Kye
“Mom’s going to slice off your balls and roast them with her turkey for Christmas. You know that, right?”
I nod at my sister. “I know. But for the look on her face when she walks through the door, it’s gonna be so fucking worth it.”
Leila shakes her head, staring past me at the tree. “I cannot believe you decorated the tree with dildo decorations.”
I look at her over my shoulder and shrug. “It’s been standing there for like a day and a half. It was feeling neglected.”
“What did you do, have the decorations overnighted or something?”
“Actually, yeah.” I grin. “You can find all sorts of shit on the Internet. Mom’s lucky I didn’t buy the bondage decoration kit.”
“You say that, but I guess she hasn’t shared her Christmas list with you yet.” Leila shudders. “The Fifty Shades DVD is at the top with stars around it. The woman is in her fifties.”
“Maybe she likes that Irish guy.”
My sister sniffs and picks her book back up. “He’s no Charlie Hunnam, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Not a damn clue who that is.”
“You need a life.”
“Clearly you should follow your own advice.”
“Can you two be in the same room and not fight?” Dad asks, shutting the front door behind him.
Leila’s book finds its way back to her lap as her attention falls to Dad. “Hey, Dad. Kye decorated!”
“You started the tree?” he groans, hanging up his jacket. “Quick, take it dow . . .” He trails off as he turns and examines the tree. “Leave it,” he corrects himself. “I have to see her face.”
“Hey, Chelsey’s on her way over!” Leila exclaims happily. “And that is our Christmas tree.”
“You just gave away any chance of gettin’ laid ever again, son,” Dad points out carefully.
I shrug. The chance of getting laid again is looking slimmer and slimmer anyway—especially where Chelsey is concerned. As soon as Jessie texted me yesterday and I took one look at Chelsey’s tear-stained face, everything made sense.
The scars from her childhood are embedded so deeply that she looks at me and only sees a rock star. She sees another clone of her father, as far as my actions are concerned.
She doesn’t see Kye Burke.
As for changing her mind, I have no idea how to do that. Since Dirty B. blew up, I didn’t change. Tate was the manwhore. Aidan was the secret manwhore. Conner was the “I’m bored with my right hand” one. I’ve always been the one who thought every one-night stand through and generally came out at “no.”
I’m not painting myself as a fucking celibate saint here. I’ve just always been the picky one.
That night, I picked Chelsey. I saw her sitting in the bar, all blond hair and brooding blue eyes, and knew that was the night. The night I’d finally get to be with her. In doing so, I picked the biggest damn challenge I’m ever gonna face.
Except perhaps my mom when she sees the dildo-decorated tree. It might help if I go pack an overnight bag, because I think I might be safer anywhere but here.
Clearly, I’m also the Burke who hasn’t grown up yet. And I’m totally okay with that. My brothers can keep their responsibilities. I’m still figuring out the fucking washing machine, never mind a whole house.
“What,” Chelsey exclaims, “the hell is that?”
With a wide smile spreading across my face, I shove my hands in my pockets like a teenage boy and look at her. “A Christmas tree.”
“Are those . . . penises?”
“Technically, dildos.”
“Like real ones?” She jerks her alarmed gaze to me.
“No. Just plastic.”
She flicks her tongue across her lips. “Uh-huh. Why do you have penises all over your Christmas tree?”
“Because he’s an immature little bastard,” Leila answers for me.
“You didn’t stop me,” I shoot back.
“Hell no I didn’t. I cannot wait to see Mom’s face when she sees this!”
“When she sees what?” Mom’s voice creeps through the house ominously, and the close of the door after her sounds like the signal that I should run away.
“Uh . . . I’m just gonna go . . . to the store. . . .” I shuffle toward the door that connects the front room with the kitchen. Chelsey lifts her eyebrows in amusement, and Dad grabs the back of my shirt so I can’t escape.
You wouldn’t think I was twenty-four. For numerous reasons, obviously.
“Kye Burke, why are there tiny penises on my Christmas tree?”
Her voice is calm. Really calm. I’m even more convinced that I should run.
“Merry Cock-mas?”
Mom’s expression is somewhere between insane amusement and extreme frustration.
“I’m just gonna come back later . . .” Chelsey whispers, edging toward the living room door. “When there are less . . . cocks.”
“Good idea! I’ll come with you.” I wrestle out of Dad’s grip and dart behind him, through the kitchen, and into the hall.
