Gravity

by Liz Crowe

  His warm, rough palms felt so wonderful alongside her cheeks. Her heart pounded a drumbeat and all she could hear when she traced the closed seam of his lips with her tongue was a loud whooshing noise. It drowned out everything. That, along with the realization that her entire body was flushed, alive and flowing with the blood her eager heart was pumping faster than ever through her veins, she pressed further, breaching his lips and sensing his slight shiver when she did so.

  It was odd, this kiss, but more perfect than anything she’d ever experienced. Her mind was a blessed blank, free of any ugly memories or horrible words she used to hear while men hurt her. She’d been worried that the moment she allowed herself to be physically intimate with Brock, her past would invade her consciousness and ruin it. But all she knew was him—his lips, the sound of his breathing, the way one of his hands moved down to the small of her back so their bodies were now pressed close, no light or air between them. There was nothing more or less than this, and him.

  She relaxed, wrapping her arms around his neck. He inhaled through his nose, surprising her, but she felt his tongue against hers then which eclipsed everything in her entire universe. Her whole body was alive, every nerve dancing, every muscle and sinew on high alert. She opened her mouth wider, and shivered so hard at the sensation of it, of part of him being in a part of her now even if it were only his tongue. He had to grip her tighter to keep her from sliding to the floor.

  Her mind continued to fuzz over as her skin got hotter, almost too hot to bear. She could tell he was holding back, not pushing her, letting her set the pace. At that moment, she acknowledged the full range of her feelings for him. When she probed farther into his mouth, feeling rather than hearing the low moan coming from somewhere deep in his chest, something seemed to burst in her, lighting her from the inside out at the thought that he wanted her. Despite her ugly history, the way she’d been used like some kind of a pre-pubescent sex doll.

  No, stop, she commanded herself. Don’t think of it. Don’t go there. Be here, with Brock. This man, kissing you as if his life depended on it.

  She believed that she could taste his need for more, to push harder, to go deeper. She broke away, sad at the disconnection but feeling like she should say something. He sighed and pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her tight. She realized that he was trembling as much as she was. That he was confused and excited by it too—Brock Fitzgerald, the ladies’ man, super-hot, flirt machine was shaking in her arms right now. And his lips…dear Lord help her, she wondered what he’d think about her if she admitted how perfect he made her feel with something as simple as a kiss.

  “Damn, woman,” he said with a small smile.

  She closed her eyes, relishing the moment even as the absolute understanding that it would never be more than this rushed in to smother her happiness. She’d never have a normal sex life. All she knew was pain, ugliness and filth. Her brain seemed to open up, to overflow with the horror of her childhood years.

  She wrenched herself out of his arms and backed away, hand to her lips, tears burning her eyes. It was as if a faucet had opened up wide, busting past a kink in her mental garden hose, flooding her senses with sights and sounds and smells. All the sex she’d been forced to have well before a little girl should be worrying about anything other than which of her friends she wanted to invite to her next sleepover.

  “Kayla, don’t.” Brock’s voice tried to break through the wall of noise in her head. But she kept backing away from him, loath to put the space there, but knowing it was best for them both. “I didn’t mean to…”

  She held up a hand. “It’s not you, Brock,” she said as tears spilled down her face. “I’m sorry.” She turned and ran up the stairs, willing the old memories gone, wishing the newest ones—the ones involving Brock’s arms, his lips, his strong, safe body pressed against hers—to the front. But it was useless. She was full to bursting again. Her skin was tight and painful. She needed something to release the pain, to distract her from all of it.

  She ran into her bedroom, blind with remembered agony. The pills she’d started taking had blunted things for a while but had sent her spiraling down a different path, one she now wished she’d had the guts to finish. Death from overdose would be easier than this—this shit show of complicated emotions that had sent her rushing away from Brock.

  She dropped to all fours and crawled the last few feet, reaching under the sink where she’d put her supply—the things she never allowed herself to be without, even if she didn’t use them. Her fingers closed around the small plastic bag, which sent a jolt of sick relief down her spine. The memories faded as she sat with her back to the giant soaking tub, one of the many amenities bought and paid for by her successful baby brother and now part of her life.

