Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  He grabbed a napkin and roughly wiped the muffin crumbs off his hands, along with the sweat on his palms. Then he stood there, barely breathing, as the women emerged, sweaty but invigorated after their workout.

  They waved to each other, piled into Volvos and BMWs, then drove off.

  But Kelsey was still inside.

  Wyatt wished he had the coffee he'd left on the table. At least then maybe he could wash down the fear that she was simply going to blow him off.

  He started to turn away, intending to do that very thing, when he saw the door to the studio move. He stood still, holding his breath, as Kelsey emerged wearing a flowing skirt in some sort of knit and a simple white T-shirt. A lime green duffel hung over her shoulder, and she scanned the parking lot before heading toward a blue Mustang. Then she opened the door, and, for a moment, just stood there.

  His chest ached, and he realized he was still holding his breath. Slowly, he exhaled, his eyes on Kelsey as she looked toward the coffee shop and then back to the car.

  "Come on," he muttered. "Just come on over."

  An elderly man pouring cream into his coffee looked sideways at him, as if Wyatt might be the dangerous sort.

  Well, if Kelsey made him wait any longer, he just might be.

  As he watched, she tossed her duffel into the backseat. And then, after one more glance between the car and the coffee shop, she started walking his direction.

  "Yes." Wyatt did a fist pump, which was more than the elderly man could handle. He scurried away as Wyatt headed back to his table.

  He was seated by the time Kelsey entered, pausing just inside the door as she looked around. He waved casually, as if he'd just been sitting there doing nothing more interesting than checking his emails.

  She came over, flashed a tentative smile, and sat down. "Hey," she said, then tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from her ponytail behind her ear. Her face glowed from exertion, and beads of sweat dotted her hairline. She wore no make-up at all.

  Wyatt thought she'd never been prettier.

  "Thanks for coming," he said, forcing himself to keep a business tone when everything inside him wanted to reach across the table, grab her hands, and beg her to do the show.

  "I--well, I guess I thought I owed you that much." She had a small purse with her, and when she pulled out a lip balm and rubbed it on her lips, Wyatt caught himself staring.

  Get a grip. The order was swift and firm and accompanied by a mental kick to his own ass.

  "I appreciate that," he said. "And I wanted to ask you a question."

  "Okay." She made the word into two long syllables, as if she was apprehensive about what he was going to say next.

  "If it wasn't for your job--teaching kids, I mean--would you do my show?"

  He leaned forward, expecting her to say yes. Why wouldn't she? He'd seen the way she danced at X-tasy. Not to mention her ease in front of the camera once she got over the initial trepidation.

  And he knew for certain she needed the money.

  She'd say yes, and he'd launch into his idea. She'd agree, and they'd move forward from there.

  It was a perfect plan.

  Except for the fact that she foiled it by saying no.

  "I'm sorry," he repeated. "No?"

  "Or, well, I don't know. But I don't think so." Her brows had drawn together, and her straight posture had dissolved to a slouch. She looked like a little girl called in to confess to the principal.

  "But . . ." He rubbed his temples. "Well, I know you need the money. So why not?"

  Her throat moved as she swallowed, then her shoulders lifted as she drew a deep breath. Finally, she tilted her chin up so that she was looking straight at him. "Because of you."

  "Me," he repeated.

  She flashed a little half smile. "You make me do foolish things."

  There wasn't a damn thing suggestive about her words, and yet that's how his body responded, as if they were in a bar drinking martinis instead of coffee, and she'd reached over and boldly stroked his cock.

  He closed his hand around the cardboard cup and focused on the heat--and on not crushing the thing and sending the rest of the coffee flying. Mostly, he focused on not reacting at all, at least not in a way that she'd notice.

  "Foolish things," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "Like what? Like posing for me? I have to disagree. That wouldn't be foolish at all."

  She tilted her head to one side, looking at him like he was crazy. "How can you say that? I already did it, remember? I already know it was--"

  She cut herself off suddenly, her lips pursing tight together.

