The Men of Laguna

by Kim Karr

  I want to roll my eyes, to say something like, “You and your friends were all players once upon a time,” but with Brooklyn here, I decide to tread carefully. Still flushed from the memory of last night, I look up through the steam. “We’re not involved; I already told you that. So again, let’s drop it.”

  He again ignores me. “You got off the phone with him two minutes ago and you still look like a blushing schoolgirl.”

  Clearly, Cam has the wrong idea about why my cheeks are red, and now Brooklyn does, too.

  Great.

  “It’s the steam,” I tell him and then look away to Brooklyn, who is watching all of this with keen interest, a brooding disposition, and narrowed eyes. “Hi, Brooklyn,” I offer, trying to change the subject. “You’re just in time—dinner is almost ready.”

  He jerks his chin up. “What’s up?” he says, as if I’m just one of the guys, and then turns to Makayla, who gets a slight hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  Cam finally takes the hint, and leaving me alone, he thumps Brooklyn on the shoulder and says, “Help yourself to a beer, man,” and then starts to assist Makayla, who is setting the table.

  I turn around, trying not to let Brooklyn’s casual greeting affect me, and open the cupboard to find a big serving bowl. There are a few of them, but they are all on the top shelf, and I have to get on tiptoes to try to reach one.

  “I got it,” Brooklyn hisses. My gaze shifts. He’s next to me, smelling fresh-out-of-the-shower clean. Delicious. And looking very angry, with that broody look of his that for some crazy reason does strange things to my belly.

  I watch, and goose bumps hump my flesh as his long, lean body stretches to grab a bowl. When he hands it to me, I allow my fingertips to graze his. “I came over today looking for you.”

  His mouth scrunches into an exaggerated frown and he yanks his hand away. And looks over his shoulder to find Cam invested in his own conversation with Makayla. When he discovers they are paying no attention to us, he finally answers me. “I noticed. I had to work,” he says, and strides over to the refrigerator.

  Making it look like there is nothing between us is difficult. It’s weird how my overbearing, overprotective brother isn’t bothered by Brooklyn being near me right now, yet he goes off when I talk to a guy on the phone. Then again, he trusts Brooklyn, which is the problem with all of this, isn’t it?

  Hating that my attraction toward Brooklyn could very well ruin his friendship with my brother, I find myself wondering if I shouldn’t have just said Landon was my boyfriend, which, by the sour look on Brooklyn’s face, would have ended things between us immediately.

  But that would be a lie.

  And I can’t help how I feel about Brooklyn. The last thing I want to do is hurt him. Or push him away, no matter how selfish it sounds. He’s not looking for forever, and I won’t be here forever. It really is the perfect situation. And besides, my brother never has to know.

  Personally, I don’t think he’d hate it as much as Brooklyn thinks he would. But I do know what he’d hate. He’d hate that Brooklyn might break my heart, and that is what would drive them apart. I think Cam could get over the fact that he thinks Brooklyn overdoses on women—his words, not mine. What he wouldn’t get over is Brooklyn hurting me, which is why I won’t let that happen.

  Don’t look at me like that! I can be just another woman he has sex with. I’m fine with that.

  Feeling a little flushed at the thought, I hurry over to the island and pour the strained pasta into the bowl. Once assured it isn’t sticking, I head to the stove with the full bowl in my hands.

  Brooklyn is back, and is now leaning against the counter next to the stove with a bottle of beer in his hand, watching me.

  Feeling the heat of his brooding stare, I look into his blue eyes as I set the bowl beside him, pausing for a moment to allow him to say what’s on his mind. When he says nothing, I begin ladling the sauce on top of the pasta.

  Dealing with a pissed-off, brooding Brooklyn isn’t how I want to spend the evening. Once I’ve poured enough sauce on the pasta, I start to mix it. I pause again to look up at him.

  His frown has only intensified.

