it. That had nearly sent him spiraling downward. His typical response—and one that his brother had nipped in the bud, thank Christ.
As he wiped the sweat that had beaded on his face, he resisted the extreme impulse to succumb to the pity party building up steam in his chest. He took several deep breaths, repeating one of the mantras suggested to him by one of his many therapists through the years.
You are in control of you. You are in control of you. You are in control of…
“Fuck,” he spat out, giving the steering wheel a smack and wincing at the pain in his palm. Time to act like a God damned grownup man, Fitzgerald. She’s in there. Kayla—the equally-if-not-more-fucked-up woman who had so compelled him for reasons he couldn’t justify.
The urge to kiss her outside of that stupid bathroom at the restaurant had been so strong. It had seemed perfect. The Old Brock—Mister Ladykiller Himself—would not have hesitated. He’d have gone for it, hard. And the night would have ended badly, to say the least.
The New Brock—Mister Sensitive for Now—had held back and the look of sheer relief on her face had been worth it. Of course, this weekend held all sorts of possibilities. None of which at this precise, sweaty, head-pounding moment seemed very attractive to him.
With a sigh, he climbed out of the car he’d had to park at the end of the long drive behind all the vehicles already stationed here. The afternoon was hot, and the sky was a bright, clear blue. But rain was forecast for the coming days, in a wishy-washy fifty percent way, leaving the wedding party at a loss on what to do about the huge tent they had on standby.
Kayla had texted him earlier.
Poor Mel, she’s sick as a damn dog from the pregnancy, weepy over the potential shitty weather and how Taylor’s behaving. I had to take Miss Thing outside and give her what for just now. I think it helped. I hope so. Trent’s pacing the floors like a caged tiger. Hurry up already. I need some help!
The thought of her needing him, of anyone needing his help with anything, was comforting, so he’d pressed the pedal harder and made it from the brewery in record time. Of course, now he stood here, gawking up at the three-story, arts-and-crafts monstrosity of a lake house, heart racing, feet frozen in place.
“Hey! Fitzgerald!” He jumped at the sound of her voice, then caught sight of her, leaning out of one of the upper windows. “Get your ass in here. Please?” Her smile was so wide and natural-looking he sensed a bit of his tension release.
The realization that they were both caretakers in their souls hit him as he half-ran up the drive to the side door. Odd, considering that junkies were considered to be the worst sort of selfish—the kind that preyed on the people who loved them the most. He’d done his fair share of emotional vampirism, he’d admit that. But his parents had been unwilling to admit that he even had a problem worth addressing beyond grounding him and taking his car keys away. It was as if he had to prove to them that he was, indeed, sick enough to warrant their full attention that drove him to some of his worst deeds.
“Only you can control you,” he muttered as he pulled open the door and headed into the large mudroom off the kitchen. The memories of Caroline tried to take hold again, digging into the frontal cortex of his brain with raptor’s claws and forcing him to stop and grip the high granite countertop to steady himself. If he closed his eyes, he could see her, hear her, smell her as her memory ghost moved around the giant kitchen he was staring at now.
She was and always would be a part of him, a physical extension of himself in a way, but one that was toxic, like an appendix gone bad. And he was an even worse vestigial organ for her—he was her addiction as she’d said so many times. He was her crack. In some ways, even harder to beat than his own, first to booze, then to sex, then to opiates. Because no matter how shitty he’d treated her—and he’d been forced to face up to some real doozies in that department—she couldn’t not come to him whenever he’d call or text or show up at her door in whatever state of wrecked he might be.
“Hey, it’s about time.” His eyes flew open at the sound of Kayla’s voice. He was shaking when he ran a hand down his face, but he pulled it together and smiled at her, relieved at her interruption. “What’s wrong?” She moved close to him, too close. He could smell her—something so opposite of Caroline that it turned his mild shivers into tremors. Sunscreen and lake water and sand filled his senses but with an undercurrent of something that was everything Kayla. A sort of vanilla-infused spice with the mildest hint of sweat. “Brock? Do you need some water?”
He closed his eyes against the urge to grab her, shove her up against the wall of this stupid room and fuck her so he could shove Caroline out of his damn head once and for all. Unfair. Unfair to Kayla, but also to him and to the now-absent old girlfriend.
To his surprise, when he opened his eyes and took the cool glass from her, his body didn’t do its usual lurch into over-the-top horny. He downed the water. Kayla held out her hand and he gave it back to her. Her thin but striking face was tan—she’d been here for almost a week of near-perfect weather already. Her hazel eyes were shaded more green than brown in contrast to the bronzed tint of her skin. When she reached out and put her fingertips to his cheek, he blinked, expecting the usual surge of inappropriate desire. But his brain remained in charge, and his skin prickled at her touch.