  Just holding the bag of razor blades, antiseptic ointment and gauze bandages calmed her for a few minutes. Her breathing slowed. Her pulse rate dropped to a semi-normal rhythm. Her hand was curled so tightly around the bag she felt the edge of the razors, which touched off the part of her that had sent her up here in the first place.

  Fingers shaking, she opened the bag and pulled out the blade, letting the other stuff spill onto her lap. It was a familiar tableau, and one she understood, unlike the terrifying moment downstairs when she’d believed that she wanted more from Brock. That she’d allow him to touch her, to make love to her like a regular person. A low groan escaped her chapped lips. She fumbled with the razor, holding it in the usual way. The light from her bedroom caught the metal, sending a reflective shard into her eyes.

  “Don’t,” she heard herself say. “Don’t do this. Go back to Brock. He’s your anchor now, not this.” But before she knew it, she had the lethal end pressed into the tangle of scars on the inside of her upper right arm. The release…she craved it, required it, it would make her better. Cutting the ugly out of herself, giving herself the pain that had been part of her life for so many years.

  “No,” she said, even as she saw the blood speckle the business end of the blade. “No…oh…God,” she sighed and leaned her head back as the endorphin rush her body had been trained to experience at the sight and sensation of her own blood running down her arm made her groan. Her body pulsed with that weird energy she didn’t understand but welcomed because it shut out the yammering ghosts of memory—including the one of Brock’s face when she’d bolted from him earlier.

  “No,” a voice said as she relaxed into it. She wondered if she were still talking but didn’t care. The release—the relief—was so great, she didn’t want it to end. “No,” she heard again. Her eyes were so heavy, she couldn’t keep them open. The blood was warm as it oozed into her open palm.

  “No, God damn it, Kayla, I won’t let you do this.”

  Shocked, she found herself nose to nose with Trent. He was on his knees, prying the razor from her fingers. His eyes—so much like hers it was like staring into the mirror—were dark with worry.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching for him but finding herself too depleted from the hormonal, adrenaline rush of her encounter with Brock followed by the blood-letting she’d engineered for herself. “Oh, T… I am so sorry. I’m ruining your weekend.”

  “Shut up and let me get this bleeding stopped already.”

  She flopped back. Her head felt like a giant bowling ball, too heavy for her neck to support. She watched as if from miles away as he used a warm cloth to clean up her arm and hand, his touch gentle, his expression intent and non-judgmental. “Hold this,” he said, pressing a dry cloth to the fresh cut. She did as he told her, while he wiped the floor clean.

  She sensed herself fading, falling, entering the blessed empty blank space where she didn’t have to constantly be fighting all the demons. She saw him then, sensed his presence, tasted his lips, felt his arms around her. “Brock, I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out for him.

  “What did you say?” Trent’s harsh voice near her ear jolted her back to consciousness. “Kayla, answer me. Did he…do somet
hing to you? Make you want to hurt yourself?” She touched her brother’s clenched jaw. He jerked out of her reach. “Don’t make me ask him, K. Tell me what happened.”

  She watched as he smeared the new wound with ointment and bandaged it, before he dropped down next to her with a low moan. “God damn it, if that Fitzgerald punk put a hand on you…”

  “No, Trent. It’s not… He didn’t, I mean… We, um…shit.”

  Her brother jumped up, his eyes blazing, his hands balled into fists. “I knew it. I knew he couldn’t be trusted. I don’t care how great you and Melody tell me he is.”

  “Wait, don’t.” She tried to get up but stumbled. Trent caught her, picked her all the way up and carried her to the bed. “Brock isn’t…” But she was so fucking tired. All she wanted was to close her hot eyes and drop into oblivion for a few hours. “He’s…”

  “Sh, K. It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.”