  "Oh, no," he said, and actually heard laughter in his voice. "You were about to agree with me."

  "No, I wasn't."

  "Then what were you going to say? Posing for me was . . ." He trailed off, making a circular motion with his hand as if drawing the words out of her.

  "Hot," she finally said, her face taking on the tinge of a serious sunburn. "Okay? Satisfied? Posing like that was hot."

  He stared at her for a moment, a little baffled, a lot relieved, and even more turned on. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah," he said. "It was."

  "And hot equals foolish. Plus," she added, "that's not who I am."

  He thought he had pretty solid evidence to argue that point, but he also knew he'd never convince her. Not now.

  "Fair enough," he said. "But here's my problem, and bear with me, okay? I've got this show in just a few weeks. And because it's a whole big production with catalogs and publicity and on and on and on, I don't even really have that much time. So let's say ten days. All I need from you is ten days. Hell, we can do it in five, if we work long hours. Five days and opening night. That's it, Kelsey. Five days. That's three grand a day just to stand in front of a camera."

  She started to speak, but he held out a hand to silence her. "Wait. Let me finish."

  When she nodded, he counted that as a point in his favor and rushed on.

  "You say that's not who you are, but you don't see what I see. You have the look I've been searching for. The image that's been in my mind for all these years, ever since the concept for this show was nothing more than the kernel of an idea. It's all those bits and pieces that make up you. Even the part of you that dances."

  He thought that had grabbed her attention, so he rushed on. "I told you about the stage at the end of the hall? A sensual woman behind a gauzy screen. What if she's dancing? All of the passion and power captured in the still images coming out through music and motion."

  "That's nice," she said softly. "It even sounds like fun. But I can't be the one who does it. I told you. My job. And it's--"

  "Not you. Yeah. I know. But that's the beauty of it." He leaned forward and boldly took her hand, letting her warmth fuel his passion for this project. For having her be part of it. "Kelsey, it doesn't have to be you."

  Slowly, she pulled her fingers away from his. "What are you talking about?"

  "You could be anonymous."

  "But--but all the pictures you have so far. Almost all their faces are lit. And they're looking at the camera, and they're bold and sensual and unashamed and it's wonderful."

  "I'm glad you think so," he said sincerely.

  "I told you I love the work, Wyatt. I just can't be part of it."

  "Kelsey Draper can't. But maybe an anonymous woman can."

  "But--"

  "You're going to say that's not the point of my exhibit, but maybe it is. Maybe the idea of the show is all those specific women in the gallery leading up to one ideal of a woman. An anonymous woman who represents all those things you were just talking about."

  "I don't think that's me."

  "And I think that's for me to decide."

  "Anonymous," she said, and Wyatt tried hard not to cling to the hope that one word fueled in him.

  "Completely anonymous."

  She bit her lip and nodded slowly as he held his breath and forced himself to stay silent. Fin
ally, she spoke. "Will you let me think about it?"

  Disappointment curdled in his gut. "Of course."

  "Okay." She pushed back from the table and stood. "Well, um, I should go."

  He leaned over, his hand landing on her purse. "Wait."

  "Wyatt, please. I just need to think."

  "I know. I get that. But I also think you owe me an explanation."

  She eyed him warily. "For what?"

  "Kelsey," he said gently. "What happened to Griffin?"

  For a moment, she just stood there. Then she sat down again. "Please," he pressed. "Don't you think it's time to tell me what happened the night of the party?"

  21

  I freeze a little at his words, and I want to disagree. No, I'd say. No, it's not time. I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it.

  But I can't say that. Because even though I'd rather run out the coffee shop door, I know he's right. It is time. And he deserves to know what happened.

  "How long have you known?" I ask. "About the night of the party, I mean."

  "Technically, no time at all. I'm just making guesses here. But after I met him--after I learned how old he was when he got burned--I put it together. There was an accident that night, wasn't there?"

  Frowning, I hug myself. "Accident," I say, the word bitter on my tongue. "That's just too clean a word for what happened."

