Combust

by K. Bromberg

  “I’m hungry. You hungry? Let’s go get breakfast. Break bread . . . or in our case, break pancakes.”

  I scrunch my nose and study him. The messy brown hair, eyes laden with humor that probably see more than they should, and that body. If I were to base my opinion solely on what his abs look like, well, hell . . . at least I’ll have something good to look at when I get writer’s block.

  “Breakfast?”

  “Yeah, that stuff you eat in the morning. Fuel for the day. The must-have meal. Breakfast.”

  My stomach rumbles at the thought. “Sure. Yeah. You have some, uh”—I let go of where my hand is holding my robe together and point to a smear of red on the side of his face—“lipstick on your cheek.”

  “That isn’t the only place I have it.” He flashes me a devilish grin before unapologetically walking out of the family room. “Be ready in ten to leave.”

  And I stare after him. Of course I do. My eyes wander over his retreating back and I picture things I shouldn’t be thinking. What he’d look like naked with a strategically placed kiss of lipstick.

  Then I groan.

  I can’t think like this.

  Besides, he said he likes to joke.

  He’s probably joking.

  Then why can’t I get the visual out of my head?

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” She’s been looking at those pancakes like she’s starving but hasn’t made a dent in them.

  Her eyes dart to her plate and then back to mine.

  “I’m not that hungry.”

  Bullshit.

  My coffee scalds my tongue, but fuck if it doesn’t taste like heaven . . . and clears the cobwebs from my head that too much whiskey allowed to grow.

  “That wasn’t what your stomach was saying in the car.” Not even a smile. Just a blush of her cheeks. Frickin’ women. “Is it that you aren’t hungry or more that you’re afraid I’m going to see you eat?” The quick blink of her eyes says I’ve nailed it on the head. “If that’s the case, it’s going to be pretty miserable having you sit on the couch next to me, starving to death and all.”

  She meets the lift of my brow with the clench of her jaw. Still not even a crack of a smile.

  “I’m watching what I eat.”

  “Why?” I reach forward and help myself to a forkful of her pancakes. There’s no way I’m letting Bertha’s pancakes go to waste. They’re legendary.

  “Because I need to.”

  “Need to? You women are too harsh on yourselves.”

  She opens her mouth and then shuts it as I study her. Raven-colored hair, kind of short, kind of edgy, kind of hot in a rocker girl way. Gray eyes so light they’re almost clear. A set of lips—damn, a set of lips that have blow job written all over them. Her shirt is baggy and earlier her robe covered her, but her body seems normal. No third leg growing out of her hip or anything.

  But she’s self-conscious. A bit shy. Very uncomfortable in her own skin.

  This isn’t the same woman I’ve seen in pictures in Damon’s house. That girl was full of fire and brimstone and a whole hell of a lot of rebellion.

  No doubt the ex-boyfriend did this to her. From what Damon hinted at, it’s been a rough few days for her.

  “Do you mind?” I reach my fork out again, and she pushes her plate toward me. I take another bite and smile. “You haven’t lived until you’ve devoured Mama Bertha’s pancakes.” Her eyes watch as I chew her food. “If you get hungry, your fork is right there. Your stomach will thank me.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She’ll be eating them by the time we leave. I’ll make sure of it.

  “So what brings you to Sunnyville?”

  “Damon didn’t tell you?”

  “Bits and pieces, but he’s a guy. We aren’t known for being real observant or forthcoming.”

  “I needed a break.” Her eyes flit over my shoulder to where Bertha is chatting up the old-guy crew who come and occupy the counter every morning for a few hours. “Somewhere I could go and finish a project I’m working on.”

  “Project?”

  “Album. Songs. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “I’m assuming having a studio helps. Wouldn’t it be easier to do that at home?”

  Her eyes harden. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought so, now would I?” Ah, there’s the fight in her. “I can write lyrics anywhere. Besides, my place was kind of stifling my creativity.”

  Hm. They must have lived together.

  “Is ‘I needed a break’ code for ‘my boyfriend’s an asshole’?” Might as well lay the truth out there.

  “Ex-boyfriend.”

  “You or him?”

  “Me but only because I was blindsided.”

  I hiss. “Ouch. That sucks. What happened?”

  “You don’t hold back, do you?”

  “What’s the point? It’s going to come out sooner or later.” I shove another forkful of her pancakes in my mouth. “So?”

  I get a glimpse of a smile as she shakes her head.

  “It wasn’t working.”

  “For him, right? It wasn’t working for him, but it was for you?”

  “Something like that. Working together can make things tough at times.”

  “Wait. Oh . . . do I know who he is?” Damon said she was big time, but he didn’t say who she worked with.

  She shrugs. “Jett Kroger.”

  Her eyes hold mine, waiting for recognition to fire, but hell, there’s no need to wait. Everyone knows who Jett fucking Kroger is. The bad boy of rock with an incredible voice, a killer instinct for trends, and who’s produced an endless stream of hits over the past few years. That and a reputation for being a hothead who causes trouble.