  A soft blanket covered her. Trent touched her cheek. Kayla tried like hell to struggle past the looming fog, to tell him what happened so he didn’t misunderstand. But it pulled at her, whispering sweet nothings, and the last thing she remembered for a while was Trent, promising her he’d “take care of everything.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Nice move, Fitzgerald,” Brock muttered at himself as he watched Kayla scurry up the steps like a scared little kid. “Jesus.” He felt boneless, cored out and empty in a way that confused him. Finding the leather chair right before his knees gave out and left him on the floor, he blew out a breath as he sat.

  He felt as if he were moving in super slow-mo. His arms weighed a thousand pounds each as he raised one hand to touch his lips, reliving their incredible kiss only a few minutes ago. He’d been blown away by it. Even as he’d let her take the lead on purpose, knowing that if he came on too strong she’d bolt.

  And heaven help him, she’d done it. She’d pressed those soft, perfect lips to his and his entire universe had exploded behind his eyes. The simple act of kissing a woman had never affected him that way, except maybe the first few times he’d experienced it. The kissing bit had always been a pleasant enough pre-tune to the foreplay for him. Something he’d prided himself on, knowing that women used phrases like ‘toe curling’ and ‘panty melting’ about that stage with him.

  But damn Sam she’d taken him by such surprise he couldn’t tell which end was up for a few seconds. She’d tasted of chamomile and vanilla, with a back bite of cinnamon. Her small tongue had probed, uncertain, while she’d been unsure where to put her hands at first, keeping them pressed between them until he’d gotten a hold of himself and pulled her into his arms, where she belonged.

  From that moment, when he’d held her so close he could feel her heart pounding against his chest, he’d been done for, a goner, ass over teakettle. Her lips were so sweet, her slim body perfect, he’d almost lost his mind. But again, it was in what he considered to be a normal way.

  Sure, he’d popped a woody. What normal man wouldn’t have? But it didn’t come with the painful urgency that he’d always associated with his typical sexually aroused state. He didn’t want to shove a hand up her skirt, or to cup her breasts or clutch her ass. He’d wanted, simply, to kiss her. To put her at her ease in a slow, easy-going way that was so at odds with his usual M.O. it made him dizzy even now.

  He swallowed hard and glared at the ceiling, ignoring that fact that his erection was still straining his zipper. He pondered this new-found control as his body worked its way down off the horny edge in a way that didn’t piss him off, or make him reach down and jack off so he could breathe. He found that he could breathe just fine. His heart was steady, not racing. His face devoid of the cold sweat that always accompanied arousal.

  As he smiled, figuring that it had been a decent start anyway, even if she’d freaked out at the end, he let himself drift. It had been a damn long day—chock full of drama and, in his case, deflection and redirection. The meal had been delicious, although the company had still been strained, thanks to the teenager’s chokehold on everyone’s emotions.

  But they’d made it through two solid days of stress and tomorrow the wedding part would be accomplished, despite Taylor Hettinger’s ongoing attempts at sabotage. And he had just kissed the woman he was starting to believe might be the elusive soulmate, despite all their combined thousand-pounds worth of baggage. He chuckled under his breath at the concept, and wandered out onto the deck that spanned the entire width of the house. The tiki torch flames were flickering in the breeze that had picked up in the last hour, so he went around and extinguished them all, his body still languid with anticipated satisfaction, his mind a smooth blank slate.

  As he was about to take a seat on one of the cushy lounge chairs, thinking outdoors here might be as good a place as any to sleep, he heard a bizarre, almost animal growl behind him. He turned and caught the full force of a left hook to his nose from nowhere. It sent him spinning backward, where he collided with the deck railing with a loud grunt of pain. At first, he believed that someone had broken into Trent’s mansion and was assaulting him first since he was the only one downstairs.

  He whirled back around, fists raised and got in a vicious uppercut to someone’s ribs and a roundhouse swing to the temple before a cloud slid aside overhead, and the moonlight hit the face of his attacker. Trent was backing away, blinking fast, one hand to his no-doubt broken rib, his other raised and ready to lash out again.

