by Liz Crowe
“Brock, honey, why are you calling me?”
“I need…to hear your voice. You’re the only one who fucking understands me, Caro.”
“Bullshit,” she’d said, but her voice had been soft and sexy. He’d groaned as his back teeth had begun buzzing, like he’d been biting down on tin foil.
“What about Kayla? Isn’t she there?”
The sound of Caroline speaking Kayla’s name had been like a pinprick to his inflated libido. His brain had fuzzed over and he’d been able to take full, deep breaths for the first time in hours. “Yes,” he’d said, his voice breaking a little. “She is. How do you…? Never mind. I’m sure…”
“Austin told me, just in case you did call or show up or pull one of your usual, um…stunts.”
“Ah, I see.” A spark of fury had ignited behind his eyes. “So you know about her.”
“A little,” she’d admitted. “I’m… I’m happy for you, Brock. You know that, right?”
“There’s nothing to be happy about, I assure you. She’s… She’s an abuse victim, Caroline. She was raped by not only by her stepfather but by a bunch of his buddies before she ran away and hit the streets. Which is when she added junkie to her résumé. I can’t…” He’d pressed his palms against the wheel, trying to drive out the urge to kill the men who’d done that to her.
“Oh, God. That’s awful. But she’s all right now? You guys go to meetings together and stuff, right?”
“Yeah.” He’d swiped his nose, wishing he had something normal in his damn life.
“Well then, I suggest you get your ass to that wedding. I’ll bet you’ve been helpful. You always were great under pressure.”
He’d snorted but had felt an easing of his stress at her words. “I can’t,” he’d whispered, needing her to say more to convince him, to remind him that he wasn’t a useless douchebag of an addict posing as a man, as Trent had so poetically described him the night before.
“Yes. You can. Now go on, scoot. Enjoy the rest of the weekend, and be a friend to Kayla, if nothing else, okay? For me?”
He’d ground his teeth. “I…loved you. A lot.”
“I know you did. But we all know how that turned out.”
“Are you happy…there, in D.C.?” He’d wanted to hear that she was miserable, broke, hating life and as single as fuck.
“Yes. I love it. My job is amazing. And…”
“Great. Cool. Say no more, please.” He’d straightened up, not even sure why he had any right to be jealous of her life. She deserved the best. She always had. They all did. They all deserved not to be hampered by him.
“Go on, Brock. Stop being a pussy.”
“Nice mouth, Miss Thing.”
“I mean it. You really are an amazing man when you put your damn mind to it. Go prove that…to her.” Her voice had dipped at the end, as if she hadn’t wanted to say it.
He’d ended the call, turned the car around and driven straight here. But had gone well out of his way to avoid seeing Kayla as long as he could. Now, having seen her, he believed that his heart might break. Such sappy bullshit—but nothing was more true.
He got to his feet as lightning split the evening sky and thunder filled the world. With a primal roar of his own, Brock tilted his head up and accepted the rain to his hot face. He was soaked through to his skin in seconds but it felt great. The lightning made him laugh. The thunder answered with more growling as he stood there, willing himself into some other life.
“You are a nut job,” a voice broke through all the noise. “What is the matter with you?”
He wiped the rain out of his eyes and stared down at her, at Kayla, the woman he believed he loved— the way adult people are supposed to love. And the woman he had to reject, outright, to save them both.
“That is a proven fact,” he said, not smiling at her. “And the answer to your question would fill a fucking book so I’ll spare you.” He shook his head, spraying water in all directions like a dog. The rain had let up some but not stopped. She stood in her bridesmaid’s dress and a dark denim jacket, almost as soaked as he was even though she was gripping a tiny umbrella.
“So you duked it out with my baby brother last night, eh?”
He blinked then touched his sore nose. “Yeah. He had some points he needed to make.”
“About me,” she said, her eyes darkening.
He looked straight up, opening his mouth and drinking the rain for a few seconds by way of evasion.