  "Hey, hey." His voice has dropped to the gentlest of whispers, and I don't realize why until he leans across the table with his napkin and gently brushes the soft skin under my eyes.

  I manage a watery smile in thanks, and then try to clear my head enough so that I can tell the story. But I'm not having much luck.

  "Let's walk," he says, rising and coming around the table to pull out my chair.

  I grab my purse and stand, tilting my head up as I do. "Are you taking care of me, Mr. Segel? Or should I call you Mr. Royce?"

  "Call me Wyatt, and yes." He takes my hand, and leads me out the door. I expect him to release me once we're outside, but he doesn't. I realize that I'm glad, and it's not because I crave his touch--though it's true that the memory of his fingers on me during the photo shoot keeps teasing me.

  No, what I crave is his support. His strength. And even though I know I'm playing with fire, right now I will eagerly cling to him.

  As we walk across the parking lot, I expect him to ask me again about what happened to Griffin. But he doesn't. He's silent, his hand firm in mine, as if he's giving me both strength and time.

  In that moment, I remember the thing that I loved most about him. The way he'd take care of me and support me. He treated me like I was special. Like my wants and dreams mattered.

  All these years, I've thought of him as dangerous. But maybe he wasn't the danger at all. Maybe the danger was all inside me.

  We reach Blue, and as we walk beside her, I run my fingers over her waxed surface, then stop and lean against the hood. Wyatt releases my hand and stands in front of me, his hands sliding into his pockets.

  "He gave her to me," I say without preamble.

  "The car?"

  "I call her Blue."

  He eyes the Mustang and nods, his eyes bright with amusement. "Not the most original name, but it suits her."

  "It does," I say defensively. "It's a perfectly good name."

  He holds his hands up in surrender. "The best name. And Griff gave her to you? She's gorgeous."

  "He found her in a junk yard, did the restoration work himself, then gave her to me for my twenty-fifth birthday. I--"

  I break off because tears are threatening again, and I refuse to cry.

  "I totally baby her," I continue when I'm sure I'm not going to start weeping again. "Griff says I baby her too much, actually. That I need to put her through her paces on the highway or in the desert or something. He thinks I need to cut loose."

  "Maybe you should. Sounds fun."

  "Maybe."

  "Then why don't you?"

  I lift a shoulder, but I don't answer. I don't really need to. Even though he says nothing, I'm certain Wyatt knows that I don't cut loose that often. As in, pretty much never.

  I push away from the car and start walking again. "At any rate," I say as Wyatt falls in step beside me, "he's so good to me. Like the best brother in the history of brothers. And I know it's hard for him--just every day stuff, you know--but he hardly ever complains, and he'd do anything for me. I mean, he does do anything for me. And it's wonderful, but it's horrible, too, because--"

  I stumble on the words, my throat clogged with unshed tears and my heart racing from the emotional weight of everything I'm saying.

  I draw a breath and force myself to finish the sentence I'd just left hanging. "Because it's all my fault."

  Wyatt doesn't look like he believes me, but to his credit he doesn't try to tell me that I'm wrong. Instead, he just listens as I tell him the whole story.

  He already knows about the party, of course, and I explain about Griffin, and how he wanted to make s'mores and melt the marshmallows over the fire pit.

  "I never thought he would without me," I say, my throat tight with the memory of that night. Of my father telling me so brutally about what Griffin had done. Telling me it was my fault because I'd left him. Because I'd gone off to whore myself out.

  Telling me that my brother might die because I'd been bad.

  And me believing it, because of course he was right.

  I lick my lips as we reach the sidewalk in front of the studio. I want to keep walking, but there are shoppers out this morning, and I'm feeling raw and exposed.

  "Is there a class?" Wyatt asks, nodding toward the studio and obviously reading my mind.

  "Not for two more hours. But Anita--the next teacher--usually comes in an hour early."

  "Then we have time." He reaches for my purse without asking and pulls out the studio key, then opens the door for me. He follows me in, locks the door, and looks around. A moment later, he's dragged out one of the tumbling mats used for the early morning Mommy-Baby classes. He spreads it out, gestures for me to sit, then joins me.

