Knowing You_The Cursed Series Part 2

by Rebecca Donovan

  “I’m going to have Stefan make us frozen drinks,” Ashton tells me when she shuts off the cart.

  “I’ll be drying boob sweat in the bathroom.”

  She laughs as she walks away.

  I don’t see Grant or Rhett when I enter the shack. Good, because I need a few minutes to cool off and fix my hair. It’s completely out of control from the humidity and Ashton’s maniacal driving. She has two speeds—dead-stop and foot pressed all the way to the metal. I may need the chiropractor at the rec center before the end of the summer.

  I’m balancing with a foot on the toilet and the other on the bathroom counter with my shirt pulled up to allow the cool air direct access to my cleavage when the door pushes open.

  “This feels incredible,” I tell Ashton. But when I turn my head, it isn’t Ashton standing there, it’s Grant.

  He looks at me in fascination, like he never thought to stand on the toilet with his shirt pulled up to cool himself off. “Uh …”

  My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

  “Sorry.” Grant turns to leave.

  He’s about to walk through the door when my mouth decides to say the most asinine thing ever. “I’m sober.”

  He stops. Before he faces me again, I quickly pull my shirt down to cover myself. When he turns to look at me, his mouth is quirked like he can’t quite believe I said that. Neither can I.

  “And you’re also standing on a toilet, in the shack bathroom.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, stepping down. “I was just saying … that … I’m sober … in case you wanted to know.”

  He chuckles. Then takes a step toward me. I hold my breath, hoping. “I am going to kiss you, Lana. But not here.”

  “Good. I think.” I bite my lip to keep another bout of unfiltered honesty from escaping.

  Grant laughs again, forever amused by my absurdity.

  “I have mango and pineapple or strawberry and kiwi,” Ashton announces in the distance, her voice growing louder. “I told him to keep them virgin in case Grant … oh, hi Grant.”

  I close my eyes and swallow.

  “I’m not a virgin,” he tells her, teasing.

  “Good to know,” she says with a cock of an eyebrow. “Are you, Lana?”

  “What? Omigod stop!”

  Grant and Ashton burst out laughing. I am the funniest person on the planet today, apparently.

  “I’ll take the mango.” Grant passes it to me after taking it from Ashton, since he’s blocking the doorway.

  “Ashton, would you mind helping Stefan at the bar for the rest of the afternoon?” he asks her without taking his eyes off me.

  “Yes! I finally get some action. I mean, behind the bar. You know, pouring drinks.”

  “We get it,” I say to shut her up, because obviously neither of us can stop our mouths from being stupid right now.

  Grant and I drive off in the bev cart, leaving Ashton with Stefan at the Ninth Hole Bar.

  “Let’s get the obvious questions out of the way,” he says, pretty much as soon as we’re moving. “I’m eighteen. Senior at Printz-Lee. One sister, Faith, who’s fourteen, and one brother, Garrett, who’s eleven. We have a golden retriever named Max. My father’s a principal at one of the local elementary schools, and my mother’s a cardiac surgeon. We live in a small town you’ve never heard of in Connecticut. I have no idea what I want to do with my life other than travel and see as many places as I can before I am forced to grow up. I’m on the crew team and play lacrosse. And well, that should cover the general biography.”

  I blink. He peers over at me in expectation. “Your turn.”

  “I’m Lana. Nothing else really to know beyond that.”

  “C’mon,” he coaxes. “No brothers? Sisters?” I shake my head. “What year are you?”

  “Junior.” Then reluctantly add when he nods in encouragement, “I live with my mother in a small city you’ve never heard of in Massachusetts. No dogs, although this stray cat likes to pee under our front steps and it smells horrible.” He lets out a laugh. “I’ve never been outside Sherling until I arrived here last Friday.” His brows rise. “My mother does whatever she has to do to take care of us, as do I. And I’m not really a team player, so no sports.”

  This amuses him as well.

  “Why are you here for the summer?” I ask him just before we reach the next group of golfers.

