Chelsey
The almost constant ch-ch-ch-ch of raindrops splattering against my window is getting really fucking old.
Like, seriously. There’s a whole state here. Can’t they go ch-ch-ch-ch against someone else’s window?
I really hate winter in South Carolina.
I don’t even bother checking the weather forecast at this point. I know that even if I wake up and it isn’t raining already, it will be at some point during the day. Which is great. Unless you’re in the middle of a tree lot and getting kissed by the last single Burke boy.
What am I saying?
That rain had amazing timing. I silently thanked it, even if we did get chilled to the bone while we found the damn trees.
But that kiss—God. That kiss. I can still feel it. I can still feel the ghost of his lips as they touched mine with just enough pressure to fill my body with warmth. The sensation of his slightly rough hands against my cheeks is still strong enough that I keep touching my face to make sure I really am imagining it.
The memory of that kiss is the single strand of hair falling across your face that just won’t go back into place.
I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s bad. It’s so bad and it’s so wrong, but if I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m back there and he’s with me.
I can imagine that the rain doesn’t come.
I can imagine that he’d slide his hands into my hair and I’d wrap my arms around his waist and he’d kiss me like there was nobody watching.
But I don’t want to imagine it. Kye Burke is edging his way into my life in a way that’s like a termite inching its way through a wooden beam.
That’s it.
He’s like my very own termite.
That probably isn’t the best analogy, though, as termites are sneaky little bastards who are nearly impossible to stop, aren’t they?
Then again . . . my attempts to tell Kye to get lost haven’t exactly been successful, have they? I’m partially to blame though . . . I did agree to a date. I did have sex with him again. I did go over to his house.
I cover my face with my hands and bend forward onto my table. This is totally ridiculous. I’m not fifteen years old. I should be able to deal with a passing attraction to a very handsome man.
My phone rings and I straighten and reach for it. I don’t recognize the number, so by my rule, I don’t answer it. I don’t care to listen to spiels about new windows or insurance or whatever it is people are selling.
I reach for my coffee, and when I turn back, my phone is blinking with a notification. I sip from the cup and unlock my phone. The notification is a voice message, and with trepidation filling my body, I click the icon to play.
“Chelsey, it’s Dad. Call me.”
I screw up my face and put the phone down. How about no for an answer there? I haven’t heard from the guy for months, and that’s all he’s got?
When my phone rings again barely thirty seconds later—another from a private number—I take a deep breath and answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hi! I’m looking for Chelsey Young?” the chirpy female voice responds.
“You’ve found her.”
“Great! My name is Stella Beaden, and I’m with the Carolinian. I was wondering if you had a few minutes for a couple of questions.”
My stomach twists into a knot. “Sorry, Ms. Beaden. I’m about to leave for work. How about you call again at ten past never?”
“It’ll only take a minute!” she protests and immediately follows up with a “How do you feel about the news that your father will be welcoming a second daughter in the spring? Do you have anything to say about the rumors that he cheated on his fiancée? Can you tell us whether or not the wedding will be postponed in light of the news?”
“I’m sorry, I have no comment,” I reply in a voice far stronger than I feel. On that, I end the call and set the phone facedown. I wouldn’t have even answered that stupid call if the stupid voice mail from my stupid father hadn’t distracted me.
My coffee doesn’t feel as strong anymore.
I look into the dark liquid in the mug and take a succession of deep breaths. None of them quenches the anxious but angry feeling my heart is pumping through my body. It’s like my adrenaline has adrenaline. I’m shaking from head to toe as the realization that his “call me” was only a courtesy call to tell me the huge news that I should have known about before the media.
But the media clearly found out before I did. That he never really tried to tell me first.
My father is a selfish piece of crap.
I grab my phone and dial the last saved number I had for him. It rings a few times before it’s answered . . . and not by my father.
“Mr. Young and Ms. Weller are unavailable for comment,” a monotone voice says. “Please contact Mr. Young’s manager at—”
“This is Mr. Young’s daughter,” I grind out, breaking through the fake message voice this chick has going on. “I’d like to speak with my father, please.”
“Oh, well, um,” she stutters. “Let me see if he’s free.”
“He called me three minutes ago. He’s free. Hand the damn phone over.”
“Two seconds,” she squeaks. She doesn’t even bother to put me on hold, obviously, because I can hear her as she tells him I’m on the line and passes the phone over.
“Chelsey!” Dad’s deep voice rumbles over the phone, and I get chills. Not the good kind. The hang-the-fuck-up-now kind.
“Why the hell do I seem to be the last to know that you’re engaged to some bimbo barely older than me and that you two are having a girl, my sister?”
“Whoa now, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart. I haven’t been your sweetheart since I was legally required to endure your bullshit years ago.” I take a deep breath, but I’m still mad. Raging mad, it hits me. I’m fucking fuming. The last time I felt anything this intense was the day he walked out on Mom and left us to fend for ourselves. “You call me and tell me to call you, then thirty seconds later a reporter from the Carolinian is on the phone asking me what I think about your clusterfuck of a life.”