  "I'm going to guess Griffin decided to make those s'mores."

  "He still likes them," I say. "I can't look at one without feeling sick."

  "What did he do?"

  "After I left, he tried to light the fire pit, but he didn't know how. And he turned on the propane, but couldn't get the igniter to work. So he got gasoline from the garden shed. Which was bad enough by itself, but he also didn't turn off the propane."

  Wyatt winces, and I press my lips together as I nod.

  "He used a match," Wyatt says softly.

  "The flame jumped. At least that's how he describes it. The firemen say the propane was concentrated around the fire pit because there was no wind. But he had some gas on his hand, and then it caught the sleeve of his shirt."

  "Long sleeves for a chilly night," Wyatt says. "Even in the summer."

  "That's all he remembers. The firemen say there was a cloud of flame. He must have turned, because it got his right arm and back and shoulder, and also that side of his face. He doesn't have the outer part of his ear. Did you see?"

  Wyatt shakes his head. His silence is solemn.

  "It burned off a chunk of his face. He was lucky it missed most of his scalp, so he's still got his hair. But it burned him so much. And so deep. All the way down to the bone. He lost his pinkie--you saw that. They had to amputate it."

  "That's not uncommon with fourth-degree burns," Wyatt says, and I must look surprised because he adds, "I did some volunteer photography work at a clinic years ago. I saw a lot."

  "Then you get it. At least some of it. How horrible it is now. How terrifying and painful it was then. And it all happened because I wasn't there. I was--"

  I cut myself off; he nods. "You were with me."

  I wipe away an errant tear and nod miserably. "Losing my virginity while Griffin almost lost his life."

  He moves beside me and puts his arm around m
e. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes as he strokes my hair and my back. "I get it," he says softly. "I do. But it wasn't your fault."

  "It wouldn't have happened if I'd stayed."

  "Maybe. Maybe not. But that only makes it horrible. It doesn't mean you're to blame. Me either, for that matter."

  I pull back, surprised.

  He exhales. "You must have blamed me, too. At least a little bit."

  "Did I? I don't think so." And the truth is, I didn't. I made the decision to go. I broke the rules. I was a bad girl, just like my dad said. Wyatt was just being Wyatt. He tempted me, sure. But I'm the one who left my baby brother alone.

  I look at him. "If you're thinking that I didn't call you because I was mad at you, that wasn't it. At first, I was scared. And in trouble. I didn't have phone privileges for months."

  I hug my knees to my chest, remembering those awful days, my head filling with the memory of the sickly sweet smell of the burn ward, a combination of infection, flesh, and sterilization chemicals.

  "I pretty much lived in the hospital. And even when I could call--well, how could I hold onto something good in my life when I was the one who did such a horrible thing?"

  He takes my hand and squeezes it. "I get that. I do."

  "I'm sorry. Truly. I never thought that me not calling would hurt you. I was too wrapped up in me. And later, when I did think about you, I was too ashamed to call."

  His thumb brushes the back of my hand, the gentle sensation soothing me. "You thought about me?" he asks, and though there is a teasing lilt to his voice, I think I hear a whisper of hope.

  "Yes," I admit, my mouth going dry as I meet his eyes. "All the time."

  I see a flare of heat in the pale gold of his eyes and wonder what I've ignited. But I'm proud of myself too. It's not exactly wild and crazy, but as far as cutting loose goes, that revelation might count as among my personal best.

  "Me, too," he says, and I feel a nice little squeeze around my heart. "And you should know, I did try to find you. I even called your school, but you were gone."

  "You did?"

  He shrugs as if it was no big deal, when to me it's huge. "You said that first day that I didn't come after you. I guess I just wanted you to know that I tried."

  "Thank you," I whisper.

  For a moment, we just sit like that. Then he clears his throat and asks, "So how did you find out? About the fire, I mean."

  "My dad. He found the address to the party. I'd left it in the pocket of my jeans. He walked in while you were getting me a soda. He called me a--a whore. He told me what happened."