by T. S. Joyce
“Well, I wasn’t all the way awake yet on account of the moon still being out.”
“Be serious,” he said, tossing her onto the bed. “It’s six, and I told you we’d be here first thing in the morning.”
“No, you said your crew would. What are you doing here, Bron?”
He hooked his hands on his waist and lifted his brows like she was being unreasonable. “I’m trying to get you out of town as soon as possible. That’s why I’m here.”
He was staring at her panties.
Jerking the covers over her indecent half, she glowered. “You look tired.”
“I slept in my truck.”
“Did Muriel get the house in the divorce you failed to mention?”
He lifted his chin and the look he gave her was nothing shy of savage. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. The separation is new and I don’t go around announcing my marriage status to every stranger.”
Stranger? That stung but from the anger in his gaze, that’s what he’d intended. She shook her head, sad that he couldn’t just be straight with her. “You’ve been separated for three years. Muriel doesn’t even lived on the same side of town as you. Reese told me over the phone last night. How can you look me in the eyes and tell me this separation is new?”
Running his hands roughly through his hair, he turned and slammed the door. “You want to do this now?”
“Why not? Because last time you were in my room with me, you touched me like you used to and I tore myself up thinking you were a married man. And you aren’t! You just like to pretend you are so things stay confusing.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you, Samantha. I did that shit for years with Muriel, and that’s the one good thing that came out of being single. I don’t have to answer to anyone. Especially not some spoiled…” He waved his hand, and scrunched up his face.
“By all means,” she gritted out. “Continue.” Being a dick.
“Mouthy, nosy…woman!”
He threw the last word out like it was just as awful as the rest. Oh, she could see it now. Muriel had jaded him good. It wasn’t that Bron wasn’t right for her right now. He wasn’t right for any woman. Not until he got over whatever Muriel had done to him.
“Spoiled,” she said, pointing her index finger up in the air. “I lived in this tiny house, with a father who was a murderin’ sonofabitch. I was shunned by the entire town, and my one solace was that you still pretended to love me. And you left me for someone you didn’t give two shits about, so let’s just put it all out there. I meant so little to you, that you chose someone you had no feelings for over me. I moved away from everything I knew and loved to find out Momma was sick and couldn’t work anymore. And Dad wasn’t exactly bringing home the bacon from prison. I worked three jobs to support us and pay for Momma’s care, and most days it was hard to put food on the table. I took care of her. I watched her fade away, alone. And after I got her hospital bills all paid up, I worked my way from an assistant to a decent job that pays for my ratty one room apartment and the mortgage and bills on this place. Don’t you ever call me spoiled again, Bronson Grady Cress. You don’t know me. Not anymore. Your choice.” Damn the tremor in her voice.
His look had softened with every sentence until his gaze dropped to her small suitcase in the corner. “I was pissed off at the situation we’re in, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was like that when you left here.”
“Well, that was just fine by me. I didn’t want you knowing my struggle. Not after what you did.”
“I don’t want to talk about Muriel anymore with you.”
“Fine,” she said tiredly. “Talking to you doesn’t get me anywhere anyway. Sorry it didn’t work out with you two.” Not for Muriel, she could jump off a cliff without floaties, but for Bron. It was pretty plain and obvious he’d been through the ringer with his ex. And as angry and confused as he left Samantha, the thought of him being hurt curdled her stomach.
“I hate fighting with you,” he said low, his eyes cast down to the metal legs of the bed.
“You always did.”
“We were never any good at it.” A smirk took his lips. It wasn’t a smile yet, but she’d take it. “I think we only fought every once in a while so we could make up.”
Memories of his kisses, his careful petting to reassure her he still cared and that he always would, no matter what, burned through her. She looked away. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t take a trip down memory lane when everything is so messed up. Thinking about how it used to be—how we used to be—hurts me.”
“Did you think about me when you left?”
Pain slashed through her chest and she wanted to deny it. To punish him for the choices he’d made. But what good would that do them now? “Of course I did.” Her voice came out a ragged whisper. “You were all I wanted back then. But what good did thinking about you do for me?” Tears burned her eyes and she blinked them away. “You didn’t feel the same, and you weren’t pining for me back here.”
His gaze looked agonized, tortured, and seeing him in so much pain made it hard to breathe. He turned and opened the door, but hesitated at the edge of the hallway. “You’re wrong.”
The click of the closing door echoed such a lonely sound.
****
If she left now, she’d have to come up with the extra three thousand dollars for Bron and his crew to do the detail work. She couldn’t pay that outright on top of the main bill, so she’d have to put it on credit card.
Problem one was she hated owing anyone money after paying all those hospital bills.
Problem two was her one card she used to build credit didn’t have a high line, and she would have to up the limit to cover that kind of money.
Problem three came when she called said credit card company, and they raised her credit line a measly five hundred dollars and told her to try for more in thirty days.
Damn, damn, double damn, and she was stuck staring at the tattoo that kept peeking out from under Bron’s sleeve as he worked.