  Obviously, he wants to know more about Landon, so I tell him in a whisper, “Landon was my blind date New Year’s Eve. Things went okay. Good, even. Until I found out about my father, anyway. Landon was there when I ran into Vanessa, so I told him what happened. He helped me book my plane ticket here. I owe him.”

  “Owe him?”

  The fury in his almost inaudible tone makes me wary. “Not like that.”

  “Then like how?” he demands, his voice low, but still making me flinch.

  I give the pasta one last twirl with my spoon, and then reach for the pepper. “He helped me, and wants to make sure I’m okay. He’s been calling me to check on me, but that’s all.”

  Brooklyn tips his bottle back, his Adam’s apple working in the sexiest of ways. With his lips still around the glass, and his eyes cold as ice, he asks, “Did you fuck him?”

  He’s glancing over my shoulder at my brother, who is getting a lesson on which side of the plate the fork goes, though I’m pretty certain he learned it in cotillion. I narrow my own eyes at Brooklyn and keep my lips sealed.

  “Did you?” he asks, lowering his bottle.

  As I lightly sprinkle the pepper over the pasta, I snap at him. “No, I didn’t, but it really isn’t any of your business.”

  In one smooth move, he takes my hand and forces the spoon up toward his mouth. To anyone looking at us, it would appear that I’m asking him to sample it. With my hand shaking, I hold it near his lips. Lips I want on me, everywhere.

  As soon as the spoon meets his mouth, he whispers, “Everything about you is my business.”

  Game over. Right here. Right now.

  The way he says those six words, the possessiveness in his tone, the hunger in his eyes—there is no way I wouldn’t give him anything he asks for.

  No matter how strong I want to appear to be, I’m his for the taking.

  And I’m pretty certain…he knows that.

  I nod, and lower the spoon.

  “Is it time to eat?” Makayla asks, lighting the candles she’s put in the middle of the table.

  Cam is already sitting and is on his phone now, probably checking sales figures.

  “Yes, it’s time.” I smile, and allow my gaze to flicker to Brooklyn. My words were meant for him, as much as for Makayla.

  His chin dips, just a little, and as I step to brush past him, he whispers so low I can barely hear him, “Go to bed early tonight.”

  Even fully clothed, I can feel the heat of his body as I pass by him, and think…you don’t have to tell me twice.

  Is now too early?

  22

  Mr. & Mrs. Smith

  Brooklyn

  The first scene of a film is an integral part of its storytelling. It establishes the tone and setting, and introduces the central characters. If intriguing enough, it gives viewers motivation to keep watching.

  And as I slowly, quietly walk on the pathway beside the fence that separates Cam’s property line from Maggie’s, I can’t help but compare my situation to the Alfred Hitchcock movie Rear Window.

  The story is about a man’s voyeuristic pleasures as he spies on his neighbors. In the opening scene, the camera cuts to the courtyard just outside the main character’s home. Everything appears quiet and normal, each frame showing us only what the director wants us to see—a cat walking up an alleyway, a woman changing in her bedroom, and pigeons on top of a roof.

  Quiet.

  Normal.

  However, among friendly faces, an unfathomable crime has been committed. And yes, that is how I feel right now. Like a crime is about to be committed, and even though I know this, I can’t stop myself from being the one to commit it.

  Amelia’s window faces the street. A carport and a bank of trash cans are the only camouflage I have from the cars passing by, and from the possibility that Cam
might step out to throw out the garbage, or get something from his Jeep, or worse, check on a noise he swears he might have heard.

  Jack Reacher, James Bond, or Ethan Hunt I certainly am not, and yet I find myself carefully approaching her window as if I am.

  The light I saw turned on before coming around the fence is hopefully her way of alerting me that she’s in there, and alone.

  As a teen growing up in Beverly Hills, I didn’t have to sneak around. My mother was never home, so I came and went right through the front door at all hours of the night. And the girls I went to see, they just let me inside the same way, their parents oblivious to what was going on. If it had been like this, I think I might have kept my dick in my pants more often.

