by Brill Harper
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me how you got this far in life without...”
I close my eyes because looking straight at her is not an option. Not now that she can see right into me all the way to my damn soul. Because she can and what if there is nothing there for her to see? “I haven’t lacked for human touch. We’ve established that I’m not a monk.”
Her voice comes from far away, even though she is right next to me. Touching me. “Sex isn’t what we’re talking about, is it?”
I shake my head, swallowing the pride that urges me up and out of this room. This house. “I was three when they took me away from my mom. I had a lot of issues, but she had more. She hadn’t been clean since before I was born, I guess. And it’s possible that she hugged me and held me, but I don’t remember it. And I suppose the first few foster families may have, but I don’t remember them either. From the time I do remember, there was no hugging. There were some really nice people in and out of my life occasionally—they just didn’t hold me. Which is fine. I’m fine. I don’t even know why I told you.”
“No girlfriend has just hugged you?”
She really doesn’t get it. Get me. “Emily, I’m not the kind of guy who has girlfriends. I have sex with women I’m attracted to. Once or twice and then we move on. I don’t stick. I don’t know how to stick. I’m the kind of guy your brother should have known better than to let hang around his little sister.”
She laughs a lyrical tinkle I’d like to hear again and again. “He’s only ten minutes older than me. Ten minutes. And he thinks you walk on water. He’s probably hoping you’ll hang around me. He thinks I’m pathetic.”
I open my eyes at that. “He doesn’t. Not at all. He thinks you’re amazing. You are amazing.”
She slants her eyes away. “He wishes I was stronger. That I could let go of what happened.”
I reach my free hand to her chin, gently inching her back to me. “You will. When you’re ready.”
Sitting on the floor of her childhood room, her chin in my hand, my other wrapped up in hers, is the most intimate I’ve ever been with anyone. It isn’t like sex. Sex is bodies.
This, on her floor, is pulling me from someplace new. Someplace vulnerable and scary.
She is scarier than anything I ever faced in the sandbox.
Those eyes laser in on me. “You’ve never been hugged.” I shake my head. “I can give you that.”
The shock of absolute stillness anchors me to the impossible moment. To this impossible woman. Her words echo in my head, reaching for dark corners and soothing the abandoned dreams of a young boy.
It shouldn’t matter now. It didn’t. I long ago came to terms with my childhood. Time made me a man. The Army made me a better one.
But I’m not good enough for her. For this.
I can give you that.
It is too late to leave. Too late to turn her away. Because God help me, I wonder if she can give me that.
She pulls me down, anchoring my head to her chest. It is awkward. Like I am a child-giant and she is a too-small mother. I don’t know where to put my hands. I don’t know how to respond or how to relax.
This isn’t my choice, but turning away now would hurt her pride more than it helps mine. I would do anything not to hurt her. Emily shushes me as if quieting my mind, pressing me further into her until her heartbeat begins to lull me. The rhythm steady, true. My hands find a place to rest on her body that doesn’t make me feel like a creeper. I will the rest of my body to chill.
Emily smells good. Not like perfume. Not like a club or a bar, which often carry their scent onto the women I picked up in them. It isn’t even a scent I can place. It is just her skin.
In my life, women like me for my body. I like women for their bodies. I like Emily, and I admit I like her body as much as if she were any other woman. But she isn’t. This is different. What she is giving me, measured by heartbeats, is unlike anything I’ve ever been offered before.
If Jones came in right now, he’d misunderstand. He’d think I am taking advantage—and maybe I am—but not like that. He wouldn’t see that what his sister is giving me is more than a place to rest my head, more than skin and sensation.
It is connection.
And it is more dangerous to both of us than if we were naked in the bed above us.
Chapter Seven
Emily
THE DAY IS BRIGHT—SUNSHINE lights the kitchen in cheerful rays. I slather jam on my bread in short jabby strokes. My mood not so cheerful.
Charlie skipped breakfast in order to go for a run, which simply means he didn’t want to deal with looking at me over the cereal box. Because today is cereal and toast instead of the spread from yesterday. Mom is fighting a cold and went back to bed to get some rest. No big over-the-top breakfast today.
It wasn’t like I necessarily wanted to face him either. But at least I’m not a coward about it.
Last night had been...hooboy. Like nothing I have words for.
What kind of woman offers to hug a man like Charlie Warner? It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now in the light of day, the super bright light of day, I wonder if I was childish.
If Sheila had a man like Charlie in her arms, she would have hugged him, yes. But the evening would have ended naked.
Shame burns my face in splotches. Shame that I embarrassed us both. Shame that I’m not woman enough to make love to a handsome man literally in my arms. Shame that I wanted to make love to him as much as I didn’t.
“Today is bike day,” my oldest brother says, reading from the itinerary on the fridge door, interrupting my thoughts.
Carter groans.
“It’ll be fun.” I like bike day. It’s one of my favorite family traditions. And it will give me something to do to stay busy.
After cleaning the kitchen, the four of us Jones siblings and my dad trek out to the detached shop. As the hum of fluorescent lighting starts, I feel the jitter in my tummy. “How many this year, Dad?”
“Only ten,” he answers and smacks a kiss on the top of my head.