  “My father thought it would be good to have some experience, working,” he tells me uncomfortably. “I know, it sounds terrible because it’s not that I didn’t want to work, but they won’t let me during the school year. And every other year, during the summers, we’d travel somewhere.”

  “Huh, I’ve been working since I was thirteen.”

  The golf cart stops a little harder than I’m sure he intended. He’s looking at me with a bewildered expression when the golfers approach the cart.

  When we take off again, I decide to say, “I’m not a private school kid. I wouldn’t be here if someone else weren’t paying for it. I don’t come from money. And I have no idea what I want to do with my life, and I’m not worried about it.”

  His mouth turns up. “I like everything about you.”

  “Even my honesty?”

  “Especially your honesty.” After we stop for a guy to putt and are waived on, he says, “And as much as I try not to lie, I do. But I won’t ever lie to you. I think it’s only fair.”

  “That’s your curse talking,” I tease.

  “You and your curses,” he says with a chuckle. “You’ll have to explain them to me another time.”

  We come to a stop next to a group of guys, younger than most of the golfers by at least four decades. I’d guess they’re in their late twenties. But they’re acting like they’re still in high school with the way they talk shit and jostle each other.

  “I’ll have Johnny Walker Black on the rocks”—one of the more pompous players orders from Grant—“and a bottle of water.” He then proceeds to slide his hand along the back of my shorts to cup my ass.

  I freeze.

  Grant must sense my tension because he stops mid-scoop to look across the cart at me. His eyes tighten, registering something’s wrong, even though he can’t see exactly what from his position.

  And then the guy squeezes.

  Fury licks up my spine. It must be transparent on my face from the shock I see in Grant’s eyes. But before he can react, I reach behind me and take a hold of the guy’s thumb and twist it around like I’m trying to flip him onto his back using only his digit. His entire body contorts, trying to gain some relief from the wrenching. He hollers out in pain.

  “See this body?” I growl into his ear between clenched teeth.

  He squeals when I tug a little more.

  “It’s not yours to touch.”

  “What the hell?” one of his friends calls out when he realizes what’s happening.

  I release him. He shakes his hand vigorously. “Bitch.” I smirk, malice still simmering in my glare.

  Grant hasn’t moved in the few seconds the entire thing went down. I glance over at him suddenly realizing how this must have looked. Shit. I give him a tentative half smile, knowing my uncontrollable anger can be a lot for anyone to witness. Guess I’ll need more boxing lessons.

  “Uh, you guys are cut off for the rest of the day,” Grant says, his voice authoritative, not allowing any room for them to argue. “If you have a problem with that, you can talk to the manager. But I’m not serving you. C’mon, Lana.”

  “Are you serious?” a bigger, oafish guy bellows in disbelief.

  We drive off before they can make a scene. Or more of one.

  “I’m—”

  “Are you okay?” he asks, interrupting my apologizing that he had to see that side of me. But not for almost ripping the guy’s thumb off.

  “Oh yeah,” I say dismissively. “I used to work at a dive bar. That was nothing, trust me.”

  “Nothing? I don’t know if I’d say that. But you may have ruined his golf
game, which is the least he deserves.” He looks over at me with a crooked smile and admiration in his eyes. “You are unlike any girl I’ve ever met.”

  “I guess I should’ve included that I was mean as part of my bio.”

  Grant laughs loudly, earning an annoyed scowl from golfers within earshot. Golf really is the dumbest sport.

  “Please don’t ever change,” he says, gaining control over his laughter as we roll to a stop. Then he leans over just before we exit to serve the approaching golfers, his breath tickling my neck. “And I really can’t wait to kiss you.”

  “I’m still sober,” I tell him, my cheeks blossoming from the huge smile on my face.

  We spend the rest of the afternoon asking each other a thousand questions about our likes, dislikes, favorite books, movies we loved, foods we hate, even wishes made blowing out birthday candles. It was like we were on a first date … at work … if I dated. But he never does kiss me, no matter how many times he could have, and I wanted him to.