“Thanks,” he croaked out.
She nodded, turned back to the sink to refill the glass then returned. He took in the filmy sundress, the bikini top straps around her neck, her bare feet with their pink-painted toenails. As if to test his tenuous, new-found self-control, he shifted to one side so he could appreciate the way the sun’s angle backlit her figure. After a quick twinge below his belt, he moved back to where he’d been and downed the water, berating himself for being so craven. Even as he congratulated himself for how normal he felt.
Any red-blooded, healthy man would see a beautiful woman in a bikini not very well covered by a thin dress and get that below-the-belt twinge. Any normal guy. Could it be? Had he conquered that demon? He cast his mind back to the many post-
meeting lunches and dinners they’d shared, laughing and joking and eating and being…regular people. He’d never once, until that last time, given any thought to her body, or how she’d feel, smell or taste. Which was at odds with how he’d operated for so long he realized now that he should have noticed.
But he hadn’t. He’d enjoyed her pleasant, snarky, intelligent company. Her beauty had not been lost on him. Any man who claimed that was a flat-out lying asshole. But he hadn’t required all his willpower not to leap over whatever table lay between them, to kiss her, feel her, inside and out. Not once.
The sight of her now filled him with something else. A sort of peaceful happiness—as if now, together, they could conquer this super-stressful weekend together and have some fun doing it.
She had to peel his fingers from around the empty water glass to get it away from him. “Better now? Or do you need some more time?”
He nodded. “I’m good. Seriously. Thanks.”
“This place will do that to you.” She tilted her head, which made a lock of her dark hair slip from the messy bun.
Without thinking, he reached for it, tucked it behind her ear, noting the sweet flush under her tan. Again, he didn’t get that sick testosterone and adrenaline-fueled compulsion to shove her to the floor and stick his dick in her just for the mental and emotional relief it might offer. All he wanted was to hold her in his arms.
She didn’t move as he let his fingers trail across her shoulder, which were red and peeling, and exposed by the dress. He watched his own hand, fascinated by it, as it moved down the arm she kept clasped tight to her body, concealing what he knew to be thick scar tissue from her years of cutting. Her skin was pleasantly warm under his palm as he cupped her elbow and tugged her close. She only hesitated a moment, as if sensing his need for her proximity.
“It’s all right,” she whispered as she slipped her arms around his waist.
“I know,” he agreed as he pressed his face into her hair, half-worried his body might betray him. He did get that twinge again but he kept a firm mental grip and allowed himself this surprising, tender moment. She felt fragile, bird-like, as if her bones contained air or smoke. And that gave him the strength he needed to keep his dick at parade rest, although the sensation of her breasts smashed against his chest made that a bit of a challenge. A normal challenge—like a healthy man might face when holding a woman in his arms.
She pulled away first, leaning back and raising one eyebrow at him. “You good now? Because I need your help with the circus out there.”
He smiled and let himself have a brief brush of his lips along hers. She stiffened. But he didn’t go any further. He knew she wasn’t ready for anything more, yet. He was eager to explore the parameters of this new way of feeling—of being turned on but not so much so that it felt out of control. Of being happy just to be in a woman’s presence, to be of use to her and her family, with the knowledge that more could—and very like would—develop later.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling away from her, but noting how she swayed in his direction for a few seconds. “Come on. Let me survey the damage.”
“Da-aaaaaaad! I told you she…” The loud cry of an unhappy teenager filled the air before trailing off. Followed by a matching, loud masculine roar of indistinct, angry words.
Kayla sighed and rolled her eyes. “I told you. This weekend is going to end in bloody murder before it ends in a wedding, I swear to God.”
Chapter Sixteen
Kayla stretched out on the couch, letting the murmurs of the others in the room soothe her. Brock’s burst of laughter made her smile even as she half-dozed. He’d been so amazing over the past twenty-four hours, jumping straight into the fray and forcing Trent out of the house and down the beach for a long, punishing run within minutes of his arrival. Then that first night, cracking jokes with Ross and Elle, who’d been put in charge of the food and booze for the weekend. He’d even forced a smile and one giggle out of Taylor, which had raised his positive points quotient for Trent, she knew.
Tonight, the night before the wedding, they’d all jumped into playing cards while the staff Trent had insisted on hiring did the cleaning up after the family dinner. When she’d realized she and Brock were going to be left alone once everyone else made their way upstairs to their rooms, she’d flushed hot as that odd rush of nervousness-tinged anticipation had filled every corner of her being. She’d decamped to the couch, thinking she’d go to sleep, her typical evasion measure. But it eluded her so she’d gotten up without saying anything to him and headed into the kitchen, wishing there were something for her to do. But it was sparkling clean and ready for the big day.
