Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  "That lousy son-of-a-bitch." The anger in his voice is as sharp as a blade.

  "And he said it was my fault. That I was bad, just like my mother had been, and because of that my brother almost died."

  "Oh, baby." He takes my shoulders and turns me so that I'm facing him. "It wasn't your fault. You have to know that. And you weren't bad. You were a teenager. You went out. You disobeyed your parents, yeah. But Griffin was old enough to stay on his own. You coming to the party isn't the cause. And that's true even if we had a crystal ball and could prove he'd have been fine if you'd stayed with him."

  I nod, sniffling. "I know all that. I do. Really. It's just--"

  I shrug, then tell him what I so often tell myself. "Knowing it and believing it are two different things."

  He makes a scoffing sound. "Your dad did one hell of a number on you."

  I try to smile, but don't quite manage. "He had a lot of time to perfect the skill."

  "I knew he was strict in Santa Barbara, but I didn't know--"

  "It's because of my mom. My real mom, not Tessa. She had an affair. And I guess she and the guy were driving somewhere. And there was an accident when I was two. They both died, and the driver of the other car was also killed."

  "And as you grew up, your dad told you that the accident happened and all those people died because your mom was bad. That she was a whore."

  I conjure an ironic smile. "It's like you were sitting right next to me."

  "All the more reason for you to come be my model."

  I stretch my legs out in front of me and lean back, propped up by my arms. "How do you figure?"

  "You say you get it. That you know your dad was full of it. You just don't believe it."

  "So?"

  "So let me help you believe it. You work for me and you'll be cutting loose by definition. I mean, it may be art, but you're still going to take your clothes off."

  I laugh. "Gee. You're so convincing."

  "And you get to dance. And you get the money. All that's good, right?"

  I nod, then frown as something else occurs to me. "You really didn't know why we left town? You didn't hear about the fire?"

  "Not a thing. I left for Boston soon after, but I'm not sure I would have heard even if I stayed. The house didn't burn, right?"

  "No. Griffin bore it all."

  "That's part of it, then. It probably made the news, but I didn't bother reading the papers. And that wasn't a neighborhood that would have been on my radar."

  "Nobody mentioned it at the club?"

  "Not that I heard, but I mostly kept to myself. And I only went back a couple of times after you dropped off the planet."

  "I really am so sorry."

  He stands, then reaches a hand down. I take it, then laugh when he pulls me up so quickly I end up pressed against him, his arm around my waist.

  "How sorry are you?" he asks, his voice rumbling through me.

  "Wyatt . . ." His name is a protest. It's also the only sound I can manage. Because I'm desperately fighting the urge to lean into him and let him close his arms around me and simply hold me tight.

  "I'm just saying that if you think you owe me, you can always offer compensation by way of doing my show."

  Immediately, I relax. And when I tilt my head up to look at him, I see him looking back with equal amusement.

  "It's true that I tend to be highly motivated by guilt," I admit. "But I'm also working hard to fight that impulse."

  "Don't fight it," he says as he takes a step back. "Listen to your brother. He seems like a smart guy. Go a little wild, Ms. Draper. Cut loose. Take a risk."

  "Is that what you are? A risk?"

  "Risk, reward. I'm pretty sure the two are tied together."

  I grimace, but mostly because I don't have a snappy comeback.

  "Seriously," he says. "You're just going to ignore your little brother's advice? Your poor brother Griffin?"

  Now, I laugh. "You're terrible. You know that, right?"

  "Terrible, but also brilliant. Give me your purse."

  "What? No."

  "Fine. Then just give me your keys."

  "Wyatt . . ."

  He holds his hand out, palm up. "Come on. Hand them over."

  "Why?"

  "I think you know why." He wiggles his fingers. "Come on, Kelsey. Snails move faster than this. Just give me the keys."

  I do. I have no idea why, but I do.

  "All right," he says, dangling them from his fingers as he grabs my hand with his free one. "Let's go."

  22

  It's about a forty-five minute drive from Valencia over the winding San Francisquito Canyon Road to the Antelope Valley, but I'm pretty sure that with Wyatt behind the wheel, we're going to make it there in under half an hour.