Her hormones were trying to kill her.
And it wasn’t like she was attracted to a complete stranger. She was attracted to a stranger with carnal, intimate knowledge of her. And oh, she remembered how he was in bed. She hadn’t been able to stop remembering. She’d touched herself countless times to his memories over the years, which had only seared her desire for him in her mind even more securely.
And he was good at touching her. If he’d been that accommodating to her needs when they were teenagers, how good must Bron-the-Man be in the bedroom now?
“You’re staring again,” Dillon observed. He was standing above her on a wobbly ladder, scraping the old popcorn texture off the ceiling. The corners of his vibrant blue eyes crinkled with his obnoxious smile.
“Was not,” she muttered, and turned her back on them both. Sure, Bron could hang sheetrock like he was born to do it, with his sexy arms flexing every time he moved…
She snuck one last glance at Bron before ripping off another long strip of blue painter’s tape. He was measuring for a cut with a box knife, and had a pencil clenched in his sexy mouth. He turned his head toward her like he could hear her thoughts, and embarrassed, she flinched away.
Smooth. And Pathetic.
The man had chosen someone else and here she was, a grown woman still pining for him. She was as crazy as her old man.
After she finished taping up the edges of the living room, she made the boys sandwiches from the groceries she’d bought in town yesterday and escaped to her room with her own lunch. She’d checked her email at the cafe yesterday too, like the busy responsible little bee she was. And though the Wi-Fi was sketchy, she was able to download the script her boss, Barbara, had sent her.
The deadline was tight, but it always was, so she wasn’t stressed. If she could record her lines now, she’d be able to email the file back to Barbara tonight. This was the o
nly way she had convinced her manager to let her to take an indefinite leave of absence from work when she’d found out Trent passed away. And since the one-A town of Joseph didn’t boast a studio of any kind, Samantha had brought the equipment she needed with her.
Her voice sounded best in the closet, so she plugged in her laptop, closed the door and watched the twenty-five minute silent cartoon as she ate her sandwich and chips. This episode was about the main character, Riley, trying to solve the mystery of the missing vowels. Very educational.
Taking a big swig of cool water, she pressed record and dipped her voice to the softer tone she adopted when she was voicing Riley. Thirty minutes of getting every line recorded just right, and she zipped the file and prepared it to email Barbara as soon as she got in the cafe’s Wi-Fi range again.
Kicking open the door from her cramped position, she almost screamed when she saw Bron stretched out on her bed.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Listening to you talk like a little girl. Is that some kinky thing you do for Ryan Cummings?”
“No! It’s my job.” And the way he always said Ryan’s last name was annoying. Like Bron didn’t really believe he existed or something. “And furthermore, why would you think we get our jollies off reciting lines about a little girl and her vowels?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I was waiting to ask you.”
“Who’s nosy now?” she grumbled, heaving herself from the tiny closet. Kicking the laptop cord out of the way, she noticed the drawer to her desk slightly open. She ran her fingers over the opening, and the glossy sheen of the top photograph shone through the darkness.
“Why did you leave those here?” Bron asked. “I understand the refrigerator and your dad’s old records. But why that stack of pictures?”
Her hand shook with her anger, and she clenched it against her side as she turned slowly. “I don’t want you touching my things. They’re mine, and you have no right.”
He stood and clenched his own hands. “Those pictures are of me, too. And Trent.” His voice cracked on his brother’s name.
She felt like the grit on the floorboards beneath her feet. Without a word, she rifled through the pictures and took out several. Trent was grinning so big in every one of them. She kept two back and handed him the rest. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to not think about what happened to him. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend he’s not gone. I forget how hard this must be on you.”
Bron swallowed hard and took the pictures from her outstretched hand. His fingers brushed her knuckle and she stifled a gasp at the trill feeling his skin against hers caused. He shuffled through the pictures slowly and pressed his thumb against the last one.
“I left them here because I was hurt and I wanted to let you go,” she explained, hoping it would ease the suffocating tension hanging in the air between them. “I wanted to let all of you go and not think about this place anymore. I knew wherever I was going, I wouldn’t find what I had here.”
Thickly, he said, “We’re ahead of schedule and the boys will work until dark. I have another job to see about. I’ll be here again tomorrow.” He still hadn’t taken his eyes from the last picture, one of all four of them by the creek, arms slung across each other’s shoulders and laughing about something.
Bron escaped the room, and the front door shut a little too firmly as he left the house. Outside, his truck engine roared and he spun out on the gravel as he drove away.
She watched his truck disappear through her bedroom window. He was so confounding. If he didn’t like her answers, why did he insist on asking her the hard questions?
She looked down at the two pictures in her hands. One was of them all gathered around the dinner table at Bron and Trent’s house. Mr. Cress must’ve taken this picture. It was a candid shot of them all talking, and Trent was the only one looking at the camera. He’d grown out his dark hair that year and it almost looked shaggy. Reese had loved it long like that, but he only kept it like that through sophomore year. Samantha had always loved this picture of all of them.