  “You look too damn innocent to be with him.” The words are out there as I realize she’s the one behind the number one hits. She’s the lyrics to his beat.

  She stutters a laugh. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

  “I just—”

  “I’ve heard it all, so just say it. At this point, I’ve learned to have tough skin. Nothing will offend me.” She laughs and finally gives me a genuine smile, but her eyes show the truth. She’s been hurt. “She’s trying too hard to fit into his crowd. She isn’t his type. Jett could do better, so much better. Don’t sleep with the hired help. And the list goes on—”

  “Actually, that’s not what I was thinking.” I lean back in the booth and stare at her, immediately feeling the need to protect her from the snarky comments. No doubt the assholes were just jealous. “I was going to say his music is killer, but he comes off like a dick, and you deserve better than that.”

  “Yeah, well . . . it didn’t stop me from loving him.”

  “The heart’s blind. It’s the head that causes all the trouble.”

  Her body pauses for the briefest of seconds, an internal struggle waging a silent war across her expression. “Sometimes both are stupid,” she murmurs, shifting her gaze from mine so she can stab a piece of pancake with her fork and eat it.

  “So, is this the whole distance makes the heart grow fonder thing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Obviously, you still like the guy or else you wouldn’t appear so miserable—”

  “I am not miserable.”

  “Just like you’re not hungry.” She stops mid-chew and rolls her eyes at me.

  “What’s your point, Grady?”

  “Is this one of those situations where you leave so he sees what he’s missing? Then in a few months, you go back with a new haircut, a careless attitude, and your cleavage and curves on display so he falls madly in love with you all over again.” I get the death glare from her. Guess that means I’m closer to the truth than she wants to admit. Either that or she’s pissed I’m even suggesting such a thing.

  And she takes another bite.

  Hell, if I piss her off enough, she might forget she isn’t hungry and eat the rest of the food.

  “I highly doubt that will h
appen.”

  “You didn’t say no.”

  “Let’s just say the woman riding him in my bed told me that even if I showed up buck naked with a portable stripper pole, he wouldn’t give a second glance my way.”

  “Well, shit.” Not much I can say to ease the assholery he did to her.

  “Pretty much.” She draws the words out.

  “And yet you still love him?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” The hurt in her eyes said it all for her.

  “Being with someone for almost two years doesn’t make it easy to turn off the feelings, no matter how much he screwed me over.”

  “Literally.”

  Her eyes, storm clouds of emotion, flash up from where she’s pouring syrup on her pancakes. For a minute, I think she’s going to cry, but then she surprises me when she throws her head back and laughs.

  “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

  “Yep.” I take a sip of my coffee and watch her. She’s pretty. No, not just pretty, but sexy. There is a difference between the two. And not in the classic sense, but there is definitely something about her that would make any man look twice. The bitch riding her ex was completely wrong. “So . . . the project you’re finishing . . . is it his?”

  “It’s the label’s, but yeah, it’s with him.”

  “That must suck, having to write music for someone you hate.”

  She shrugs. “To put it mildly, but that’s the problem, we write good music together. And even if we didn’t, we’re bound by contract to get twenty songs turned in over the next four months.”

  “Twenty? Christ. Why so many?”

  “Labels like variety. They like to decide what song is the best fit for the current musical climate. In the end, they’re the ones who have the ultimate say over what songs make the album.”

  “You can write the lyrics without him, then?”

  She nods as she chews. “Each song is a different process. Sometimes, it’s the lyrics first and then the music, sometimes it’s the music and then the lyrics . . . other times it’s side by side, verse by verse. I’m hoping we can avoid that last one this time around. The less I see of him, the better.”

  “Why?” I ask, prompting her to look at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “You’re either running from him because you’re pissed and never want to see him again, or you’ve taken off because if you stay, you know he’ll wear you down, get you to forgive him, and then start your relationship song and dance all over again.”

  She glares at me for a beat. That’s all it takes. “Maybe I just want to check the box for all of the above.”

  “Understandable. There’s no judgment on my part for whatever box you check. Hell, maybe you can write a song about a jerk musician who cheats on his girlfriend and then falls off the face of the earth. That might let him know where he stands with you.”

  “Such an active imagination.”

  “Funny. Mallory said the same thing last night.” C’mon. Turn those lips up. “And she finally smiles . . .”

  Her eyes soften, her smile widens, and she shakes her head before eating the last forkful of pancake.

  Mission accomplished.

  “I feel like such a prick. The one time you really need me, and I turn you away.” My brother’s voice warms me with his sincerity and makes me snuggle deeper into my spot on the couch.

  “You didn’t turn me away. You have twin baby girls in a two-bedroom house. I think you have your hands full as it is. Besides, this is more than fine. I needed somewhere to crash long enough to give me a breather, get my work done, and clear my head before I head back and figure shit out. If I were at your house, I’d probably be so distracted playing auntie that I’d never work.”

  “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but I still feel helpless. I’m your big brother. Between you taking the burden with Mom—”

  “You have the twins. The last thing you need to be thinking about is Mom and—”

  “And now this with Jett—”

  “I’ll be fine, Damon.”

