All the Forbidden Things

by Jones, Lesley

  “Kenz, why are you here? I don’t remember inviting your ugly arse.”

  “To see your daughter. Can I hold her?”

  “No. One look at your face and she’ll be scarred for life—”

  “Whatever. I’m washing my hands, and then I’m coming for her. Don’t fear, Layla, I’ll rescue you from the mean, moody, man,” she calls out while heading into my house. I shake my head as I turn to greet her parents.

  “Yay, you brought the noise,” I deadpan. They both know I’m joking. Kenz is like the little sister I never had, and we love to rip the shit out of each other every opportunity we get. The trouble is, growing up around Cal, Jake, Jay and me, she’s now Queen of the quick comeback and often leaves us speechless with her smart-arse responses.

  I move Layla to the crook of my arm and shake hands with Cal.

  “She insisted on coming, even took a day off work.”

  “Hey, you—oh my god, is that the outfit we bought her? She looks so adorable.” Mel kisses my cheek and then Layla’s head. “Hope you don’t mind that we brought the girls? Billie hasn’t left the house since we brought her home and I thought it’d do her good,” she says.

  It’s at that point I notice Billie climbing from the car. Although, if Mel hadn’t told me, I’d never have recognised the girl standing on my drive as Billie Wild.

  She closes the car door and turns towards me.

  Silence.

  She stares down at her feet as she moves slowly along my driveway. When she reaches the front of the car, she looks up. The bluest of blue eyes meet mine, and she stops moving.

  Deafening silence.

  No birds singing.

  No traffic sounds.

  The silence is so loud it hurts my ears.

  What. The. Actual. Fuck?

  She takes a step towards me, and my hearing returns. The gravel crunches beneath her green biker boots, a pigeon coos, brakes screech, engines rev . . . a bomb could fucking drop, but nothing, not a single thing can divert my attention from Billie Wild as she moves towards me.

  Her long red hair hangs in a thick plait over her right shoulder, and the khaki green sweatshirt she’s wearing hangs off her left.

  A current surges through me, both inside and out, jumping from hair to hair across my skin, igniting each one with a charge.

  This is fucked.

  This is Billie.

  Cal’s little sister.

  My body’s reaction to her is ridiculous to the point of making me paranoid that anyone watching me might know that my dick just twitched. I shake my head and turn my head to look along the hallway and into my house, just to check that no one’s witnessing my reaction to seeing my best friend’s little sister.

  I need to get fucking laid.

  I laugh at my sad, pathetic self and turn back to face Billie. Her step falters, and the small, shy smile she was wearing turns into a full-on grin just as the sun fleetingly breaks through the grey November sky and she comes to a stop right in front of me.

  “Bamm,” I greet her quietly, “you grew up.”

  “Wilma,” she responds, sounding breathy, “you had a kid.”

  I don’t reply. I can’t. I just watch Billie look at my daughter then back up at me. My arm reaches out and slides around her small waist, and I almost drown in my own awareness of her as I lean in and kiss her cheek.

  “It’s good to see you,” I say against her skin.

  “It’s been a while,” she replies without moving.

  “Years.”

  “Too long.”

  I take in her fresh, clean scent as I hold her close. The citrus of her perfume pervades my senses, and then she’s gone. Stepping back and looking up at me, I take in the confused expression on her face, and all I can do is shrug because, in all honesty, I have no fucking clue what just happened.

  “Let’s go in before the baby gets cold,” I suggest.

  Without another word, she turns and heads into my house. I look down at Layla with a frown before turning to follow Billie. Her hips sway in front of me, and I make zero attempts not to take in every inch of her fine arse, which looks as if it’s been poured into her jeans.

  “Daddy’s going to Hell, baby girl. Straight to Hell,” I tell her through gritted teeth.

  Makenzie takes Layla from me as soon as I enter the kitchen, Mel unpacks a bag full of groceries, Cal heads to my beer fridge, and Billie leans against the worktop, taking in everyone else as well as my home.