“Ten?” Amy asks. “I only have an hour.” She points to her chest. “The baby might not sleep on a schedule yet, but he sure does eat on one.”
“So, you’ll work for an hour. I think the rest of us can pick up your slack.” This from Carter, who hates putting together bikes, but loves holding his nephew. Everyone does. The baby is three months old and already the sun of my entire family’s universe.
We all go to work at our usual stations like elves in Santa’s Workshop. And we pretty much are. Every year, we put together bikes for Toys for Tots. When we were younger, we each built one with help from our dad, taking a break midway for cocoa or a snowball fight. As we grew up, we got better and needed less supervision, but took more breaks—which led to the cell phone rule—not allowed in the shop—and adding more bikes.
At the hour shift change, my sister goes inside to feed the baby, my dad goes inside to check on Mom, and Carter asks our other brother to go give Charlie a ride to Stone Jones to check on the Camaro so Carter can hang out with me alone.
“What?” I ask as soon as everyone leaves. Surely it isn’t about Charlie. He wouldn’t have told Carter about last night.
“I just wanted to tell you that Nickelodeon is having a Rugrats marathon this afternoon.”
I spin the wheel of the bike to make sure it doesn’t wobble while squinting at my brother. “You’re a dork, but even you aren’t that dorky. Why’d you get rid of Mal?” It’s not like he wouldn’t watch Rugrats with us. At Christmas, we are all kids again.
“I just miss you.”
I put down the WD-40. “I miss you too.”
He pretends to be super interested in the bike chain in front of him because he is still a dude, and dudes don’t let their sisters see them tear up. Even dudes who are twins and their sisters already know they are tearing up.
We don’t need words either, and for a few minutes, none are shared.
<
br /> Carter breaks the silence first. “So what do you think of Sarge?”
“He’s nice.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“Carter, stop it. Your friend has no interest in me. None.”
Carter sets his wrench down. “Because you dress like you’re Amish.”
I set my wrench down too—so I don’t throw it at his head. “Take that back.”
“Can’t. It’s the truth. You can’t hide forever.”
“I don’t like people noticing me. It’s not a crime. The rest of you can have all the attention you want.”
Carter pops up onto the workbench. “It’s not working. Sarge notices you. He pretends not to, but anytime he thinks I’m not paying attention, he’s watching you.”
I pick up the wrench again for something to do. “You’re making that up. Quit being a matchmaker; you’re no good at it.”
“Sarge is a good guy. You could do worse.”
Must not hit brother with wrench. “Charlie is a good guy, yes. He’s also very good looking and doesn’t need your help finding dates.”
“So you think he’s good looking?”
If a glare could melt his face... “Carter, stop. Of course, he’s good looking. But that doesn’t mean he’s a good match for me.”
“You guys would have beautiful babies.”
“Carter!”
“What?”
“If you want babies, go get a girlfriend and leave me out of it. I swear to God. Your ticking biological clock is not my problem.”
“I don’t want babies. That’s why I want you to have them. I’m a much better uncle than I would be a daddy.”
That is categorically untrue, but I let it slide. “I love you, Carter, but I don’t want to have babies with your sergeant.”
“Ex-sergeant,” comes a voice from behind me. A very familiar voice.
Well, that’s not embarrassing at all. I actually feel every color as it passes across my face. I must look like a kaleidoscope of pinks and reds.
“Carter, I’m glad you survived Afghanistan just to come home and be killed by your little sister,” I say, shooting him a look I hope tells him that I will get him back, and it will be spectacular. To Charlie I say, “Hi.”
His smirk holds a thousand secrets. “Hi.” He lifts his brows in a near waggle. “Sheriff Jones had a call, so he had to change our meeting, and your older brother is watching cartoons. I thought I’d come out here and help with the bikes.”
Carter promptly gives up his station. “Here you go, man. I’m going to go make some coffee, you guys want some?”
I nod. I’m still going to kill him, but I might as well force him to bring me caffeine first.
“Sorry about all the awkward,” I say when Carter is out of earshot.
Charlie just shakes his head and picks up Carter’s wrench. “I’ve put you in a weird spot with your family. It’s my fault things are awkward.”
“It’s not. Carter is—”
“Right. He’s right. I was standing there for a few minutes. I do...notice you. I can’t seem to stop noticing. And that was before...last night.”
I pretend to be absorbed in the sprocket. “What do you mean you notice me?”
“Are you fishing for compliments?”
“What? No. I just mean...I’m not...” I look down. “I don’t stand out.”
“Emily?” I look up and find him staring at me. I break the eye contact, but he brings my chin back up. “You’re beautiful. You stand out to me.”
Why are there tears forming in my eyes? “I don’t want to stand out.”
He uses his thumb to brush a tear off my cheek. “Are you sure? I feel like everything about you has been calling to me since I first saw you standing on the porch.”
My heart thumps a crazy bass rhythm. “Why, Charlie? You could have anyone you want. Guys like you... I’m the friend of the girl you ask to dance. I’m never the girl.”
He exhales a harsh sound between a laugh and a groan. “Girls like you—hell, I’ve never met anyone like you before. You scare the hell out of me.”