  “I still feel like I should be doing something. More. I don’t know.”

  “You did do something. More,” I repeat with humor in my voice to try and put him at ease that I’ll be okay. That it will all be okay. “You found me exactly what I needed. A place to stay where I could tuck my tail between my legs and lick my wounds for a bit.”

  “Yeah, but it’s four hours away from me here in Lake Tahoe.” His guilt tinges the edges of his tone.

  “And I’m normally nine hours away from you when I’m in Los Angeles . . . so think of it as me moving closer for a bit,” I tease. “Look, Damon, I appreciate all your help. I was upset, in a hurry to leave, and you helped me out by thinking of somewhere I could go and get my head—and heart—straightened out without living in a hotel for months on end. I’m thinking of it as a personal Airbnb.”

  “With a firefighter.” And there it is. The one thing he neglected to mention when he called and told me about the old friend he had who lived away from my beaten path. Said friend also happened to have an extra room, an abundance of quiet at his house, and would leave me be so I could work.

  A firefighter. Faded memories of our dad flicker through my mind. Ones I’d rather forget. Ones that have left me always waiting for the man I’m with to walk out the door one day and never come back, because his love for his job, his friends, his freedom, his whatever-the-hell excuse is more important than his family.

  “It’s fine, Damon. I’m okay with it.” Except for every time the damn scanner goes off I’m left thinking of our mother. How she left the thing on for months after he left us, hoping to hear his voice . . . making her feel close to him even though he didn’t want anything to do with us. And then how in the absence of the scanner came the alcohol. “I am. I promise.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “Believe me.” My smile pulls tight even though he can’t see it.

  “How are you holding up otherwise? I mean, it all happened so fast, it has to be hard.”

  “It sucks. It stings . . . but that’s Jett.” And I wish everyone would stop asking that because it does more than suck. It’s a dagger in the heart.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Look, I don’t need you to start in on me about him.”

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” And that’s why I didn’t want to stay with him even if he had the extra room.

  “You aren’t making me feel any better. It’s my heart that was hurt, so at this point, does it matter if you were right or not?”

  Silence eats up the discord between us. “You’re right. I’m sorry . . . I know you still love him, and I know you still have to work with him, so please promise me you won’t fall for his shit again.”

  I think of Grady’s comment about the heart versus the head and grit my teeth, hating that he’s pegging me as the helpless female. “My life. My choices.” There’s a bite to my tone he doesn’t deserve, and yet, it’s still there.

  “I know . . . I just . . .”

  “I’m not sixteen anymore, Damon. Heartbreak is a thing, and it’s part of life. You can’t protect me from it or go around punching guys to prevent it.”

  “You know I would if I could.” There’s softness in his tone. A resignation that his defiant little sister is going to do what she wants regardless of his big brotherly warnings against it. “Are you getting settled in?”

  “Were you going to warn me that Grady is a manwhore or is that part of the man code not to?”

  “Grady is Grady.” I can see him shrugging as he opens his mouth and closes it to try to make up a better excuse even though he knows it won’t work with me. “He’s a good guy. I wouldn’t have let you stay there if he wasn’t. Wait . . . tell me he isn’t being a dick?”

  “No.” I think of everything I’ve learned about him so far. The funny. The sweet. The perpetually cheerful. The total guy part. “He’s just unexpected.
”

  “He’s had a rough go of it lately, so let me know if he’s being an ass, and I’ll put him in his place.”

  “What do you mean he’s had a rough go of it?”

  “Almost two years ago he . . . you know what, never mind. It isn’t anything other than knowing he’s not your type, and he’s not the staying kind because of it. It makes me breathe easier as a big brother, knowing nothing will be happening between the two of you.”

  “I’m a grown woman, Damon. I’m more than capable of deciding whom I do or don’t sleep with . . . so tell me again, what’s going on with him?”

  “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

  But I don’t buy it. I find it hard to believe the man who hasn’t been anything but happy and welcoming is having a hard time.

  I hear cries beginning in the background and smile when I think of my brother being a dad—to twins no less.

  “I’ve got to go . . . Tessa is starting up.”

  “Give her a kiss for me.”

  “Hey, Dyl? I know you like to be left alone while you work, which is why I figured Grady’s place would be perfect for you, but don’t be a stranger.”

  “I won’t.”

  I end the call and wander through the house aimlessly. It’s decorated in warm colors with the sparseness that bespeaks of a single male living here. There are touches of his personality here and there in pictures of who I can assume by resemblance are his family or his brothers at the fire station, but it’s missing that feminine touch. There are rugs on the hardwood floor but there are no random tchotchkes cluttering the space. No throws on the back of the couch to add a touch of color. No candles half-burned on holders.

  And yet while it is void of those little touches, Grady’s house still screams comfort to me. It feels like a place anyone can walk into and feel at ease.

  I run my hand along the back of the brown leather couch as the squelch of the scanner becomes background noise I don’t think I’ll ever quite be comfortable with.