  After I’m done changing in the locker room, Cary asks me to join him in his office. “I heard about what happened at the twelfth hole.”

  “Omigod, I’m so, so sorry,” I say in a rush before he can continue. Panic overtaking me, and apparently my mouth too. “Is he okay? Did I break his thumb? I know I shouldn’t have assaulted a member, and I’m really sorry. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

  “Lana,” Cary says calmly. I press my lips together to keep from saying more. “I’m sorry this happened to you and I wanted to be sure you’re okay.”

  “What?” I ask in confusion. “Me?”

  “Yes. We take what happened very seriously. No one, I don’t care if he’s a member or the President of the United States, has any right to lay his hands on you. I want you to feel safe working here. That member has had his privileges revoked temporarily, so that he understands that his behavior will not be tolerated on our premises.”

  My mouth drops open. I finally utter, somewhat coherently, “You’re worried about me?”

  He smiles warmly. “You’re part of the KCC family. Of course I am.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. I’ll see you on Friday then.”

  I’m still in shock when I walk out of his office and almost walk into Grant who is standing by the staff entrance.

  “Thinking again?” he teases.

  “Huh?” I ask, redirecting my attention. “Did you tell Cary about what happened?”

  “Yeah. He needed to know. What happened wasn’t okay, even if you did dislocate the guy’s thumb. Which was pretty impressive, by the way. Besides, I wanted to be sure none of the other bartenders served those guys while they were here.”

  I’ve never had anyone stand up for me before, other than Tori and Nina. But they’d be right there with me, punching and clawing, not defending my honor.

  I throw my arms around Grant’s chest, because I’m too short to wrap them around his neck, and hug him, totally taking him by surprise. After the initial shock of my reaction wears off, he hugs me back, tight. “Thank you,” I say, my voice muffled within his arms.

  He squeezes me again before we both let go.

  “Um, how was your day?” Ashton asks from beside us.

  I grin insanely. “I kicked ass and served the thirsty. You?”

  “I made out with Stefan and got a buzz.”

  Grant and I laugh in surprise. “On that over-share,” Grant declares, “I guess I’ll see you …” He hesitates. “Um, Monday, if you can make it to Stefan’s.” He frowns, and I mirror the expression. “I can’t believe it’s going to be that long.”

  “What about Friday?”

  “My dad is coming into town. He wanted to spend the weekend together.”

  “Oh,” I say, not hiding my disappointment. “Then I’ll see you Monday.” It’s like my entire body deflates as I watch him walk toward the employee parking lot.

  “Aw, he didn’t kiss you, did he?” Ashton says, slinging her arm around my shoulders as she directs us toward our shuttle. I reluctantly tear my eyes away from watching Grant walk away.

  “Nope. He didn’t kiss me.”

  The beast laughed as the girl fought to be free of his cloak. But it was a magic cloak, meant to trap anyone within its bind who was not the man meant to wear it. She fought for her breath, choking as it grew tighter and tighter. And as promised, the beast sang.

  I should be careful what I wish for.

  At seven-thirty, Mr. Garner wakes me and drags me to the rec center again, where Mack is waiting to torture me. At least today, he lets me punch stuff.

  “Is this our thing?” I ask Mr. Garner when we’re walking through the Court afterward, sweaty and sore.

  “I want to make sure you have a safe outlet for your anger.”

  “Or … you’re making sure I know how to hit harder when I do get into fights.”

  And I wish I never said that, because when Mr. Garner wakes me on Friday morning, he introduces me to Jasmine’s meditation and yoga class. And I thought Mack was bad? Jasmine and her soothing words of inner peace and letting go, all while twisting and balancing my body in the most inhuman positions, is so much worse. My mind is far from calm. I want to tip Mr. Garner over, watching him flow through the positions like he’s water. I’m on the verge of screaming when she finally strikes the gong to end our session.