Chelsey laughs and grabs my arm, dragging me back into the room. “I said I was going. I didn’t say you were escaping this cock-up.”
“Great choice of words,” Dad chuckles.
Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “I should have known that when three boys left, one boy would have to make the impression of three,” she says, mostly to herself. “I should have known that the one who never left his little peep alone at two would one day decorate my tree with cocks.”
“Mom! What the hell?” I sputter.
“I should have known that his ball-hoarding obsession at six was a sign of things to come.” She sighs heavily and drops her hand. “After all, there’s one in every boyband. I thought I was ready for this.” Then, she turns to me. “Kye, son, we love you anyway, but I have to ask. Are you gay?”
Chelsey lets go of me, and laughter rips from her. Leila laughs, too, her book falling to the floor. Dad covers his face with his hands, and Mom just stands there in the middle of the room, her eyes wide. Her hands are now clasped in front of her sympathetically, and the tiny upturn of the right side of her mouth explains it all.
“Well played, Mother,” I say reluctantly, walking back toward the front door. “Well. Played.”
“You didn’t answer!” she calls, laughter punctuating each syllable.
I walk out of the house, shaking my head. Damn. I should have known she’d get me one way or another.
“Kye,” Chelsey giggles, the sound of the closing door following it. “Wait.”
“Are you coming to find out if I’m gay?”
She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I was more hung up on the fact you played with your ‘peep’ at two.”
I throw my arms in the air. “Seriously! I play with it now, and no one makes a fuss about that.”
She bites down on her thumb and tilts her head to the side, brushing her blond hair out of her face with her other hand. “Actually, the fact she used the word ‘peep’ was the best part.”
“I . . . yeah, kinda.” Rain pitters against the roof of my truck as dark clouds form overhead, so I focus on her. “Did you come to see me or Leila?”
She pauses for a second, her eyes hesitant, before she says softly, “You.”
“Okay, well, I’m not goin’ back to Mom and her peep warpath, so get in and we’ll get coffee.” I unlock the truck with my key fob and open the door for her. After Chelsey climbs in, I close it and go around the other side. “Any reason you wanted to see me?”
“Let’s get coffee. Then talk, okay? Besides, I need to finish laughing first. I’m gonna have abs in a minute.”
Jessie isn’t working when we pull up outside the coffee shop, thank God, so we take a seat in the corner on the plush chairs. We’re pretty hidden here, and Chelsey visibly relaxes when she sees that. She unwinds her scarf and sets it on the chair next to her, then reaches for her coffee.
She’s barely said a word except for the odd “peep” mutter followed by tiny giggles. As hard as I’ve tried to keep a straight face, it’s been really hard. It is one hell of a word. Even if my mother did just ask me if I’m gay.
Right.
I’ve dreamed of nothing but fucking the girl opposite me. I may be the picky one, but I’m as straight as they come. Not that there’s anything wrong with gay people. It’s just hilarious that my mom would ask that even if she was just ribbing me.
The Cock-mas prank totally bit me on the ass, though.
“I wanted . . .” Chelsey sighs when her phone rings and pulls it out of her pocket. “Oh, fuck yourself,” she mutters at the screen and tucks it away again.
My eyebrows shoot up.
“Private number. Again,” she replies dejectedly. “My phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day.”
“The media, right? Is your standard comment ‘fuck you,’ or ‘fuck yourself,’ by any chance?”
Her eyes flit to mine. “How did you guess?”
“Just a hunch.” I grin and lean forward, wrapping my hands around the cup. We managed to get a parking spot half a block away, but the temperature is dropping, ready for the predicted ice storm, so even a few minutes out is freezing. “What were you gonna say?”
She takes a deep breath and drops her gaze to her cup. Hot chocolate this time, with little marshmallows. Apparently coffee is a necessary food group, right up there with protein, and not suitable for merely warming oneself through.
“I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I should have called you after I spoke with my dad and told you not to worry.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.” She lifts her cup to her lips then rethinks it and looks at me. “So I’m sorry.”
I study her as she looks at the top of the cup once more. She’s not good with eye contact, huh? “That’s it? You could have texted me that.”
“Yeah.” The cup clinks lightly as it hits the saucer. She takes the tiny spoon between her finger and thumb and stirs, unsaid words lingering in the space between us.