  Blue's top is down, and the wind on my face is invigorating. We're on a two-lane road that winds like a ribbon through brown hills dotted green with scrubby native plants. We're heading into the western portion of the Mojave Desert, and the world outside the car has a raw, sparse beauty.

  "Nobody but me and Griff has ever driven Blue," I point out as he takes a curve marked forty at over fifty-five.

  "And yet here I am behind the wheel. I wonder why that is?"

  Since that's not a question I want to examine too closely, I change the subject. "Where are we going?"

  "Isn't the drive enough for you?"

  He's teasing me, but I consider the question seriously. "You know what? It is." And I mean it. I haven't gotten in Blue and hit the road in a long time--actually, not ever. I'm a destination kind of girl. I like to know where I'm going and how I'm getting there, because otherwise I feel twitchy and out of sorts.

  But today, with Wyatt, I feel free.

  I lean back in my seat, then kick off my shoes and put my bare feet on Blue's dashboard. My hair is still in a ponytail and I reach back and pull off the elastic. I'll have to deal with the knots later, but I want to feel the wind in my hair.

  After a moment, I turn on the stereo and plug in my phone. For the most part, Griff restored the car to its classic condition. Her blue paint was an exception for me--according to Griffin, the shade, called Tropical Turquoise, really belongs in 1965.

  The radio is also pure Griff. He loves music, and the idea of a radio that was almost fifty years old just wasn't going to hack it. Which explains why my little Blue has an awesome sound system.

  A moment later, I have a CD in and Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" blasting out of the speakers. Somehow, as we're driving fast on this open road, it seems appropriate.

  "Tell me something," I say, when the song ends and I turn the volume down. "When I first came to your studio, you asked what kind of game I was playing. And then you said it again." I put my feet on the floor so I can turn in my seat and see him better. "What did you mean?"

  He doesn't look at me, but his hands tighten on the steering wheel, and the car slows until we're actually driving within the speed limit.

  "Wyatt?"

  His chest rises and falls twice before he speaks. "Do you remember what I told you about my dad?"

  I think back, nodding a little as those days in the Santa Barbara sun come back to me. "I know he was a CPA. And I remember that he felt invisible, too. The way I sometimes did."

  "Yeah. And he always felt like someone wanted a piece of him. Like he wasn't valued because he wasn't a big name in Hollywood. But at the same time his only value was that he was close to big names in Hollywood."

  "People wanted favors, you mean?"

  "People wanted everything. Do you know why my grandmother has no mailbox? People kept stealing it. She finally had a drop slot installed in the fence with a box behind it. If they want her mailbox, think how much they want time or attention from her family."

  "That must have been hard for him." I reach for his hand, gratified when he takes it off the steering wheel and twines his fingers with mine. "Hard for you, too."

  I already know that he's using W. Royce for the show because he wa
nts to make a splash in his own right. But hearing this makes me understand that decision even more. What I don't understand is what this has to do with him saying that I was playing a game.

  "A Hollywood game," he explains when I ask him.

  I shake my head, not following.

  He releases my hand long enough to run his fingers through his hair. "When I came back with the sodas that night and found you gone, I thought I'd pressured you. That you were angry at yourself. At me. And that you bolted."

  "Oh, Wyatt. No."

  "I was kicking myself. I couldn't believe I'd been such an insensitive prick. I knew how inexperienced you were. How strict your family was. It should have occurred to me that you couldn't handle it. At the very least your first time shouldn't have been at a huge party with dozens of kids roaming around the same damn house."

  "No," I whisper again. I want to tell him how wrong he is--how wonderful he made me feel--but he rushes on.

  "I felt like the world's biggest ass. Or at least I did until I went back to the club and overheard that bitch Grace and her idiot friends."

  "Why? What did they say?" I couldn't imagine what Grace could possibly say about me leaving. But when Wyatt tells me--about the game, about winning points for sleeping with a celebrity kid--I'm pretty sure I'm going to throw up.

  "That bitch," I snap. "That goddamn bitch."

  Beside me, Wyatt actually laughs.