“Tell me what happened, Brock. All of it.” Her hand gripped his biceps, which put her close, way too close, for his comfort.
“It’s between me and him.” He pulled away from her.
“Why won’t you look at me, then?” she demanded, yanking him around again, surprising him with her strength. “What did I do to deserve this cold shoulder bullshit?”
“Nothing. I’m not… I didn’t mean to… Shit.” His shoulders slumped. Rain ran down his face but he couldn’t feel it.
A loud shout of laughter and other noises waxed and waned from the tent behind them as people came and went, slogging through the rain, some of them stopping to kiss or otherwise make out in the near-dark. “Missing a good party.” He motioned behind her.
“Yeah, what else is new? Brock, you’d better tell me what’s going on in your head. I just… I mean last night I… I did something I never thought I’d do, much less enjoy. And I enjoyed it a lot.”
“I did too. But Kayla…”
“Don’t you ‘but Kayla’ me. What the fuck is going on? Why didn’t you come back this morning? Where are you right now?”
Frustration filled his head. “I’m here God damn it. Right in front of you.”
“No, you’re not. You’re some other damn place. And if you don’t tell me what is going on I’m going inside and you can forget anything else with me.”
He reached out for her then let his hand drop. “Maybe that’s for the best,” he said in a whisper.
“What did you say?”
“I said…”
But he couldn’t finish because she had launched herself at him and had her arms around his neck and her lips on his before he could say anything else. The sensation of sinking into her, into this moment, suffused him as it had done the previous night. The taste of her mouth, the way her body fit to his, made his mind go blank as he kissed her back, desperate to communicate something, anything, before he had to give her the news that they would never, could never, be more than friends.
But dear God help him he loved this, loved her so much right then, the urge to somehow overcome it all together, to give it even more of a college try than he’d been doing for the past few years overcame him. He dropped to his knees, pulling her with him. The sand bit into his kneecaps. The rain pelted them, soaking their faces and hair again as they clicked teeth and bumped noses in an unpracticed way.
The urge to protect her, to have her trust him was stronger than anything—even stronger than the desire to make love to her and prove how a real man treated a woman, although that compulsion was gaining a firm foothold. Could he do it? Would she trust him? He cradled her face with his hands as he broke from her, giving her lips one last swipe with the tip of his tongue.
As she stared up at him with those huge, green-brown eyes, he realized that the answer to the question was a profound “no”. He let go of her and dropped onto his heels, breathing heavy, his eyes burning with tears he didn’t know how to shed. “I’m sorry,” he said when she tilted his chin up so he was forced to look at her. “I’m so, so, so sorry, Kayla.”
“Sorry about what?” But she seemed wary all of a sudden, on guard in a way she hadn’t been with him in months. It ripped at his guts, but he knew it for what it was. She was afraid of him. As she damn well should be. He reached for her, wanting to kiss her, to reassure her, but she jumped to her feet, clutching her arms close to her sides. “Sorry. About. What?” Each word was a knife blade to his chest.
He rose, keeping his distance, watching her e
xpression morph from wary to furious in an eye blink.
“Hey! What’s going on over there?” Trent’s voice broke through the silent standoff. “K, are you all right?”
She kept her angry gaze on Brock but spoke to Trent, who’d approached them, beer in one hand, suit coat off and tie askew. “You,” she said. “You told him.”
“Honey, I don’t know what you’re…”
“You betrayed me, Trent,” she said, her voice raising with every word. “You…you nosy jerk!” She was screaming by the end, backing away from them both. “You had no God damned right to tell anybody.”
Trent glanced at Brock, but Brock had nothing left. He’d gone and done it again. Hurt her without meaning to. Making this whole mess even worse.
“Kayla,” Trent said, trying to lunge for her. But he was halfway to drunktown. Brock could smell the booze on him. He stumbled and dropped onto the sand, leaving Kayla standing over him. Brock helped him up just as the heavens broke open and spilled what felt like a gallon of water on them all at once.