The bell above the door rings at the same time her phone does. She drops the spoon and reaches into her pocket. The way her lips turn down makes it clear it’s the media again.
I reach across the table, grab her phone, and hit the power button. Then I shove it in my pocket.
“That works,” she replies, a hint of amusement filtering through her helpless tone.
“No shit. You should have just left it at home. You know they’re relentless.”
“I know.” Her gaze drifts over my head to the pictures lining the walls. “I just hoped . . . I don’t know what I hoped. That they’d get the message? I even changed the message on my voicemail.”
“To what?”
“I . . . Um.” Her smile is mischievously sweet.
I pull my phone out and dial her number, fighting my smile as I look at hers. “Hi! This is Chelsey Young. If you’re calling for my opinion on my father’s life, you called the wrong number. The correct one is five-five-five go fuck yourself.”
I snort and end the call. “No one can accuse you of fucking around, huh?”
“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” She lifts a shoulder and shrugs. “It’s infuriating. You know that. The constant stream of messages—except y’all have a PR person to do that. I have my voice mail and the hope that my temper won’t send my phone into a wall.”
“Has that happened?”
“Have I gotten so pissed off that I threw my phone into the wall?” She raises an eyebrow. “No. And I’ve never been so mad that I dropped it out my window into the parking lot either. In case you’re wondering, though . . . It turns out, Gorilla Glass? Not so unbreakable.”
I don’t have a fucking clue how to respond to that.
No, wait—I do.
“Come on.” I zip my sweatshirt back up and stand, reaching for her hand.
“Come where?” She blinks and grabs her scarf as I snatch her hand. “I didn’t finish my drink!”
“We’ll go to your place and I’ll make you one with whiskey in it. Even better. Let’s just go.”
“Go where?”
I slide my fingers between hers and tug on her arm. She narrows her eyes. Her forehead is marred by tiny shadows of a frown, but I pull her after me down the sidewalk until we reach the main retail area of downtown Shelton Bay.
She’s right. Although I remember what it’s like to have to field numerous calls, we mostly have PR to do that for us. Chelsey doesn’t have that privilege. She’s not as lucky as we are, and if she’s had two calls in five minutes, it makes me fucking sick to think of how many she’s had since I left her yesterday morning.
“What time did you make that voice mail?”
“Five-five-five go fuck yourself?”
“That’s the one.”
“Two a.m.,” she mumbles.
“Fuckin’ shit!”
“What?”
I shake my head and pull her in front of me, grasping her waist and pushing her forward. I have to slow a little since I’m taller than her, and I’m pretty sure she’s resisting a little just to be a fucking pain. We walk in silence for a few minutes, my grip on her unwavering.
We stop right outside the phone store.
“What are we doing here?” Chelsey says. “Kye?”
“I’m getting you another phone. So you don’t have to deal with that bullshit anymore.”
She wrenches herself from my grip and turns. Her hair flies as she looks down, and she pulls the rogue strands from her open mouth. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not.”
“You can’t get me a phone. That’s absurd.”
“So is you being harassed twenty-four-fucking-seven because these pricks all have the cell number you were foolish enough to put on Facebook.” I hit her with a hard look, and her expression tightens as the truth of my words hit her. “Way I see it, you’ve got two choices, babe.” I hold up one finger. “You and I can walk into the store in a civilized manner, get you a new phone, then walk back out.”
“And what’s option two?”
I hold up a second finger. “I throw you over my fucking shoulder and carry you into the store, get you a new phone, then carry you back out.”
“You couldn’t carry me for that long.”
“Wanna try it?”
Her eyes flash with her defiance. “I dare you.”
She should know from last time I don’t back down from dares. I grab her waist and haul her up over my shoulder. She screams and then claps her hand over her mouth.
“Kye!” she pleads. “Put me down! Holy shit!”
“You gonna go in nicely?”
“People are staring at us!”
“All right then.” I take two steps.
“Put me down! I’ll go in! On my feet!”
“You promise?”
“I promise! I fucking promise! Oh my God.”
With a grin, I drop her back onto her feet. Immediately, she slaps my chest. I look down as she pushes her now-messy hair from her eyes.
“You’re a fucker,” she mutters, nudging me with her elbow.
“A fucker who’s about to buy you a phone.” I nudge her back.