  It bothers me that I instantly wonder what she’s thinking.

  Mum and I spent a few hours last week De-Whitney-ing the house. We moved her clothes out of my wardrobe and into her new, downstairs bedroom, and all of the artwork she’d insisted we buy when we were together is now hanging in the same room too. Every picture of us was removed from its frame—because Mum wouldn’t let me destroy the frames—and thrown into the recycle bin. The only one I saved was a photo of Whit holding Layla just after she’d been born. That one I’d put beside her new temporary bed in her new temporary bedroom.

  Cal reappears with a beer in each hand and passes one to me. I hear Makenzie talking to Layla as she wanders around the family room, and Billie quietly asking Mel if there’s anything she can do to help. It’s then that I notice the plaster cast on Billie’s hand and realise I never mentioned the attack when she walked in.

  “So, how are you, Bamm? Is everything mending okay?”

  Internally, I cringe as soon as I start to speak. Should I have said anything? Cal told me that she was doing okay, but Mel said she hadn’t left the house since they’d got back.

  “Ribs are still sore.” She holds up her cast. “And I’ll know more about this after my appointment next week. My head was glued, and the stitches to my lip, and inside my mouth were all dissolvable and have healed well, so yeah, I’m doing okay.”

  I take a swig from my beer and nod, not making eye contact with her because I feel bad for making her talk about her injuries.

  “How’s your wife doing? Is she still in the hospital?”

  My gut pulls tight, and my first thought is that she’s just being a bitch because I brought up her attack, but then Kenzie questions, “Yeah, where is Whit?”

  My mouth opens, but no words come out as Mel turns around from the worktop, and my gaze slices between her and Cal.

  “We didn’t say anything to the girls . . .” Mel starts.

  “Shit. Sorry, dude. I meant to call and ask you what you wanted us to say. I’m out of the loop and don’t really know what’s been made public, and didn’t wanna—”

  “Nah, it’s okay.” I interrupt Cal but then trail off because I’m not sure what else to say. I rake my hand through my way-too-long hair and shrug. I watch Kenzie settle herself beside Billie, as she shifts a wriggling Layla up to her shoulder. Looking between the two girls, who are now both women, it hits me how quickly life can happen when you don’t pay attention. Billie was, in fact, the first newborn I’d ever held, Kenzie the second. And now here we are, Kenzie holding my baby girl, and Billie? The last time I saw her, she was an awkward, angry, pre-teen, and now look at her—which, believe me, I am doing. Way too much.

  Fuck. Me!

  The silence in the room is awkward, so I clear my throat and begin to talk. “The day before Whitney’s accident, she left me for Alix Gardener—”

  “What?” Kenzie snaps, before attempting to pass Layla to Mel, who looks at her hands and shakes her head.

  Billie intercedes without a word and lays claim to my daughter. I watch as she settles Layla against the middle of her chest, one hand under her bum, the other—the one in the cast—against her back. My mouth goes dry as Layla calms, pulls up her knees, sticks her bum in the air, and pokes her hand into Billie’s top.

  I lick my lips before continuing. “Whit had been having an affair with Gardener for as long as we’d been together. When she told me she was leaving, she also hinted there was a chance Layla wasn’t mine.”

  “Wow. Seriously. Wow. So, that’s
why she was in the car with him.” Kenzie says, quietly while staring at the floor and shaking her head.

  “Yeah, but get this,” Mel chimes in, “the bitch tells Max the baby might not be his before leaving to start her new life with her boy toy, then she walked out and left Layla here.”

  “Thank fuck she did,” Billie adds. “Sorry”—she looks directly at me—“for swearing . . . in front of Layla, I mean . . . But . . .” She shakes her head. “If she hadn’t left her here, she might’ve been in the car with them when the accident happened.”

  “So, is she yours? Where’s Whitney now? How did I not know any of this?” Kenzie reels off her questions before I even get a chance to consider Billie’s statement.