  “I really hate that I don’t hate you,” I mutter again when we leave. “I’ve decided that’s our mantra.”

  “We’ll work on that,” he says with a smirk, looking relaxed and all zenned-out.

  Later that morning, before meeting Ashton and Sophia for breakfast, I finally connect with my mother. We missed each other’s calls the entire week. It’s brief, both of us avoiding honestly answering how we’re doing. I miss her. And today of all days is harder than any other.

  I don’t expect her to say it. She never has in the past.

  “I love you. You were my choice.” This is what she tells me every year.

  “I love you too,” I say before hanging up. There are so many questions I want to ask her, about how she’s feeling, if she’s keeping up with the bills, but mostly about how she knows Niall. But I couldn’t ask any of them today.

  I wander into the Court, not ready to see the girls at breakfast. My heart aches and my throat constricts to fight back sobs. I weave through an intricate labyrinth of hedges until I come upon a heart-shaped rose garden at its center. I am lost in my grief when I feel his arms wrap around me from behind.

  “Happy Birthday, Princess.” Brendan kisses the top of my head. I shove him away. “What? No birthday love?”

  “Not as long as you keep calling me that,” I seethe, facing away to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  “Honestly, it’s what comes out naturally when I see you. I swear it’s not to remind you of that night. I’m a bastard, but I’m not that twisted.” After a moment of hesitation, he says, “I’m sorry. I’ll try to refrain from saying it. But I make no promises.” I can feel him studying me, trying to circle around to get a better view of my face. I continue to evade him, turning my head to hide my emotions.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “How did you find me?” I ask, deflecting.

  “Followed your GPS,” he answers honestly. “Now, tell me what happened? Why are you upset, today of all days?”

  “Because it is today.” I sit within an egg-shaped swing set at the edge of the garden. Brendan pushes his way inside and sits next to me. It’s tight because it’s not meant to be shared, so I’m practically on his lap. “What the hell?”

  “Relax, I’m not coming on to you.” He pulls my legs across his lap and I adjust so I’m sitting at an angle on the cushion. “Talk to me. I won’t leave you alone ‘til you do.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Lana, cut the shit.”

  I close my eyes to fight back the tears that start to form at just the thought of saying it out loud. “I miss my grandmother
.” I swallow hard.

  “When did she die?” he asks, his voice careful as if just asking might hurt me.

  “Almost three years ago. But it’s harder today, because … I guess, it was our day,” I explain in a rasp. “My mother has always had a hard time celebrating my birthday. I think it has to do with my father, since he left her seventeen, pregnant and heartbroken. I have a feeling he was the love of her life, and she never got over it. And I’m the reminder of that heartache, even sixteen years later.”

  I have Brendan’s rapt attention. His deep brown eyes take in every word, his hand gently gripping my knee as if to console me.

  “Why am I telling you this?”

  “Because I’m a good listener,” he answers with a small smile. “You were about to tell me about your grandmother.”

  I can’t look at him when I start talking, so I pluck at a loose thread on the cushion. “She would take me out every year. I think it was more to keep me away from my depressed mother, but we always did something crazy. For my tenth birthday, we went to all the ice cream places in town on a mission to try ten different flavors. I thought I was going to be sick. Or for my eighth birthday, I was obsessed with Thumbelina and wanted to live in a flower, so we plucked them from people’s front yards or window boxes and created a bouquet so big I had to carry it with two hands. Just ridiculous things. The last year, for my thirteenth birthday, we sprawled out on a blanket in front of a memorial statue in the center of the city while cars passed by and some even honked at us. We looked up at the sky, and made up stories that went along with the shapes of the clouds. She always told me stories, some real, but most were twisted fairytales.” I let out a broken sigh. “I wish she were still here.”

  “I’m close with my grandmother too. She raised me. Even before my mother, you know,” he says quietly. “My mother was only a couple years older than yours when I was born.”

  I shift my eyes to examine his face, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice.

  “How old were you when …?” I can’t quite bring myself to say, murdered.