“Then you’re a generous fucker.” She stops, smiles, and grabs my wrist before I can take more than a step away from her. She slides her fingers down so that they tickle my palm, then gets on her tiptoes and brushes her lips across my cheek. “Thank you,” she says softly.
I half-smile and run my thumb along the smooth line of her jaw, and she turns into the touch just a little. “You’re welcome.”
“How can Mila work that, but you can’t?” Sofie asks, looking at Chelsey.
Chels grimaces, and we all focus on the crazy-haired two-year-old. Mila’s lying on her tummy in the middle of the rug in front of the fire—her favorite place in the Burke household. Chelsey’s new phone is laid out in front of her, and her tiny toddler finger is jabbing at the screen with more finesse than Chelsey used earlier.
“Mila could work out a Sudoku if it were on a screen,” Conner says. “She’d get it right after a while, too.”
Chelsey tilts her head to the side. “How can she play Candy Crush? I couldn’t get past level seven.”
“Seven?” Conner snorts.
Sofie taps his thigh, but she’s grinning. “Mila has this freaky toddler sense. She did a level Conner couldn’t do.”
“But that was level sixty-three,” he protests.
“Honey, you got to it. I’m not sure I believe your claims of her doing at least twenty of those. . . .” Her smile softens with her words, and I know she believes him. She probably believes he’s lying and Mila did way more than just twenty.
Conner wraps his arm around her shoulders and kisses the side of her head. Once again, they’re oblivious to everyone around them. They’re lost in Conner and Sofie world, and it briefly passes through my mind what exactly that’d be like.
To be so fucking wrapped up in someone that they’re all you see.
I glance at Chelsey. Mila is standing in front of her, the phone outstretched, and Chelsey lifts her onto her lap.
“I’m real bad at this game,” she says softly, taking the phone.
“Matchy,” Mila says back, equally quietly. She swipes her finger to make a four-strong line. “See?”
“I know. I’m just bad.” Chelsey takes over, and I watch through the tiny space not blocked by Mila’s hair. Her dark hair is getting crazier and crazier.
“Uh-oh,” Mila gasps. “Fiy!”
“Fiy?”
Mila points at the number of moves she has left—five.
Shit. When did that kid get so smart?
“I think I’m gonna lose,” Chelsey admits. She finishes out the moves. “One more go?”
Mila nods resolutely, and Chelsey hits the Replay button.
I pull out my phone and bring up my last received message from Aidan. I hit Type. When you first saw Jessie with Mila, what did you think?
I thought I needed to run the fuck away because it was the damn cutest thing I’d ever seen.
Seems like running away is the flavor of the day.
Did Mom take the cocks off the tree? he adds in a second message.
I glance at the tree, now adorned with simple white lights, ready for her to attack it with Mila’s help tomorrow. Yeah, I reply. Now it looks like a sad little bush.
Why did you ask about Jessie?
Because seeing Chelsey playing Candy Crush with the kid makes me feel like I need to impregnate her right now.
I hope that’s a fucking exaggeration.
Then Mila starts crying.
“Sofie.” Chelsey holds her hands up, panic in her eyes. “Help.”
Sofie laughs and gets up. She sweeps Mila off Chelsey’s lap and takes the phone. “No lives. Con?”
Conner sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket. A few swipes later he hands it to Mila. “Why’s it always my phone?”
“Because she likes yours better. She just plays with the case on mine.”
“That’s because it’s a wineglass you can tip. And that was supposed to be a stocking stuffer.”
“Then perhaps you need to rethink your hiding places,” she drawls, settling Mila onto her knee. “The underwear drawer, which I put laundry in three times a week at least, is not a hiding place for presents.”
Chelsey hides her smile behind her phone, then frowns. She flips it over and, upon finding a bit of drool, grimaces and leans over. She wipes it off on my leg. A sweet smile follows her action.
I can’t help but return the lip twitch, mostly because she looks so fucking cute when she smiles at me like that. It’s the way her eyes light up. A tiny indent forms on one cheek, and the dimple could be the most adorable part of it.
My phone lights up with a message from Ads, and I realize I didn’t respond a moment ago. I swipe to open it.
Please tell me you’re not impregnating her.
It’s kind of tempting not to respond again, but I do. Nah. I’m gonna get her to like me first.
Good luck.
I glance at her. The phone is resting on the arm of the sofa, and she’s leaned over it, her head resting on her hand.
I figure I’ve made a damn good start.