  Kenz has always gone off like a rocket. Cal blames Mel’s Italian side of the family, whereas Billie has always been an old soul. Even as a little girl, she’d look at you with wise eyes that had seen too much, and her quiet, considerate personality reflected that.

  A pang of guilt hits me like a dart to my chest when I think about Billie as a little girl, and my reaction to Billie now, the gorgeous woman standing in my kitchen.

  “Layla’s mine,” I respond. “Aaron arranged an overnight paternity test, and she’s mine. Whit’s currently at a spinal rehab facility. She still can’t walk, but she’ll be coming back here next week.”

  “Here?” Kenz and Billie both question together.

  I let out a huff at the thought of justifying my decision again.

  “We’ve just had a baby together; she’s been involved in a car crash that has affected her ability to walk. How’s it gonna look to the press if I throw her arse out?”

  “Do the press know she’d been cheating on you? Banging Gardener? That she had no clue who her baby-daddy was?” Kenzie bites out.

  “No, not yet. But I’m sure they’ll eventually work things out. However, I’ve got Layla to consider, so they won’t be hearing about any of that from me.”

  “You should be protecting Layla from her, not the press. What an absolute bitch.”

  “Kenz,” Cal warns his daughter.

  “It’s just a temporary thing. I’m not planning on letting her stay. I’ve already had divorce papers drawn up, and I’ll be serving her with those as soon as it’s legal to do so. She’ll be here just long enough to recover from the accident and for me to put out a statement saying that, when the accident happened, we’d already separated, and that since the accident, Whit had moved back in so that we could work on our marriage, but that it’s become apparent our differences are irreconcilable . . . blah, blah, blah. Aaron’s good, he knows his shit. The team he’s put together to handle the divorce, know what they’re doing, the label knows their shit, too, and they’re backing me in this. It means I come out of it looking like I tried, and not like a total arsehole who threw his disabled wife out,” I explain.

  Kenzie folds her arms and crosses her legs while staring at the toe of her boots.

  “And what about Layla?” Billie asks. “What will happen to Layla in all of this?” The hand that was resting on my baby’s back now protectively cups her head, and I watch as Billie lands a gentle kiss on her crown.

  I feel dizzy at her show of affection.

  “I’m petitioning for full custody. We have all the evidence we need to prove Whitney’s affair with Gardener had been going on for some time. Aaron has also obtained copies of the toxicology reports on both her and Gardener after the accident. He had a little bit of everything floating through him, and she had cocaine and MDMA.”

  “Oh fuck, I did not know that,” Mel states.

  “I only found out on Thursday.”

  “Is he coming today? Aaron?” Billie asks.

  “No, he has something on, but Jake’ll be here at some stage,” I respond. “Anyway, I feel like I’ve explained this nine-hundred times now. I don’t want Whitney’s name mentioned again, but can I just add that I hope I can trust you not to repeat any of this to anyone outside of this room.”

  “Of course,” Billie agrees.

  “Kenz?”

  “When she learns to walk again, can I kick her in the crotch?”

  “Makenzie, there’ll be no threats of violence, thank you,” Mel warns.

  “It’s not a threat, Mother. It’s a promise.”

  “Not until she’s back in America, or wherever she decides to go once she leaves here. I don’t want anything increasing her stay,” I tell her jokingly… kinda.

  “Bloody hell you grown-ups are no fun. Am I allowed a beer?”

  “NO!” Cal and Mel respond in unison to their daughter's request.

  Billie

  “You sure you don’t mind doing this?” Max asks.

  I snuggle Layla to my chest; I can’t stop sniffing her, she smells so good. “No, go. I’ve got this.” Cal had asked Max to run through some new songs Max had written for their upcoming album and I have no problem snuggling this angel until they get back.

  “There’s a changing table and all her nappy stuff in the laundry room. I’ll just drop her bottle in the warmer. It’ll take three minutes. Just give it a shake once it’s done and then test it on the back of your hand. She usually finishes the whole four ounces, and I wind her once when she’s had about two oun—”

  “Max.” Mel turns from the oven and calls out to him, but he doesn’t listen.