“I hate you,” she screamed over the noise. “I fucking hate you both!”
As he watched, his body once again encased in concrete, Kayla ran across the lawn and up the deck stairs, leaving the two of them staring after her with their swollen eyes and busted noses.
“Gosh, that went well,” Brock said.
Trent glared at him through the bruises. “You’re an asshole,” he muttered. “But if you don’t go up there and talk to her, calm her down and tell her you don’t care about her past, I’m gonna throw you off the fucking boat back there.”
Brock lifted his chin. “I thought you didn’t want me within a country mile of her.”
“I don’t. But my wife reminded me that I am not in charge of her, or of you. If you’re the one to make her happy, you’d best get on that, pronto.”
Brock sighed. “I can’t do it, man. I’m…a shit. I don’t deserve—”
“Fucking-A, Fitzgerald, get over yourself already. Be a man. Be the man my sister deserves.” He lifted a fist. Brock waited for the blow but it never came. And when he opened his eyes into the rain again, Trent was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Three weeks later
“My God, this place…” Melody walked in after her long honeymoon in southern France, looking healthy, happy and very pregnant. “What sort of miracles have you worked in here, Kayla?”
Kayla blushed but kept tidying the glassware. She had no real concept of how to take an honest compliment, so she deflected them or ignored them altogether. “I changed a few things. I hope you don’t mind too much.”
“Hell no I don’t. This layout is a million times better.” As she eased herself onto a bar stool in the quiet before a busy fall Friday night, Melody exhaled with relief. “My feet… Your brother made me walk all over France, I swear it.” She leaned forward, peering at the sketch book Kayla had left open near the service area of the bar. “You’re chock full of surprises,” she said, turning the thing around. “This is beautiful.”
Kayla reached for it and slapped it shut, her face flushing hotter. “It’s nothing. Therapy shit. You know.” She’d been obsessed with drawing kids lately. Little kids playing, eating, sleeping, all in normal homes. But her drawings contained something darker. Every child she drew seemed miserable and terrified—at total odds with their apparent happy surroundings. They haunted her. But she couldn’t stop drawing them.
As she tucked the book under the bar, she changed the subject, taking the opportunity to fill Melody in on everything she’d missed. While they were catching up, Kayla sensed herself relaxing, re-inhabiting her happy place—the one she pretty much only found here, at work in the FitzPub, pouring booze she could never drink.
“All right, chica, I’m gonna check the back of the house and spend a few hours on my computer. Trent wouldn’t even let me bring the thing, you know. Such a bossy pants, that man.”
Kayla smiled at the sight of her new sister-in-law, thrilled beyond measure at the fact of her, that the woman had gone out of her way to find her and pull her into Trent’s universe. Something she doubted she would ever have done on her own. Which meant she never would have met Brock, of course.
The thought of him sent dark clouds scudding across her blue-sky attitude. He’d avoided her like the very plague since the wedding weekend. Hell, he’d managed to avoid her the rest of the wedding night. Not that she’d made herself accessible. She’d run inside, taken a long hot shower and fought the urge to cut herself for a few hours before falling into bed while the rest of the guests danced and drank the night away not far below her. The next morning, he’d been long gone by the time she’d made it down to the kitchen for a quiet breakfast while everyone else had slept off their hangovers.
She’d resumed her life, slipping back into it with ease while Trent and Melody honeymooned overseas and Taylor spent the month with her mother. It had been a relief. But she missed him more than she’d ever thought possible. And every day it got worse.
Her phone buzzed its way across the bar where she’d left it. She picked it up, her pulse racing at the sight of the number.
“Hello, is this Kayla Hettinger?”
“Yes, hi.” She walked around to the other side of the bar and sat before she fell over.
“Hi. This is Andrew Walker with Child Protective Services.”
