by Hawkins, JD
Temptation
JD Hawkins
Copyright © 2018 by JD Hawkins
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Want to keep up to date with JD? Sign up for his VIP list!
To my fellow brave humans who drink Kombucha on a daily basis.
Contents
1. Wyatt
2. Melina
3. Wyatt
4. Melina
5. Melina
6. Wyatt
7. Melina
8. Wyatt
9. Melina
10. Wyatt
11. Melina
12. Wyatt
13. Melina
14. Wyatt
15. Melina
16. Wyatt
17. Melina
18. Wyatt
19. Melina
20. Wyatt
21. Melina
22. Wyatt
23. Melina
24. Wyatt
Epilogue
Also by JD Hawkins
Acknowledgments
1
Wyatt
I steer my car onto the long driveway of the Buchanans’ house, the wide, flat tires of the Jaguar XJ crunching gravel. As I pass through the open gates, I find myself smiling when the car jolts a little—that recurring pothole by the orange grove as much a part of my memory as the smell of citrus coming through the open window.
Barbecue at the Buchanans’. The words themselves have a nostalgic kind of magnetism about them. They’re words I heard and spoke as far back as my memory goes; words so simple, but so loaded with memories. Four words that bring to mind a whole mental scrapbook of old jokes, funny stories, and good times. Memories so old and so good they seem to appear in soft focus, the edges frayed a little, an ethereal golden glow over everything in them.
The house is an Italian-style villa, buried in the midst of the well-tended fruit trees and aromatic flowering bushes that Mrs. Buchanan insists upon. Stucco columns and several balustrades decorate the exterior of the house, and for some reason the place always reminded me of Shakespeare, or some gangster film. A place built for romance and death and grand family sagas.
It’s a house that tells you a lot about the Buchanans, about Bob and Marsha’s extreme wealth and, inside, their humble taste. Their kids—Aiden and Becca—couldn’t be more different though. Aiden’s goofy, extroverted humor a direct contrast to Becca’s serious, buttoned-up quietness. Though I’ve grown a little apart from them during my years in New York, I love them both—we all do.
I see a bent figure in work coveralls leaning over, intently trimming a bush to the side of the path, and pull up slowly.
“Lionel!” I call out from the driver’s side window.
The man stands up, pulls out an earpiece to reveal the tinny sound of classical radio, and wipes his weather-worn, smiling face with his forearm as he steps toward the car.
“Master Wyatt! How long has it been?!”
“Don’t call me master, Lionel. I’m not royal family.”
The elderly gardener laughs his distinctively musical laugh, and more memories come flooding back. He looks up and down the length of the car.
“Ah but in this car, I think maybe you are!” He chuckles, then checks his watch. “You’re running late. The others are all here already.”
“It’s a long way from New York,” I say.
“But now you are here to stay,” he beams.
“I guess I am.” I grin back, though it’s a little strained when I think about all I’ve left behind. “Why don’t you take a break and come have a drink with us? Maybe a bite to eat?”
“No no. Too much to do out here. And you know I prefer the company of trees.”
I laugh and put my hand out to shake his glove, damp with dark earth.
“Have it your way, then,” I say. “I’ll make sure there’s plenty of the good stuff left over for you.” I pull my hand back into the car and drive up the rest of the way.
Even if Lionel hadn’t told me, I could have guessed that everyone else was already here by the cluster of cars parked in front of the house. My dad’s souped-up classic Corvette—a remnant from the mid-life crisis he went through during the divorce—my brother Cody’s motorcycle, a sleek black BMW that could only belong to Becca, a hurriedly-parked vintage Beetle that screams Winnie.
I get out of the car, take the stone steps up to the flung-open door and walk inside.
“Look who it is!” Aiden shouts as soon as I poke my head into the grand living room. “Mr. Big-shot-big-apple!”
He steps forward, his hand out, but Winnie beats him to it, screaming “Wyatt!” as she slams into me full force, arms not so much embracing me as flung around my neck.
Winnie Stapleton. Prom queen, head cheerleader, and instigator of a thousand schoolboy sexual awakenings. Hell, I’d bet my life on it there are guys out there who haven’t seen her since high school but still think about her every day.
If the first thing that comes to mind with the Buchanans is their wealth, then the Stapletons are undoubtedly the ‘artistic’ family in our little circle. Winnie’s father, Greg, is a prop creator for movies, and her mother Sabine is a prominent mixed media artist who’s become a successful children’s book illustrator over the past few years. Winnie herself works in fashion, and then there’s her little sister Melina…but more on her later.
“Hey guys,” I say, once Winnie releases me. “Blue highlights this year?”
“And a little red too, left over from the Fourth of July,” she smiles, spinning around to show me the multicolored streaks in her smooth, long hair.
“How patriotic of you,” I say, unable to stop myself from giving her a casual once-over. She’s wearing a body-hugging summer dress, and I have to update my memories—Winnie looks hotter than even my memory can handle.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Becca says with a half-hug, affording me a rare smile. Her business pants and crisp white blouse are pretty in line with what I remember.