  “Don't bother changing her before you feed her because she’ll probably crap about half-hour after she’s fed, also—”

  “Max!” Mel repeats.

  “You might wanna put a tea towel over your shoulder. Are you sure you’re gonna be able to do this with just one hand?”

  “My hand’s fine,” I tell him.

  “Right, well, I’ve got my phone, and we’ll just be across the drive—”

  Mel finally snaps and yells at him. “Max, will you please fuck off. We’ve got this.”

  We all watch as one of his hand's lands on his hip and the other rakes through his hair. He looks between each of us, and his golden eyes finally settle on me as he says quietly, “I’ve only ever left her with my mum.”

  My heart, oh my heart . . . a very small piece of it bursts out of my chest and lands in his hands.

  This man. He’s been so very badly broken, and yet, still, he has so much love to give.

  “I’ve got her, Max, I promise. My hand is fine, and I promise I’ll take care of your daughter. If I need you, for anything, I promise I’ll message you or bring her over.”

  He nods and swallows before he nods again and leaves without saying another word.

  I stare at the empty archway he left through, my heart and my head both taking their time to regroup.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? I could kill that damn bitch for what she’s done to that man. His trust and confidence in women are sitting at zero because of her,” Mel rants, her American accent coming through loud and strong.

  “And to think he’s allowing her back here,” Kenzie adds.

  I maintain my silence as I stare down at Layla. Still a little floored over the absolute love and devotion Max has towards his daughter.

  I understand why he’s allowing Whitney to move back in, but I’m not sure I entirely agree with it, not that I’ve got to. I’ve barely even seen him in person over the past ten years, but for some reason, I feel invested. I’ve been in his company, in his home, holding his daughter for less than an hour, and I’m overwhelmed by how affected I am by the man.

  I don’t know what I was expecting when I slowly struggled out of the back of Mel’s car and started walking up the driveway towards Max Young's house, but it wasn’t the sight that beheld me.

  My ribs still screamed with pain as I slid carefully out of the SUV, and I stared down at my boots as they crunched along the gravel driveway. I’d kind of hidden, okay, flat-out lied about how much pain I was still in, to my brother, Mel, and Kenzie, so it was my own fault that no one offered me any help, and they all marched off without me.

  It was more than that sharp pain t
hat was pulling my attention as I stared at my boots. It was also the tingle that curled up from my toes, at the same time as it prickled down from my scalp, meeting somewhere in my belly. I assumed I was just being hyper-aware of my surroundings due to the fact this was my first time out of the house since the attack. But it was more than me being alert, but I didn’t know what exactly it was more of.

  I looked up towards the house I was being drawn toward, and that’s when I saw him.

  Fuck. Me.

  I was in trouble.

  So much trouble. The worst kind.

  Basically, I was fucked.

  Tall, slim, dark, and so fucking hot I almost tripped over the too-big boots I’d borrowed from Kenzie.

  He was holding a baby. A tiny little girl wrapped in a cream fleece blanket, nothing but an enormous bow and a headful of dark hair peeking out of the bundle in his arms.

  My chest felt tight, my ovaries quivered, and my womb contracted.

  His daughter. This was his baby girl. The baby girl he’d had with his wife.

  He was a married man.

  I needed to get my shit together.

  Why now? Why after all these years did Max again have my heart fluttering like a bird in my chest?

  Had he changed, or was it just that I’d grown up? Because other parts of me were fluttering too as I moved towards him. Either way, there was no denying the mean, moody, hotness standing in the doorway before me.

  He looked away, and for a moment, I panicked that he didn’t remember me. That he was calling into the house and asking my brother who the weirdo creeping up his drive was. But when he looked back, he wore a smile that made every female part of me pull tight. I returned what I hoped was somewhat of a sexy smile and stopped in front of him.

  “Bamm,” he said in that quiet, raspy voice of his, “you grew up.”

  He remembered me! He remembered us! Bamm and Wilma! He remembered us!