Chapter Fourteen
“I don’t know how you do it,” Brock said as he polished off the last of his burger and fries.
“Do what?” She licked the sriracha off her fingers, relishing his wince of pain.
“You know what,” he said. “Put that horrific crap in your mouth.”
“I’ve put worse in there,” she quipped, not realizing her mistake until the words had flown from her lips. He grinned at her then leaned back, his long, strong arms draping the top of the booth and drawing the attention of a table full of lovelies nearby. But his eyes stayed on hers, throwing off her hard-won equilibrium in a hot second. She looked down at her hands. “You know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” he said, his voice soft. “But I could guess, if you want me to.”
She glared up at him through the fringe of her bangs that Taylor had insisted she try at their last too-expensive salon day with Trent’s credit card. “None of your beeswax, nosy,” she insisted. But her voice was shaking. The new therapist was dragging all sorts of shit up from her well-buried past which had led to her need for more meetings to cope with the urges to pop a pill and forget it all, or to cut and cut and cut until there was nothing left of her but ribbons of flesh and bone. She swallowed hard.
“I know,” he said, raising a finger to get the waitress to bring the check. “Just establishing how much I know, relative to how little you’re willing to tell me.”
He leaned forward, mesmerizing her the way he’d done a lot lately. He was so damn good-looking, she hated him for it sometimes. Ridiculous. But it wasn’t fair, having this handsome, compassionate, equally fucked-up male dangled in front of her like so much catnip when she’d sworn off the stuff years before, out of sheer self-preservation.
“Stop it.” She blew a puff of air upwards so the fringe flew out of her eyes.
“Stop what?” He tilted his head, increasing his adorable quotient ten-fold.
What was the matter with her? She had no business flirting or interacting with a member of the opposite sex in any way that resembled a normal relationship. She had no idea what to do with her hands, or her restless feet, or her careening thoughts as he stared at her, silent, and unthreatening.
“We—you and me—we’re just friends, okay, Fitzgerald? Nothing more or less. I’m grateful to have you as my friend. So you can stop…doing whatever it is you’re doing right now to make me feel like a freak at the damn circus.”
“Did you hear? The last big circus closed. Hurray for the animals.”
“The…what?” She shook her head. “Don’t change the subject.”
“You said circus first, my dear.”
“Are you always this annoying?”
Stop flirting, Kayla. You don’t even know how to do it right.
His grin widened, showing off the dimple revealed since he’d shaved off his beard. Kayla’s heart did the oddest sort of stuttering thing, making her gasp and grip her chest. He frowned and reached for her arm, soothing her with the simple contact, his palm to her sleeve-covered skin. “You all right there, hot stuff?”
She took a long breath, wondering if she might be having a heart attack. What did that even feel like, anyway?
“Seriously, Kayla, you’re really pale all of a sudden. Do you need me to—?”
She pulled her arm out from under his hand and shook her head, staring at the check the waitress had just deposited on their table. She reached for her purse, knowing how much she owed since she ordered the same thing every time—black bean burger with hot pepper cheese and sweet potato fries, all doused with super-hot sauce—and since Brock had given up weeks ago trying to convince her to let him cover their post-meeting lunches.
“Gotta pee,” she mumbled as she headed for the bathroom, her mind awash with images, none of them she had any frame of reference for. All of them involving her, and Brock, and kissing.
She was shaking so hard when she made it to the bathroom, her teeth chattered, echoing and rattling. What would the man think if he knew she’d never once been kissed?
Regardless of all the terrible, degrading actions she’d done or had done to her, she’d never once allowed anyone to kiss her. Her stepfather had been strict about this. It was business, he’d insisted, as he’d taken the men’s money. “No one kisses my little girl,” he used to say.
She sat as long as she could without making him worry about her, rocking back and forth. She was filth. She was dirty. She was nothing but a hole—three holes, to be exact. No one wanted her for anything but her holes.
She’d been told this in no uncertain terms for so long, the mere concept of someone—of Brock Fitzgerald—looking at her in any way but clinical was so crazy as to be unthinkable.
But yet he had done. He did it a lot. The more time they spent going to meetings, eating lunches or dinners, getting comfortable in their ongoing razzing of each other, the more she would catch him outright staring at her.
“What? I got a booger?” she’d ask.
“No,” he’d reply. “I like admiring beautiful things.”
“Oh, shut up and leave me alone,” she’d always respond.
He’d smile, look away, and they’d resume whatever discussion they’d been having about a book they were reading, or a movie they’d like to see.
She groaned and leaned forward, willing her food not to make an ill-timed reappearance.
Brock—he was the star of most of her dreams lately, she’d admit to that. Dreams that would start one way—fun, and funny. Gentle, and kind. Sweet, and nice. Then he’d kiss her and she’d wake up screaming.
She was beyond redemption. She ought to set him straight and end this useless flirtation that would go nowhere. It wasn’t fair to him, after all. He ought to feel free to find a normal woman. Someone he could kiss who wouldn’t scream. Someone he could… Could make love to, without worrying that she’d flip out and start cutting herself.
With a sigh, she got to her feet, splashed some water on her face and opened the bathroom door, only to come face to face with Brock himself. He had his hand raised, as if about to knock. His eyes were full of concern. She stepped back, hand to her throat.
The very air between them seemed to crackle with energy. But she had no frame of reference for it. Even though she’d had sex with more men than she would ever admit. She’d done awful things, things foisted on her as a child, encouraged by her as an adult in exchange for her next pop. She had never once had a real orgasm—other than the ecstasy she achieved from cutting her own flesh.
“I’ve never been kissed,” she whispered, wonderment at her own outspoken craziness whirling around in her brain. “Did you know that? I’m forty-two years old and…” Her throat seized up, precluding any more words.