“What did you tell them?” He almost sounds afraid.
“Nothing. I told them I had no comment. Like I’ve done for the last six years. Yet they still call me.”
“Good.” Silence hovers and the line crackles briefly. “I wanted to tell you, Chelsey. We only found out this morning and the media were tipped off—probably someone at the doctor’s office. You know Katie is only a few months along—she had some test that told us the gender. Getting engaged was a spur of the moment thing last week. She doesn’t even have a ring yet. I swear, I wanted you to be the first to know we’re getting married, sweetheart.”
“Well, congratulations, I guess. I hope you’re happy now.”
“I am. Very.”
“Great. Take me off your wedding invite list, and do a better job with this kid than you did with me, okay?”
Then I hang up.
Hot tears burn the backs of my eyes.
He’s in his fifties and willing to have another daughter when he’s neglected to call me for two months. When his idea of parental support is five thousand dollars in my bank account every month—dollars that are immediately put into a savings account for any children I may have. I don’t want his stupid money.
But now . . . Everything comes back. The memories of when he left us, of how Mom cried, of how he was photographed less than twenty-four hours later stumbling out of a club with some skinny groupie hanging off his arm. How he saw me only when he deemed necessary, without any consideration for what was going on in my life. How he once wanted me to fly to Australia for just four days to spend time with him and got mad when I refused because I didn’t want to miss school.
How I was forced into taking my senior year on the road when my mom died of cancer that summer.
How I’m almost certain I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done, because now my stomach is twisting and my phone is vibrating nonstop on top of the kitchen island.
Because not ten minutes ago every part of me was alight with the memory of being kissed by a rock star. Ten minutes ago, I was closing my eyes and thinking of everything that would have happened if it weren’t for the rain.
Ten minutes ago I was thinking of things that could have been . . . if only I hadn’t spent the majority of my life exposed to, and jaded by, the reality behind the glamour of fame.
I swipe furiously at the tears that escape my eyes. This is so fucked up. My rational mind tells me not to judge Kye based on my father’s example, but my irrational one tells me stereotypes aren’t stereotypes for no reason.
In all fairness, my irrational mind has a point.
My door buzzer sounds, startling my tears away. I get up, swallowing what I hope is the last of my emotion where my father is concerned. “Hello?”
“Let me up, babe.” Kye’s deep tone travels through the intercom, and my heart stutters.
“Um. O-okay,” I reply, my voice cracking where the remaining emotion from my conversation with Dad breaks through. My finger hits the button to unlock the door and I spin away, biting down on my thumb.
He can cut my tree down and then leave, can’t he?
But there isn’t a question about it. That’s how it’s gonna go, and that’s the very end of this. I know better.
Still, I jump when three sharp knocks ricochet off my front door.
I go to the door and open it slowly, keeping my body close to the hard wooden surface. Kye’s standing on the other side like I knew he would be, wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt. His hair is perfectly messed back, like he just woke up and ran his fingers through the blond-brown strands. In one hand, he clasps a fairly sizable pair of shears, but it’s the startling brightness of his blue eyes that has me pausing.
They see right through me.
I take another deep breath as I pull the door open wider. It feels like that’s all I’ve done in the last hour—breathe deeply and hope for something better to happen. “Come in,” I say softly, turning away before he walks right in. “You want somethin’ to drink?”
“Coffee?” he asks. The gravelly, concerned tone of his voice skitters through me, but I ignore the shiver that cascades over me and remove the pod from the coffee machine to keep my hands occupied making a fresh cup.
“Sure.”
The tension that hovers between us is orchestrated by me, and I’m okay with that. Maybe, the more uncomfortable and unwelcome I can make him feel, the quicker he’ll turn and walk out the door.
A girl can hope, I suppose.
Wordlessly, I fix him a coffee and pass it to him, my stomach churning at the strong smell. Apparently my father’s news has made me feel sicker than I thought.
Kye’s fingers wrap around the arm of the mug and he lays the shears down on my coffee table slowly, knocking a coaster off it in the process. He picks it up, puts it back, then sets his mug down. I’m losing my inner battle to look away from him, especially when he straightens and stretches his arms above his head. “You all right?” he asks hesitantly. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I nod and turn away. “I slept badly last night,” I mutter and grab my coffee. I tip it into the sink and wash the splashes away with a sponge.
“And you’re throwing away coffee?” His disbelief is evident in his tone.
“Cold.” I squeeze the sponge and pause, shutting my eyes tightly.
Lukas Young, that philandering, abandoning fucker should not get to me this much anymore.
I guess that’s the problem, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter if your parent’s actions shouldn’t affect you. They always will, simply because they’re your parents. Karma really needs to sort her shit out on that one.
“You want me to come back and do this later so you can nap or somethin’?”
I shake my head, still not looking at Kye. “I have to work in a couple of hours. I’ll just take a shower. If that’s okay.”