  “What the actual fuck, man?” Brock stutter-stepped back and dropped his arms. Maybe Trent had thought he was an intruder, out here lurking in the dark when he had his own place to stay. “It’s me, Brock.” He held up his hands to let Trent know he’d disarmed himself. “Sorry about the rib—oof.” His breath rushed out of him when the man tackled him in the midsection, driving them both to the deck. Still confused, he struggled but the bigger man had him pinned. His nose broke with an audible crack before he could leverage his wits and strength and shove the guy off him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Christ!” He touched his poor nose with a wince, noting that the man was up and coming at him yet again. “Stop!”

  Trent hesitated, one fist raised, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “The hell I will,” he growled before making another tackling move. Brock was ready for him this time and dodged under his arm. “You fucking shitty excuse for a man, don’t you run from me.”

  “Listen, dude, I’m a lot of things but a shitty excuse ain’t one of ’em.” His voice was nasally and echoed in his head. “I don’t know what happened between our friendly card game and now but if you don’t mind telling me before you beat the shit out of me I’d appreciate it.”

  “Fuck you, douchebag.” Trent spit a wad of blood onto the deck then raised his massive fists again. “You’re gonna wish you’d never laid a finger on her.”

  “Wait, hold up.” Brock’s mind wrapped around that revelation. But Trent was rushing him like a Brahmin bull so he ducked and whirled around, his own fists at the ready. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Laid a finger on who?”

  “Don’t lie to me, you useless junkie dickhead.”

  “Christ, man, talk to me, will ya? I really don’t want to make your face any uglier than it is for your wedding day.”

  Trent growled and ran at him, managing to shove him back against the railing. The pain in his kidneys was visceral. He let out a loud groan and twisted to one side, not managing to block the blows raining down on his face. They stopped abruptly, as if the beating-Brock-to-a-pulp switch had been flipped to the off position. He slumped forward, his body a mass of agony from his bruised back to his thrashed face.

  “What the fuck! Get the hell off me!” Trent was bellowing a few feet away from him. He couldn’t see who it was that had saved him, but he had an inkling. “I mean it, Fitzgerald. I’m gonna kill…”

  “No, you’re not,” Austin said from the gloom, his voice as still as the surface of the lake. “Sit. Calm the hell down and tell me what happened.”
>
  “I’m not telling you…shit! That’s my fucking shoulder, asshole.”

  “Yeah? Well that’s my brother and best I can tell he’s been a big help to you these last two days so why don’t you get a grip on yourself and tell me what’s going on?”

  “Fuck off,” the bigger man grumbled.

  But as Brock wrapped his mind around the pain and got on top of it long enough to take a full breath of air, he realized the steam had gone out of his fight. He lunged for an empty chair, groaning as he sat, still trying to inhale enough oxygen to contribute to the conversation.

  “Nope,” Austin said as he shoved Trent into a chair, two removed from where Brock sat, gasping like a fish on the sidewalk, marveling how he’d gone from kissing Kayla and relishing how normal he felt about her to this mass of quivering agony, thanks to her brother. Wondering if he needed to get his kidneys checked, he figured if he started pissing blood he’d worry about it. Wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

  “Fuck me,” he grunted as he tried to move his nose back into its proper position.

  “You’d better shut up, you goddamned prick,” Trent called from across the deck.

  “All right, I’ll bite,” Brock said, his anger rising in the face of whatever shit the other man was slinging at him. “What in the hell did I do? Whose honor did I besmirch?”

  “Shut up, or I’m gonna…”

  “Sit, God damn you,” Austin barked from the doorway. He held two beers and a water bottle. The sight of it made Brock’s head ache worse. He could already taste the glorious malt and hops-infused liquid sliding down his throat. But he took the water bottle and downed half of it in a few gulps.

  Trent took the beer. Brock studied him as his eyes adjusted further to the moonlit darkness. He took a long slug of it, wiped his lips with a wince, then set it on the table next to him. “You,” he said, his long finger pointed straight at Brock. “You…did something to her. You made her want to hurt herself. I found her…tonight…”