When he touched her face, his palm was warm and comforting. She leaned into it, wondering how long this would last, how long before he demanded something of her she couldn’t provide.
This is Brock. He won’t do any of those things, not if you don’t want him to.
Bullshit. He’s a man. All men want whatever the hell they can get or take by brute force.
“I will kiss you, Kayla.” He swiped the pad of his thumb over her lips, giving her the strangest, weak-kneed sensation. “But not until you want me to.” He put his lips close to her her ear. “You don’t want me to. Not yet. Do you?”
She closed her eyes and leaned toward him, her body yearning for something she’d never had before. Even as her mind was screeching at her to escape. “No,” she said, her voice cracking on the one word.
He kept plenty of air between them, his gaze never leaving hers. “When you’re ready, you’ll know. And then you just tell me, okay?”
She nodded, a single tear sliding down her hot cheek and dotting the cuff of his shirt. He let go of her, leaving her bereft and relieved at the same time. She clutched her bag to her chest, unable to stop staring at him as her mind pulled her away while her body urged her forward in ways she didn’t understand.
“I’m not normal, Brock. I… I’ve been… I’ve done… It’s…”
“Sh, sh,” he insisted, pulling her into a nice, comfortable hug. “We’ve all done. We’ve all been. You don’t even want to know some of the shit I’ve gotten into.”
She sensed herself molding against him, putting her arms around his waist and marveling as she did it at her first, intimate embrace. She pressed her face into his shirt, sucking a deep breath of him—a bit of maltiness from the brewery that they all carried around with them made her smile, combined with what must be the natural smell of his skin. Her knees were shaking again but he held on tight, his mantra of “Sh…sh…it’s all right,” filling her mind and drowning out the fear.
The sound of a clearing throat forced them apart. She swiped at her eyes and reached for her bag that she’d dropped in her haste to hug him back. But he snagged it first, handed it to her with a smile and held out his elbow. “I don’t know about you, but I might commit murder for a banana split right now.”
She drew away from him.
“Bananas in ice cream are an utter abomination to humanity, Fitzgerald. I think you might need help.” She found herself feeling strong after the close contact, not shaky and weepy like usual. As if some of his inner strength had permeated her, taken hold inside her. She tucked her hand into his arm.
“Oh, honey, I need help all right.” He led her to the door and out into the lengthening shadows of a perfect West Michigan late summer afternoon. He drove them to the local Dairy Queen, and ordered a large split, “heavy on the bananas,” and double chocolate fudge and whipped cream. When he brought the thing to their tiny concrete table with a triumphant flourish, she wrinkled her nose.
“That is disgusting.”
He handed her a long plastic spoon and dug out a huge bite. After shoving it into his mouth, closing his eyes and making weird, ecstatic noises, he pushed the thing over to her. She scooped up a tiny helping of the hot fudge and ice cream, avoiding the banana.
“You don’t know what you’re missing, lovely lady,” he said, taking another monster-sized bite of everything.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure that I do.”
“So about this wedding…”
Startled by the quick change of subject, she set her spoon down and reached over to wipe a blob of chocolate from the corner of his mouth with her napkin. It was the most natural seeming gesture in the world and neither of them commented on it. “What about it?”
“I got my invite and am pondering my plus one.”
She glanced up at him as she tried to maneuver a bite of ice cream out of the dish. “I’m in the damn thing so I’m going anyway.”
“Yeah, but…” He grabbed her hand. “I see you’re gonna remain as obtuse as ever and make me do it the hard way.”
She lifted her chin. Her ears were starting to ring and her palm felt sweaty. She resisted the urge to tug it out of his grip and wipe it on her jeans. His gaze held hers, rapt, in that damn way he had. That way she’d been trying to resist like mad in the weeks since her cutting mishap and hospital stay.
“Kayla, would you do me the honor of being my official date for your brother’s happy nuptials up in Petoskey?”
She frowned at him. Or at least she tried to. “I’m in the thing, like I just said. I’ll have, you know, responsibilities and shit. I may not be very much fun.”
“You will be. It’s gonna be a great weekend.” He kept a tight hold on her hand. “I, uh, meant that, you know. About the kiss.”
Her face got so hot she worried it might catch fire. She dropped her gaze. He took her chin and lifted her face and in his eyes she saw something she’d never, ever seen. She saw respect, and trust and honest concern.
Not love. Not yet. Don’t rush this…thing, whatever it is.
She smiled at him and patted his cheek. “Sure thing, handsome. I’ll be your date. But don’t think you can get away with that kissing thing just because the ambience is all romantic and shit. I’m not gonna be that easy.”
He grabbed her hand and put her knuckles to his lips. She flinched, but the sensation crawling up her spine was pleasant. And when it hit her brain, her world seemed somehow brighter.
Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a man. And men only want one thing from you.
She tried to pull away but he held both her hands now, the gross, melting goop of ice cream, banana and chocolate between them. “I’m not… I…”
He shook his head. “Kayla, stop assuming you know what I want from you.”
She blinked fast, shocked that he’d somehow figured out her deepest fear. He gave her hands one more squeeze then let her go and picked up his spoon. “My favorite stage…all melty.” He scooped a dollop of the dessert into his mouth. She watched him, frozen by her own feelings, and terrified by the enormity of what she’d just agreed to do. To be his date. To her brother’s wedding. An event that would span an entire highly choreographed set of days that would end on Saturday night with a sunset ceremony and dancing under the stars.
She shivered, but when she dug deep into the reason why, all she saw was Brock.
And all she heard was his promise to kiss her…as soon as she was ready.