  Nerves a wreck.

  Adrenaline pumping hard.

  All I know is that if I didn’t need to be with her, to have her so goddamn much, I wouldn’t be doing this.

  Like a spy right out of a movie, I inch along the side of the house and then turn the corner. At the window I pause, and then quickly jerk my head in front of the glass to look in, before pulling it back.

  Relieved she’s in there, alone, I step in front of the window and hope to fuck I don’t scare the ever-living shit out of her when I open it.

  I know it’s unlocked because I unlocked it when I used the bathroom outside the bedroom to wash my hands before dinner.

  Dinner that felt like nothing but pure torture. Stealing glances with Amelia. Talking to Makayla about the wedding. Telling her about my buddy Chase’s plans for his impending nuptials. Listening to Cam tell me about their weekend in Mexico with my brother, his wife, and their baby, and with each laugh ignoring my attraction to his sister. Hiding the fact that I had every intention of fucking her the minute it got dark.

  If that doesn’t already classify me as an asshole, this move right here certainly will. And the fact that I don’t intend for this to be a one-time thing certifies it.

  I wanted to tell Cam, but I couldn’t. What exactly would I tell him? Your sister is into me because she craves some of my bad, and I intend to wipe it all over her.

  Right!

  That would go over really well.

  Wouldn’t it?

  No, not at all, and so instead, I’m here sneaking around in the dark. It’s my only choice.

  I have to.

  I can’t explain why.

  I just can’t walk away from her, and I can’t tell Cam about us either, not until I know where her head is. What does she want from me? Is this is just a fling that will end when she leaves?

  As I slide the window up, Amelia jumps off her bed and rushes toward me. Her hair is up in a high ponytail and she’s changed into a pair of black yoga pants and a white oversized T-shirt that hangs off her shoulder, the straps of her black lacy bra all I can focus on.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers, obviously not expecting me to come and get her this way. She doesn’t get it, get that I really want her, and I’ll do things I’ve never done to get her.

  “Shhh…go put some shoes on,” I tell her, tearing my eyes from the paleness of her soft skin to hurry her along.

  In a rush, she dashes over to her suitcase and pulls out a pair of battered Chucks. I watch her. The excitement in each move she makes. The flush on her face. And I wonder why, if she’s into me, she’s talking to another guy on the phone.

  Well, if she wants me, wants some of my bad, she’ll have to understand that I don’t share. Never have. Never will.

  There’s this girl that Maggie calls my go-to girl. It’s her way of saying my fuck buddy. Her name is Sasha, and we were on the network at the same time. We’d been fucking around for almost ten years, until I finally ended it for good two months ago.

  The rule between us had always been when we were on, there was no one else. And it worked. One of us always calling it off sooner rather than later, we were off more than on. But two months ago we were on, and everything was cool.

  Then Keen and Maggie had Presley, and I was spending a lot of time driving to West Hollywood. One night, on my way back, I decided to stop by and see Sasha, and found her with another guy.

  When we were off, I never cared who she was with, but we weren’t off, and there was no way I was going to fuck her when she was letting some other guy fuck her too. I told her that and walked away. I have yet to answer a single one of her calls or text messages. As far as I’m concerned, we are over.

  Sharing is a hard limit.

  Like I said, I don’t share.

  Once Amelia has her shoes on, she crosses the room once again. “Now what?”

  I’m still outside the window, and I reach my hand out for her. “Come on, we’re going to my place.”

  Unabashed, she turns back. “Should I turn my light off?”

  “Yeah.”

  She scurries over to the door and flicks the light off.

  Again at the window, she sits on the ledge. It’s not high, yet I take hold of her and assist her down.

  After that I close the window and take her hand. “Follow me, and stay quiet.”

  She nods.

  I can’t help but smile at her—she’s the perfect accomplice.

  The night is dark, the air cold. And we walk close to the house like two robbers casing out their next job. When we get to the corner, I jerk my head around it to make sure the coast is clear.