  "What?" I snap, irritated by pretty much the whole world right then.

  "It's just that if I hadn't already realized that Grace was full of shit, hearing you curse would convince me."

  "Oh." I lift a shoulder. "Yeah, I still don't do that very often. I'm kind of a freak that way."

  "A refreshing freak," he says, erasing the rest of my foul mood.

  Wyatt's grin fades, however, and he turns serious again. "My dad killed himself that day."

  "What?" His shocking words chill me to the bone.

  "I found him--I found him hanging in his office."

  My chest clenches. "Wyatt, no." I swallow as tears prick my eyes. "I heard that he committed suicide, but only long after the fact--I didn't hear much about anything those first months when Griff was in the hospital. And I heard he died in LA. So I never thought--I mean, it never occurred to me it happened around the time Griff got burned. Oh, God, Wyatt. I'm so sorry."

  "He just couldn't take it anymore," Wyatt continues." And I thought--" His voice breaks. "Fuck. Kelsey, I should have known better. I should have known you better. But all of that mess got into my head. I let myself believe Grace's nonsense."

  He exhales loudly, and he's squeezing my hand so tight I have to fight the urge to pull it free.

  "I think that, instead of being angry with my dad, I let myself be angry with you," he continues. "And I let myself believe all of it. That everything my dad thought--about the world not valuing him--was true. I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry."

  "It's okay," I say, my heart breaking as I clutch his hand tighter. "You had to believe it. It was the only way you could handle it."

  He frowns thoughtfully as he looks at me, then turns his attention back to the road. "Yeah," he says softly. "That's pretty much it."

  We drive in silence for a while. Me, trying to think of something to say to make it all better. Him, lost in whatever memories our conversation has dredged up.

  About the time we hit the valley and the terrain levels out, he turns to me again. "Even when I was angry, I thought about you all the time. I didn't want to, but you were in my head. You got under my skin, Kelsey, in a way no one else ever has.

  "I've dated," he continues. "And God knows I'm not a monk. But seeing you again . . ."

  My breath hitches, and my heart flutters at his admission. "Me, too," I whisper.

  For a moment, neither of us says anything, and as the silence hangs heavily, I reach for the radio to start the CD again. "Wait," he says. "Do you have any Aerosmith? Maybe 'Walk This Way'?"

  I peer at him through narrowed eyes. "Why?"

  "Because we're here." He slows the car and pulls onto the shoulder. We're on a sun-bleached road somewhere on the outskirts of Lancaster, and there's really nothing to see.

  "Here? Where is here?"

  "Pretty much nowhere." He points in front of us, toward the road that seems to go on forever. "This area was built up mostly on a grid. And it's not very populated."

  "So?"

  "So, I think it's your turn to drive." He kills the engine, then gets out of the car.

  I remain, a little stunned, as he walks to the passenger side and opens the door for me. "And sweetheart," he adds, as I take his hand. "You're going to want to go fast. Like rollercoaster fast."

  I hesitate. "You're kidding, right?"

  "Griffin's right. This baby has some serious power." He tugs me up to my feet, one hand going around my waist as he bends down to whisper in my ear. "Trust me. You're going to enjoy the ride."

  I shiver--then I blush, because I'm certain that he can feel my reaction. Not only to his touch, but to the flurry of wicked thoughts that the word ride has spurred.

  His low chuckle reverberates through me, and I step back, needing some breathing room. "What if I get a ticket?"

  "I'll pay it."

  "What if my insurance goes up?"

  "I'll pay that, too."

  I frown. "What if I wreck the car?"

  He takes my hand, gently lifts it, and kisses my palm. "You won't. Now go."

  "Or?"

  He steps back, then slowly looks me up and down, my body heating at his very thorough, very intimate gaze. "Or I'll suggest another way of cutting loose. Right here, right now, in the backseat of this car."

  I swallow a sudden lump in my throat as sweat beads on the back of my neck. "Wyatt, I don't--"

  "Then I suggest you drive, Kelsey." He slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door. "Now."

  Oh. My. Gosh.