She stood in the doorway, watching Brock as he sat, feet up on the large leather ottoman, sipping some kind of herbal tea Elle had made for them all “to help them sleep.” The sudden realization that she wasn’t at all nervous or scared made Kayla square her shoulders and march herself back out into the living room, change the tunes to something mellow and bluesy and flop into one of the big chairs opposite the couch. When she put her feet up on the ottoman, their toes touched. Neither of them flinched away.
“I’d give my left nut for a joint right now,” Brock said, surprising her at first. She sighed and crossed her arms behind her head, stretching her legs out and relishing the tingling of her skin from her days in the sun. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be. Me? I might commit murder for a bottle of Pinot Noir and a cigarette. I’m feeling mellow tonight.”
He chuckled but kept his gaze up at the ceiling. “You weren’t kidding about the trauma drama. Jesus, please-us.” He ran a hand down his face and drank the last of his tea. “It sucks, thinking I’ll never be past any of this.”
“Junkies for life,” she said, parroting one of the many phrases they were taught. One is never ‘cured’ of addiction. One simply ‘lives with it’. Or not, as the case may be. A brief memory of the dead woman and the smelly, squalling, helpless little girl wafted across her consciousness. She shuddered and closed her eyes.
“Indeed,” Brock said. The silence between them felt soft, quiet and natural.
When the music changed to something she loved—Stand by Me, the original version by Ben E. King—she opened her eyes and found Brock standing to her left, his hand held out. She frowned, but his grin did its usual number on her nerve endings, making her think and do things she’d never, ever believed would be a part of her life. His palm was warm and calloused against hers as she let him pull her to her feet.
“We’re doing this now?” she asked as she molded herself against him as if she’d been doing it for years. The sensation of his firm body next to hers soothed her, as it had done the day before when he’d walked into the house in the middle of an anxiety attack.
“Yes, I think we are,” he said. One of his hands found the small of her back. The fingers of his other hand threaded through hers. The music filled most of her soul. Brock Fitzgerald—fellow junkie and hot mess extraordinaire—consumed the rest of it. “This is nice.” His breath blew the straggling hair that had sprung free from her ponytail. She was beyond exhausted, emotionally and otherwise. But she’d never felt more alive.
“Yes,” she admitted. “It is.” They danced together in the empty living room to the soft music until the song ended. One of her other favorite songs dropped into the playlist—At Last, sung by Etta James.
“Don’t let go of me yet, if you don’t mind,” Brock said, putting a bit of pressure with his hand on her back. Kayla had always wondered what it might feel like to be in this position, held by a man who wanted nothing more from her. He sighed into her hair. “I’m not trying to go too fast here or anything. I hope you don’t mind. It just feels so great, holding you like this.”
She sighed into his chest, wondering if she might be inhabiting some kind of a dream state. But reality intervened and the song ended. Something lame she couldn’t even identify filled the air so she disentangled herself and headed for the phone that controlled th
e sound track. When she turned around, tugging her hair back into its utilitarian ponytail, he was standing where she’d left him, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets. “I’m ready,” she said as Bob Dylan’s Tangled Up in Blue filled the large room. She waited, unsure what to do next, realizing the full extent of her non-knowledge, her sick, fundamental dysfunction and wishing she’d kept her stupid mouth shut.
“Nice song,” he said, not moving either. “One of my favorites.”
She nodded and started fussing with her hair, nervousness making her pulse race. By the time he’d made it across the room and stood in front of her, she understood that all her skin tingling had nothing to do with nervousness. He was humming under his breath as the few centimeters separating them seemed charged in a way that made the small hairs on her arms stand at attention.
She fixed her gaze on the front of his shirt—a pale blue polo-style that hugged his muscular torso and upper arms, emphasizing his strength and giving her the oddest sensation deep in her belly. A sort of liquid gooiness, not unlike the melting ice cream they’d shared so many times, arguing over anything and everything, from the legitimacy of bananas in dessert to that week’s political news. Her arms rose, seemingly of their own accord and her hands explored the firm terrain of his chest.
He cupped both her elbows and let her touch him. She stroked the incredible real estate of his torso, in wonder at his physical perfection. In their bare feet, he stood tall enough that she had to rise up on her tiptoes, but as she did it, she realized that she was making the first move. At the initial touch of her lips to his, she flinched, unsure of what to do next but already loving the sensation.
The full sensory experience of the moment overwhelmed her. The smells—sunscreen and outdoors—were so healthy, and ones she’d forever associate with him. Her first kiss, she thought, closing her eyes when he slid his hands up her arms, across her shoulders and alongside her face. He kept his lips closed, letting her do the exploring and ongoing first-moving but he angled his face the right way, alleviating her momentary confusion over what to do with their noses.