“Yes, I know.” She winced. “Sorry. I’m just…eager to know the answer.”
“Yes, well, ah… I’m afraid I don’t have great news for you.”
“Oh.” She picked up a coaster and bent it in half, trying to keep from cursing the guy out. “So…the answer is no.”
“I’m afraid so. Your history, you see. You’ve been committed for drug addiction and you have a police record. I realize that you’ve turned things around but…”
“But I’m still a useless junkie and can’t foster that little girl.”
“That’s about the sum of it, yes.”
“Can you tell me one thing?”
“I can try.”
“Is she safe? Is she with a real family? Not one who fosters for the extra dough?”
“I can’t… Hang on a second.” She heard some shuffling around and the click of a door. “Ms. Hettinger, I’m not allowed to tell you anything about the child.”
“About June, you mean.”
“Yes, June. But…” He hesitated. “We have a family that’s trying to adopt her, not just foster her.”
“Oh.” Kayla knew she should feel happy for little June Dessen—the baby who’d clung to her for dear life that God-awful afternoon in the hospital. But she didn’t. She’d wanted to believe that her face-to-face plea to the Child Services people would have convinced them. But once a junkie, always a junkie. “Good,” she said, trying like hell to distance herself from it, from the girl, from the whole thing. “Thank you.” As she was about to end the call before she embarrassed herself by bursting into tears, the guy stopped her with his next words.
“I did check to see if they’d let you volunteer somewhere. You know, so you can help other kids. Not every agency’s amenable to people with records like yours but…”
“But?”
“I’m going to email you a list of places that said they’d consider your application. I suggest you try one of them, if you want to help.”
“Okay. I will. Gotta go.” She ended the call and gripped the phone for a few seconds, forcing herself down and away from the irrational anger. June Dessen is going to be adopted, not fostered. She’s going to be fine. Move on with your life, now, Kayla.
She straightened her shoulders and got to work for the night, shoving baby June and grownup Brock out of her head as best she could. When Trent landed in one of the bar chairs, there to pick Melody up a while early so he could have a beer and talk to her, the sight of him made her ears buzz. She hadn’t wanted to ruin Melody’s wedding weekend any more than it had already been tainted by the weather and various trauma-dramas so she’d
acted as normal as possible around her brother.
But she would never, ever forgive him for spilling the truth about her disgusting past to Brock, no matter his motivation. As he settled in, trying to get her to look at him so he could gauge the level of her anger, she ducked into the kitchen to avoid him. When Melody wandered out of her office, packed to go home, she smiled at Kayla and tried to pull her out into the bar. “Let’s get dinner, just the three of us. You’re off in twenty and it’s not busy anymore.”
“No, no, thanks. You guys go on. I have…some things to do.”
Melody peered at her, her dark eyes concerned. “What did he do?”
“Who? What? Nothing,” she insisted as she bent to putting silverware and napkin packets together.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not how this family is going to operate.” She put her hands over Kayla’s, forcing her to drop the napkin. “It’s taken us too long to get our collective act together, Kayla. And I’m not going to waste any more time lying to each other. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Kayla sighed. “Can we not do this here?” She jerked her chin toward the kitchen staff.
“Fine. Come with me.” She leaned out into the bar. “Trent, mi amore, join us in my office, please?”
“No… Melody, please.”
“Excuse me, but did you not hear me a few seconds ago?” The woman’s eyes flashed. Kayla bit her lip, realizing that she had nothing in the face of her sister-in-law’s strong personality. “I thought so. Now, come on.”
She and Trent sat in the chairs across from Melody, who sat behind her desk, her hands folded on the surface in front of her. “So, who’s going to tell me what’s going on?”
Trent glanced at Kayla then at his wife. “I told Brock about her…about the abuse. The night before the wedding. We fought, as you know, because I thought he’d hurt her. That he’d put some bullshit move on her which had made her cut herself.” He lifted his chin. “I stand by it, though. He needed to know.”