  I suck in air, wishing I was bold enough to say no to the driving and see if he follows through on his backseat threat. But I know that he would--Wyatt's not the kind of guy to make idle threats.

  More than that, I want it just a little too much. And between the lesser of two evils, blasting down a long, straight road seems the more prudent choice.

  I slide behind the wheel and start the car, then glance over at him. "You better buckle up," I say, reaching into the glove box for my sunglasses. I slip them on, then use my finger to tip them down as I look at him over the rim. "I don't have any Aerosmith, but it's still going to be quite the ride."

  He bursts out laughing, then swallows the sound as I work the clutch, slam the car into gear, then peel off the shoulder, skidding a bit on the gravel.

  Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. She's up to seventy before I've barely taken a breath, then faster and faster until--

  "Wyatt! Look! We're over a hundred." My hands are clenched around the steering wheel--but that's just for control. The rest of me is feeling loose and free and unconstricted. It's like jumping without a net, and I've never done that. Never.

  And right then, as Blue eats up the ribbon of asphalt, I think for the first time that maybe that's a little sad.

  "Wyatt," I say, letting up on the accelerator and gliding to a stop on the shoulder.

  He looks confused, and I can't blame him, because I'm staring at him as if he's something lost that I've just found. Or, more accurately, as if he's a map to something I lost long ago.

  "Hey," he says, his voice urgent. "Are you okay?"

  I taste salt and realize I've started to cry. Suddenly, I laugh, the sound completely inappropriate, but oddly perfect. "No," I say. "I don't think I am."

  I draw in a breath for courage. "Will you help me?"

  The confusion on his face shifts to concern, and he reaches for my hand. "Anything. I already told you I'll lend you the money for Griffin's treatment."

  I shake my head. "No. No, not that. It's--okay, here's the thing. There's this little girl in one of my classes. And the other day
, she dropped a Cheeto, then ate it off the floor."

  Wyatt's looking at me as if I've gone a little crazy.

  "Her mom almost lost it," I explain. "I mean, seriously almost lost it over a Cheeto. Made the girl spit it out, then rinse her mouth out with water, then gave her this whole lecture on cleanliness. It was absurd. The kid's going to have a germ phobia for the rest of her life."

  "Poor kid."

  "I know, right? That's what I was thinking. But then I realized, that kid is me. I can drop a chip and eat it, but it's still the same. My dad's voice is in my ear all the time. All. The. Time. At least that little girl might actually dodge eating something nasty. All I'm dodging is my life."

  "I hear you, but from where I'm sitting your life's not too bad. Decent job. Two jobs, actually, both of which you love. A brother who adores you. A really fabulous car. And an offer on the table to be the centerpiece model of what is shaping up to be a pinnacle project in the history of photography."

  I laugh. "Well, you might have a point. But here's the thing about my good life. Is it really mine? Or is it the life-in-a-box that my dad built for me?"

  He shifts, his attention fully on me. "Go on."

  I take off my sunglasses, then tilt my face up toward the sun as I organize my thoughts. And, yeah, as I gather my courage. "It's not that I want to rush into a bar, grab a guy, and--you know--go at it in the bathroom."

  "Fuck," he says. "You can say the word."

  "Fuck," I say, feeling wildly decadent as the word slides off my tongue. "But that's not my point. I'm trying to say that even though I don't want to go pick up strangers, I'm still missing something. I want more. I want to audition, not just teach dance or practice. I want to cut loose, like you said. Like Griffin has said. I want to shake off this good girl naivete.

  "I want to go a little wild," I continue. "To flirt and fool around and I don't know. It's stupid. I just . . . I guess I just want to know that the world won't collapse on itself if I do those things."

  I turn my head so that I can see him, expecting him to look amused. Instead, he looks as though he's been listening to every word I've said. Listening, and understanding.

  "I want to do the show, Wyatt. Anonymous, like you said, because I can't risk my job. But I really want to do it."

  I can see the relief wash over him. "Thank you," he says. "But that's helping me. You said you wanted me to help you."

  I nod, now suddenly nervous. But I force myself to continue. "What you said before. About me doing whatever you say. In front of the camera, and . . ."