Aiden slaps my back affectionately as Mr. Stapleton takes my hand and smiles warmly.
“It’s wonderful to have you back, Wyatt. The whole gang’s back together again!”
“Thanks.”
Winnie puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Dad was just showing us this new prop he made for the Robot Slayer film.”
I notice the futuristic chrome contraption in his hand. It looks like a strangely elaborate revolver. He whips it quickly, and suddenly it’s a tilt-handled short sword.
“Impressive,” I say, with awed sincerity.
Mr.Stapleton shrugs humbly. “It’s just for a few scenes. It’ll mostly be done with CGI for the rest of the film.”
“Ugh,” Winnie says, shaking her head. “Your stuff is always so much better.”
“Are we all just going to ignore the fact that Wyatt’s wearing a suit to a barbecue?” Aiden cuts in cheekily, turning to me and brushing imaginary dust off my shoulder. “You planning to sell us insurance over sausages, Wyatt?”
I take a step back and look Aiden up and down, drawing attention to his ripped jeans and faded Queens of the Stone Age t-shirt.
“Well I was going to sleep in my clothes for a few days, roll around in the dirt a while, and climb some barbed wire fences—but I was worried we’d turn up in the same outfit.”
“Ignore him,” Winnie says, pushing Aiden playfully. “You look fantastic, Wyatt.” Do I detect a hint of flirtation there? Nah. It’s just Winnie being Winnie.
“Oh? Really?” Aiden says, finding a new joke to make. “Just how f
antastic do you think he looks, Winnie? Getting nostalgic for the old days?”
“That was a long time ago, Aiden…” Becca growls, sounding like an alert attack dog.
“Not that long,” he shoots back, wiggling his eyebrows. “Looks to me like you two should—”
“That’s enough, kids,” Mr. Stapleton warns.
“What?” Aiden says, shrugging and looking around the way he always does when he’s playing controversy. “All I’m saying is…Wyatt and Winnie, sittin’ in a tree—Ow!”
Winnie stops the song short by digging her high-heeled sandal into his shin, and we laugh victoriously as his smile turns into an exaggerated grimace.
Mr. Stapleton nods at me and says, “Your mom and dad are outside. Sabine brought some of that rosé they like.”
“Ok. I’ll catch up with you guys in a bit,” I say, turning.
I leave the living room and move through the big house, stopping every once in a while to let the reality of it sink in. Back here. At the Buchanans’. It feels like home, even though it technically wasn’t. Growing up we’d spent so many Christmases and Thanksgivings here. The photos are all over the walls, a museum of my past.
Fourth of July fireworks when I was just four years old. That time we all spent the summer in a sprawling lakeside cabin up in Tahoe. Aiden and I shooting supersoakers at the girls, Cody watching with a toddler’s smile. A blown-up photo of me kissing Winnie on the cheek when we were about seven.
Then there’s the prom photo from senior year, Aiden standing with his arm around Danielle, a girl on the lacrosse team who he’d dated for a while before she got tired of his goofiness—and standing next to them is me with Winnie in her tiara. It’s not the biggest photo on the wall, but it’s easily noticeable, at eye-level and in a nice frame. Most of the photos make me smile, but this one I can only glance at. As much as I tried to have a good time at the prom, if only for Winnie’s sake, my strongest memory from that night is my parents fighting so loud I could hear them yelling through the walls while I waited on the porch for the limo. I shake my head and move along.
I love this place, and I love these people, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like an outsider now. Eight years in New York City making no-need-to-check-the-price tag money, dating so-hot-it-hurts supermodels, and driving flashy cars at screw-it-I’ll-pay-the-fine speeds doesn’t do too much to cultivate your familial sentimentality. I’ve been living like a monster too long for this cross-country move to not feel like suddenly getting trapped in the slow lane. Too long killing it in New York to learn how to be humble again, too long feeding off the work and the women to relax like everyone else.
And then there’s my parents. Their messy divorce and the complicated feelings, the tension and the struggle for diplomacy. Though I’d never admit it to anyone, their split was the biggest reason I never came back to California after graduating from the East Coast Ivy League where I learned how to become the PR shark I am today. Don’t get me wrong: I love this place, and I love being here, but all I wanna do right now is take the first plane back to New York and live what I know.
The toilet flushes and I turn around. Cody stalks into the hallway, his head low so that he only notices me after he’s taken a few steps. He’s nineteen and fully-bought-in to the biker look. Jean cuffs rolled up, white tee with a cigarette packet under the sleeve, hair swept back but not so much a lock can’t fall over his forehead just like the girls like.
“Bro!” he says, almost like he can’t believe I’m here.
“Hey, ladykiller,” I say, taking him in for a hug, both of us patting backs with happiness. “It’s good to see you, man.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. Cody always said most of what he meant with his eyes, and I can see the gladness in them now.
“How’s things?” I ask.
Cody sighs, getting a little more sullen.
“They’re barely talking. Mom’s been stuck on a project at work so she’s a little stressed, and I’m pretty sure Dad is back to dating that OCD lawyer again.”