She’d kept the other one back because it was the only one she had of just her and Trent. He was giving her a knuckle sandwich and making a goofy face at the camera.
Grabbing her wallet and tossing the pictures onto the bed, she made for the front door.
“Where are you going?” Dillon asked.
“Town.”
“Good. You should probably go look at paint colors while you’re there. Tell me what you pick out tomorrow and I’ll order what we need.”
“Sure. Thanks, boys,” she said as she left.
The paint store could wait, because right now, all she could think about was laying fresh flowers on Trent’s grave and saying goodbye like she hadn’t been able to do in front of the crowd at his funeral. She hadn’t wanted to just throw dirt on his casket and go. She’d wanted to talk to him. Apologize for losing contact. He’d been important to her childhood, and he’d died not knowing how much she appreciated him.
If she could change it all, she would.
The grocery store was busy, and she had to wait in line for a while with the bouquet of gerbera daisies. She didn’t know what the appropriate cemetery flower was, but she picked out orange ones, Trent’s favorite color when they were kids.
The cemetery overlooked the old middle school and she parked right where she had a couple of days ago. Her throat was already raw by the time she walked up the pebbled path toward his grave marker. She froze when she saw Bron standing over his brother’s grave. She couldn’t hear anything from this far, but his jaw moved like he was talking.
She shouldn’t interrupt his time here, so she began to back away. But just as she turned to go, Bron reached under his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes and she couldn’t just stand here and let him shoulder such sadness alone.
He was going to filet her when she approached, but she was growing used to it by now. Even if it hurt, it would be worth it to try.
Cradling the flowers, she weaved through the headstones until she stood just behind him. Bron wasn’t talking anymore and his shoulders had gone stiff.
“Bron?” she said, in a tiny, trembling voice.
His tensed shoulders lifted with his breath and she thought he would just ignore her. Instead, he spun and crushed her to him. Burying his face against her neck, he squeezed her so tightly, she couldn’t breathe. But he was breaking open right in front of her, and she couldn’t find it in herself to complain about discomfort at a time like this.
“I found him,” he said, voice raw. “I smelled the fire and knew something was wrong. I sped to the mill but it was too late and I couldn’t get inside fast enough. I found him but he was already gone. I fought with him right before. A half an hour before he died, I was telling him to get his shit together.”
“Shhh,” she cooed, as hot tears slipped to her cheeks. “He knew you loved him.”
“I’ve hurt everyone I’ve ever known,” he said, gently pushing her away.
Without another word, he left her there, clutching her crumpled flowers and weeping over how hard it would be for a man like Bron to ever forgive himself.
He was the type to hold onto old guilt. He carried so much burden, more than she probably even realized. And all of his secrets and loss would pile up until it was a tower. And being the king of that tower would come with a price.
And that price could be his ability to find happiness.
Chapter Seven
Bron didn’t show up the next day like he said he would, but Samantha wasn’t surprised, or even curious about his absence. On the contrary, she was relieved. Their moments together at the cemetery had been heavy. Much heavier than she’d ever thought they would have again, and if she was perfectly honest, the intensity of her feelings scared her.
Time away from him felt necessary.
Instead, he sent another worker, Grant, who seemed to fit right in with the crew and who was very quiet. Dillon was comfortable and joked around with he
r a lot, but the other two seemed to steer clear while she painted the walls in the colors Dillon had picked up earlier. And when all three of the men climbed the ladder outside to repair the roof, she was able to blare the music and paint as she pleased.
Reese had done a bang-up job of avoiding all three of her phone calls. Whatever had happened with Dodger’s cult that night had scared Reese away from her. Hopefully she was okay.
The only person who seemed completely unaffected by whatever mystery destruction she’d brought to Joseph was Dillon, who was singing an Aerosmith song at the top of his lungs for all the neighbors to hear. He had a decent voice too, so she bobbed her head and rolled paint, and hummed along with him much too low for any of them to hear. Her singing voice wasn’t as awesome, and could be compared to a rabid opossum trying to hit high notes.
Humming, though—humming she could do.
A shadow covered the window and she turned. Bron walked up to the porch, then turned away and disappeared. The murmur of the men’s voices could be heard from outside, but Bron sounded frustrated, and in a few moments, he was back at the door, staring at it intensely like it required an unknown password.
She lowered her paint roller and watched him turn again and leave. What the hell was he doing?
A clipped out, “Fuck,” echoed down the street, and Bron threw the door open. “I brought this for you.”
In his hand dangled a heavy looking paper bag that smelled suspiciously like key lime pie from the diner. It used to be her favorite.
“For yesterday. I needed to…thank you. And apologize. I should’ve kept it together better.”
“Don’t apologize for that,” she whispered. Him letting her hold him at the cemetery had been the most real moment she could remember ever sharing with him. If he took it back, it would cut her deeply.
He didn’t seem to want to come any closer than the entryway, so she tried for small talk. “Did you sleep any better last night?”