  It is.

  Then I look at Amelia. “We’re going to run straight across, and then around the fence. We’ll go in my front door.”

  She looks back. “You don’t have to worry. I think Cam and Makayla went to bed. They weren’t in the living room when I went to check.”

  “Okay, that’s good,” I whisper, hating this, hating the deceit.

  This is so not a good idea.

  Not in the least.

  And yet, with her hand in mind, I don’t turn around and bring her back to her room. Instead, I jet across the grass to Maggie’s property and don’t plan on stopping until I have Amelia inside my front door and up the stairs into my room.

  Where we can be alone.

  Unseen.

  To do what her brother will ultimately hate me for.

  I’m so going to hell.

  23

  Before Sunrise

  Amelia

  Through the ages, women have been drawn to men who wear that dark, brooding look that suggests they are mad, bad, or dangerous to get to know.

  From Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights to the ever-dangerous James Bond, a woman is attracted to the narcissistic features of this kind of man because they make him appear mentally stronger, more capable.

  Yes, I know this.

  I learned it in my psychology class.

  And no, I have never been attracted to a man who fits this mold—until now.

  Brooklyn’s bedroom door is open, and we cross the threshold quickly. As soon as I’m in his room, I rush toward the window and look down. Cam and Makayla’s room is dark, except for a faint glow. I hope that means they’re in bed sleeping after their long weekend, and not watching television, wanting to say good night before bed.

  “Amelia,” Brooklyn commands in a husky voice.

  Not surprisingly nervous, I turn around, my hands behind me clutching the windowsill. Butterflies take flight in my belly. All of a sudden, his good looks have me wanting to fangirl all over him. No worries, though; like his character Kate, I know better.

  In well-worn jeans that are slung low on his hips and a faded Lakers T-shirt that molds to his muscled chest and is snug around his upper arms, he screams sex on a stick.

  I silently devour the sight of him, since I was unable to earlier, and then finally remember how to speak. “Yes,” I answer.

  Brooklyn stands looking larger than life, leaning against the door. His hand is still on the knob, as if deciding whether to stay or to go. Yet his gaze isn’t focused on the window in worry, but rather on me. And me alone. “We have to talk about something before going any further.”

 
Determined not to be nervous about this, I slowly start to close the distance between us. “Sure, anything.”

  His lazy gaze drifts over me with each step I take. And suddenly I wish I’d dressed nicer, something more put together. When his eyes reach mine, there is a look of dominance there that I find utterly appealing. “If we do this,” he starts, and then raises his hand, the one not still on the doorknob, and uses his finger to point back and forth between us. “If we go behind your brother’s back to be together,” he says, making me aware that he has a lot at stake, “I only have one rule.”

  “What is it?” My voice is shaky, uncertain.

  He bites at his bottom lip, that lip that is so full and lush, I want to be the one biting it. “You can’t be carrying on with another man while you’re fucking me,” he proclaims so matter-of-factly that it takes me a moment to comprehend his demand.

  Still a little shocked, I speak the truth. “I’m not carrying on with anyone else, Brooklyn.”

  He looks at me with doubt.

  “I’m not.”

  “Let me clarify, then: no contact with any other male who isn’t simply a friend. None.”

  I stare at him slightly bewildered, because no one has ever been jealous when it came to me before. No one.

  There is no hesitation on his part. “Are you willing to let the other man go, Amelia?”

  Stunned, I stop in the middle of his very familiar room feeling oddly thrilled.

  The other man?

  That makes me want to laugh a little. Landon is not “the other man.” I mean, I just met him. Although I suppose in Brooklyn’s eyes, after what happened before dinner, it might appear that he is.

  And then there’s the “do this.” Do this? I guess as in fuck, and not just once. Even more thrilled by this thought, my pulse starts to race.

  We haven’t really discussed what would come after sex; we both just intuitively knew we would end up here. With the days of looks, the flirting, and the sexual tension, it was inevitable.