“I meant with you,” I say. Cody looks at me a little awkwardly, though he can never be too embarrassed with me. I grin. “Saw your motorcycle outside. Still haven’t saved enough for that Triumph?”
“Getting there,” he says.
“Got a girl to ride on the back with you?”
Cody laughs gently. “A couple,” he admits. “No one I’m too serious about yet.”
I laugh back. “You got plenty of time before you need to think about settling down. We both do.” I wrap an arm around his neck carefully, since I know how much he hates having his hair messed with, and we go outside.
There are shrieks of joy when I step onto the veranda. The three women—my mom Elise, Marsha Buchanan, and Sabine Stapleton—jumping out of their seats to push and pull me into hugs. My mom clings to me like I’m leaving, not arriving, and even when she’s done she holds my arm as the other two have their turn. They finger the fabric of my suit, tousle my hair, and leave me feeling like a cross between a plucked chicken and a newly-bought thoroughbred horse, stopping just short of pinching my cheeks.
“Is he taller?” Sabine says. “He’s taller, isn’t he?”
“He’s lost a bit of color, up there in New York,” Marsha says. “But the California sunshine will have you back to your usual rosy glow in no time.”
“He’s fine—he’s my boy,” my mom says, roughing my hair up even as I try to smooth it back down. “And I can’t wait to set you up with some nice girls. Get you rooted.”
“Whoa,” I protest. “I’m not interested in that kind of thing right now.”
“Of course you are,” Marsha insists. “The girls will be all over you—and we don’t want to see you settling down with anyone less than perfect.”
“He’s filled out quite a bit,” Sabine says, squeezing my bicep.
“Oh, you know men these days,” Marsha says, drolly, “they think all you need are muscles to get women.” They all giggle.
“Tell that to Winnie,” Sabine says. “The last guy she brought home could have slipped down a drain. Some music video director who got famous on WeTube or something. If you ask me, what she really needs is someone stable to rein her in.”
There’s a momentary pause when Sabine mentions her daughter, the women stopping to look at my face and see if anything registers. I just shrug and smile, taking the moment to break free and hold up a hand in greeting toward my dad and Bob, who are waving spatulas and cans of beer from over by the grill.
“I’m gonna go say hi to Dad,” I say, moving away. “You ladies have fun.”
“Tell Bob not to go crazy with that spicy barbecue sauce he made,” Marsha calls after me. “I can smell it from here!”
“Will do,” I say, walking backwards to nod at her before turning back to the grill.
“Son!” my dad says, greeting me with a firm handshake.
“It’s wonderful to have you back,” Bob says when I shake with him next. “You’re staying this time, right?”
“I am, I think,” I say, trying to keep the uncertainty out of my voice as my dad hands me a beer. “By the way, Marsha says to go easy on the sauce.”
“She crazy? I made this stuff from scratch!” Bob laughs dismissively, but he still flips the cap closed on the bottle and sets it aside. “Hell of a surprise when we heard you were coming home,” he continues. “I thought you were pretty happy up there in New York. What made you decide to come back? Miss the sunshine? Your extended family? The chill vibes?”
“No one over the age of fifteen says ‘chill vibes,’ Bob,” my dad chides him.
I laugh along with them as I struggle to answer Bob’s question. The truth is, I don’t really know why I came back. I remember the day I made the decision, waking up with a splitting headache that even the two blondes asleep next to me couldn’t ease. Empty gin bottle beside the Rolex on the bedside table, and an equally empty feeling inside of me as I stared at the black and white photo of a desert lan
dscape on my wall.
“I just needed a change,” I finally say. “Might only be temporary still. I’ll see how I feel when the consultancy project is over.”
Bob nods. “Sounds like a smart plan.”
“Indeed,” my dad agrees, nodding along. “I do hope you stay, though. Wouldn’t mind having you around more often.”
He looks older than even the last time I saw him, a year and a half ago. His face a little more leathery, his eyes a little more distant. He smiles and tips up his beer, looking as if he’s working hard to keep it together.
I remember what Cody just told me, about Dad dating that lawyer again, and for a second I think about asking him about who he’s seeing. Last time we spoke on the phone he mentioned a younger woman he’d met through a dating website that one of his friends had recommended. But maybe they’d split up, since Cody seemed to think our dad was back with Jill—a woman neither of us had liked, since all she did during the dinner we’d met them for was pick at Dad’s table manners and fuss about the waitstaff and the food.
In the end, I don’t ask. I figure if my dad doesn’t bring the dating situation up himself, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Still I notice how he stands, how his eyes occasionally flicker over my shoulder back toward the seats—where my mom is. Dating or not, he’s never really gotten over her.
Instead we talk shop for a while. Bob asks me what car I drive and I tell him about the company Jaguar—a reward for doing so well back in New York. The local wildfires, the Lakers’ chances this season, how the F150 is still the best truck—and maybe car—you can buy. Old topics, familiar and worn, that we discuss for comfort more than content, until our stomachs are growling and the food’s nearly done.