“It’s your apartment, babe. But if what you’re askin’ is if I’ll come peek at you, I promise you I won’t. Scout’s honor.”
Now I glance at him and twist my lips to the side. His are spread into a wide grin, so I focus on that instead of the glimmer of concern still lingering in his eyes. “Every time you fake Boy Scout pledge y’all kill a unicorn.”
His laughter follows me as I head into the bathroom and shut the door. I reach forward and turn the shower on, then lock the bathroom door and lean against it.
My mind is still buzzing with my father’s revelation—and how I know every word he spouted to me was plucked from his cauldron of bullshit in a dumb attempt to appease me. He thrives on media attention because it brings fame, and he adores fame . . . much more than he could ever adore another person. The man loves himself to the point of self-obsession.
My eyes burn with the tears I almost successfully fought back earlier. With the shower running, I take a deep breath and let them go. They stream down my cheeks in hot bursts. The paths they create feel like rivers of molten lava, but they leave behind icy-cold streaks as each teardrop falls onto my lap.
I bury my hands in my hair and curl into a ball. I’m shaking with anger and hopelessness and bitterness. Anger because of how he treated me. Hopelessness because just through the wall is a guy who is as close to perfect as they come. Bitterness because years of experiencing the reality behind his job means I can never let myself have him.
And to be honest . . . a part of me wants him. A part of me wants to let go with Kye Burke and see where the craziness ends. I want to know how the kiss in the rain and the Christmas tree cutting and the rides home from work could really finish.
But it doesn’t matter how irrational it is, self-preservation wins the battle.
I’m jaded. I’m jaded as fuck, but at least I know it.
It’s that simple. . . . I know better.
Am I stupid?
Perhaps.
“Chelsey?” Kye knocks gently on the door. “What’s wrong?”
I sniff and swipe the wetness from my cheeks. “I’m showering!”
“You’ve been in there for thirty minutes. That’s long, even for a woman.”
“I didn’t realize.” Shit.
“Yeah,” he drawls. “Now you wanna tell me why you’re not even in the shower but are actually crying against the door?”
“What?”
“I can see the shadow under the door and I’ve been listening to you for the last couple of minutes. The water ain’t that loud, babe.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing myself up. Damn. I can’t catch a break today. I kill the shower and look in the mirror. My eyes are bright red, so is my nose, and my eyelids are swollen. Not to mention my cheeks look like they’ve had patches of bright red fabric stuck onto them like a Raggedy Ann doll.
Oh yeah, real fine, Chels.
“Look.” There’s a tension at the door as I presume he leans against it. “I ain’t gonna pretend I know what the hell you’re supposed to do with a crying chick.” Despite myself, I drop my eyes to the floor with a twitch of my lips at that admission. “But I know you’re supposed to hug them, so I figure I can get that right, then fuck up the rest after.”
A phone pings. It isn’t mine because mine’s too far away and now in silent mode, so it has to be his.
“All right, Chelsey,” he says a minute later. “Open the goddamn door before I open it for you.”
I’d bet my life savings that text was from Jessie. Jessie has a Google alert on my douchebag dad so she can make sure I’m not playing tough and keeping things from her.
“Okay,” I whisper, moving slowly toward the door. With a shaky hand, I reach for the lock and twist it.
The handle jerks down and the door opens so quickly I only just avoid being hit in the face.
“Hey!”
Kye ignores my protest and grabs me, pulling me into his arms. He holds me so tight that he squeezes every bit of strength out of my body and I have no choice but to press my face into his chest and hold his waist.
Okay, I totally have a choice. But the hug is . . . nice. And I really do need a hug.
“He didn’t tell you first, did he?” he rumbles into my hair. When I shake my head, he simply mutters, “Fuck, Chels.”
“That sums it up pretty good,” I whisper, reaching between us and wiping a tear from the corner of my eye.
Jesus, is there anything worse than someone catching you crying?
I don’t know if my cheeks are hot from the tears or the embarrassment that he can see me, blotches and all.
Kye kisses the top of my head gently, the kind of kiss that leaves a lingering touch long after his lips have gone. Warmth spreads down my body from that tiny point, and I close my eyes as I allow myself to savor it for just a moment.
Just one moment.
His chest heaves with a deep breath, and he releases me, only to frame my face with his hands. I swallow hard and open my eyes. His bright gaze is insistent as it searches mine, and I stand totally still under his scrutiny.
My stomach knots apprehensively when his eyes finally still.
“And it all makes sense,” he murmurs, still focused completely on me.
“Wha-what does?”
“All of it.” His lips move into the tiniest smile I’ve ever seen. “All of you.”
“I don’t understand.”
His thumbs stroke down my cheeks, swiping away the last of the tears, as he drops his hands. “You will.” He punctuates his words with a wink and turns.
I follow him into the front room and watch him as he grabs the shears and points at the tree. “You did it already?”
His eyes sparkle as he finishes his coffee and sets the empty mug down on the table. “Let me know when you’re ready to understand.”
Then he leaves.
Just like that.
And what the hell does that mean?