I want to ask why, but voices from outside carry into the building as my brothers and dad come back.
“Your mom is still feeling under the weather, so I’m going to take her to the doctor after we’re done,” Dad says. “You guys think we can get these bikes put together quickly?”
Carter hands me a coffee. “Good luck getting her to the doctor, Dad. She’s going to fight you. It’s a cliché that doctors make the worst patients for a reason.” Carter squints at me, and then uses his napkin to blot the tear track on my cheek. He shoots Charlie a look, and then brings his gaze back to me. I shake my head. It isn’t Charlie’s fault I cried. I actually don’t even know what brought the tears on. But I don’t want him blamed for it.
I get to work on the bike again, trying to focus so I don’t obsess over the things Charlie said. What is wrong with me that I straddle the line between wanting to hide from men and desperately wanting Charlie to find me worth looking for?
You’re a slut.
No.
Logically, I know I didn’t do anything wrong. It was Alan with the messed-up view about sexuality. But logic didn’t help. Not when it mattered most. Not when everyone witnessed my humiliation.
It wasn’t Alan who lifted his shirt for the camera. That was all on me, but why had I done it? Logic hadn’t applied then either. At the time, it felt empowering, but that doesn’t make sense. How was it empowering to give men a look at my body, to view me as a sexual thing to be gawked at?
At the same time, it isn’t empowering to hide my body, to be ashamed of wanting to enjoy sex. The one time I tried it certainly hadn’t been empowering.
But where does that leave me now? Neither having sex nor hiding from sex has made me feel good, so where does a woman go from there? I’m not a slut. Not in the hateful way Alan tried to imply. Wanting sex—wanting to be wanted—isn’t shameful. Why can’t I get rid of his voice in my head?
I feel Charlie’s stare like a physical touch, but I ignore it. For now.
What would it be like to just pretend I am normal? While Charlie is here, in town. He isn’t a forever guy. He won’t be here long, and he notices me. Maybe it is only because I am some kind of challenge. He probably has women throwing themselves at him all the time, so of course the one who hangs back is going to get noticed. But I can use that, can’t I? I don’t want forever. I’m too screwed up to even think about forever. But replacing Alan as the last man who touched me isn’t a horrible idea.
I let my own gaze drift to Carter. He is pretending to build a bike, but he is intently watching Charlie, concern etched on his forehead.
Carter wants me to move forward with my life. He practically gift-wrapped Charlie for me.
But Carter doesn’t know Charlie the way I do. Would it be fair to use him to get over my lack of confidence? He’s already been used. Would that put me in the same category as the woman who took his virginity?
That is icky. He deserves better.
Everyone would be better off if I went back to blending into the woodwork.
There. That settles that. Charlie is only here for a few more days. I’ll simply go back to being my normal, quiet self. He’ll get the hint. He’ll move on. I’ll move on. Everything will be okay. I twist the wrench one last time, making sure the bike is safe.
Being safe is important in this world.
Chapter Eight
Charlie
EMILY IS HIDING FROM me.
I watch the way she does it, noting when each of her family members notices her withdrawal and when they decide to allow her the space. She has little poker tells. Quiet smiles that aren’t real. The way she deftly turns conversations back to any subject that isn’t her. The way she finds tiny chores that pull her away but make her appear to still be present. The way she finds pockets of solitude in a house full of people.
I’m not the only one who notices, but I’ll bet she thinks she has th
em all fooled. Her family loves her, worries about her, but doesn’t push her.
I really want to push her. I shouldn’t have told her she scares me. It made her pull back too much.
I respect her need for quiet. For solitude. But I resent the space she puts between us. It’s her right, of course, but I hate it. I hate that she thinks she needs it. Hate that it isn’t even about me. It’s about Alan.
Alan the weasel.
But what can I do? Spend the rest of my time in Maple Grove convincing her to move on from the weasel and then leave her just when she comes around?
It’s been almost forty-eight hours since we built the bikes. I haven’t been alone with her since. My time is coming to a close. I saw my car yesterday. It’s almost done. A real beauty. Midnight blue with a white nose stripe. A 454 under the hood and sitting on seventeen-inch chrome racing rims in the front and eighteen in the rear for a great muscle car stance.
And when her interior is done, I’ll be on my way. Riding out of town like the Lone Ranger at the end of every episode. Better for having known Emily.
I can’t stop thinking about the night she hugged me. It began so awkwardly, but then something changed. At least it had for me.
Was it platonic? Hell no. But it hadn’t been a prelude to sex either. And touching her, being touched, fundamentally changed something inside me. A seismic shift.
But not the same for her.
I want inside her. I want to claim her. Make her mine. Part of me wants to make slow, sweet love to her. But I’ll be honest, part of me wants to fuck her into the mattress. I want her to get dirty and nasty as fuck. I want to find what gets her off and set her free. I want her addicted to my cock and I want to cover her in my cum.
But that isn’t going to happen.
She doesn’t want to see where this can go—because we both know it’s going nowhere. I was upfront with her about noticing her, and she stopped talking to me. Can’t get more straightforward than that.
But that doesn’t stop my gut from clenching because she is ignoring me.
