Chapter Fifteen
“Yo, Earth to brother. Calling my brother…hello?”
“What? Hey, cut it out.” Brock waved Austin’s hand out of his face, annoyed that he’d been caught staring into the distance at his desk—the desk he occupied thanks to the ongoing goodwill of said brother trying to get his attention at that moment. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“Hardly. You all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Clean as a whistle. Taking my pills like a good boy, all right? You know because you make me check in every day at four-thirty, remember? Now, beat it.”
“I will. After you tell me more about this.” Austin turned his computer tablet around so Brock could see the screen.
Local Brewery Throws Weight Behind Clean Water Efforts, the headline blared.
“Yeah, those kids,” he said, hooking his thumb over his shoulder at the room where his interns were eternally tap-tapping away on behalf of the Fitzgerald Foundation. “They’re pretty good at the publicity shit.”
“Don’t be modest, Brock. This story’s gotten picked up by USA Today and Huffington Post. My inbox is stuffed full of requests for interviews. Well done, my brother.”
“Over a million hits on HuffPo,” a voice piped up from the interns’ room.
Brock shrugged. “They speak their own language. But that’s good, right?” he hollered back in the direction of the keyboard noises.
“Yeah, boss. It’s great.”
He rotated the squeaky office chair back around so he was facing Austin again. “The water thing was your wife’s idea. I just ran with it. Turned those kids loose with the online and press release bits. Voilá.”
Austin chuckled and shook his head. But Brock couldn’t take any pleasure in his brother’s kudos. Yes, he’d done all upfront legwork—reading research about the poisoned water problem in Flint for hours, talking to local officials, the pediatrician who’d made the initial discovery—and that was the interesting part. More hours spent on budget proposals to fix the problem, and yet still more on hold, waiting for the big shots in Lansing to answer his questions about what it would really take to fix the lead pipe problem in the city.
Once he’d had all the facts at his disposal, he’d made the decision to allocate that year’s funds toward it, but not via the government. The grassroots group spearheading the clean-up had been ecstatic to receive his phone call and, not long after that, his giant donation check. He’d kept his interns in the loop at every stage and they’d worked miracles, building the Fitzgerald Charitable Foundation’s social media presence during his research period, and reaching out to the right press people to make their big announcement.
Hence the now-national level attention being paid to his brother’s brewery’s dedication to cleaning up the water in a Michigan city much poorer than theirs. His phone had been blowing up with requests for interviews too—from as high up as The Today Show and a few others he’d never heard of but had been assured by his pack of youngsters that they were ‘awesome’.
But it was all somehow muted. And he had no one but himself to blame for that. His anxiety over the wedding weekend had grown to near epic proportions. Now that the event itself was literally around the corner—as in, he was packed and ready to drive up to Petoskey after shoving the infants out of the office for the evening—he was having a hard time swallowing his own spit.
What had possessed him to make it semi-official anyway? They were fine as junkie meeting and ice-cream-eating buddies. Why upset that particular apple cart?
“So, I hear you’re Kayla Hettinger’s date for the big event this weekend.”
He was so startled to hear these words echoing his ongoing inner debate, his elbow slipped off the edge of the desk, which compromised the fragile equilibrium of the office chair and he found himself dumped onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
“Jesus, dude. Nervous much?” Austin held out his hand.
Brock rolled to his hands and knees before climbing to his feet. Ignoring his brother and the concerned stares from the peanut gallery behind him, he set the chair back on its rollers and closed his laptop.
“Nervous doesn’t even begin to describe it,” he said, staring down at his desk, unsure why he felt the need to chat about it. He and Austin had an understanding sort of relationship. He understood that he was only tolerated if he toed the line. While Austin understood that he could spin out of control at any moment. They didn’t communicate much outside that, other than via logistics regarding Evelyn and Rose, if his presence was required to assist with either. The times Austin had saved his ass—like the last time he’d been out at the lake house where he’d find himself again soon—all went unremarked upon. He knew his own embarrassment level over them and Austin, to his credit, seemed to respect that by not bringing it up.
He sighed as his shoulders slumped against the hard reality of his circumstances. Not that he was anything but grateful for it—up to and including this latest responsibility for the foundation. But at this particular moment, he was so confused and rattled about Kayla, he felt the words bubbling up his throat and spilling from his lips before he could stop them.
“I think I love her,” he said, flopping back into his chair.
“Hmm…that might get complicated,” Austin said, his expression sympathetic.
“Yes, muchas gracias, Captain Obvious.” He leaned onto the desk, forehead on his arms.
“You thought you loved Caroline Reilly, too. How is this any different?”
A flash of anger forced him to lean back and meet his brother’s gaze. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Austin held up a hand. “Nothing, I guess.”
“So, I’m not allowed to have honest feelings about a woman? Just because I managed to fuck everything up relative to Caroline?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Austin was standing now, his jaw clenched in a way Brock recognized. “Never mind.”
Brock was aware that the ubiquitous tapping from the room next door had stopped. The brothers glared at each other a few seconds.
“Brock,” Austin said. “I’m sorry. I’m not… I don’t mean to be judgmental. I swear it.”
“Hard not to be. I get it. I’ve not been the most reliable human being on the planet most of my life.” He propped his dress-shoe-covered feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head, attempting to seem like he didn’t care.
But he did.
“Well, that’s not what I meant either.”
“So, what do you mean, Austin?” He kept his face as neutral as possible while his brother wrestled with his inner judgmental guy, amused and discouraged by the whole thing.
“Look, from what little I’ve been told about her, Kayla is not exactly without her own baggage.” Austin hesitated. Brock waited for the second half of that statement. “Pretty heavy baggage, too.”
Brock flexed one biceps by way of showing his ability to tote said heavy baggage. Austin rolled his eyes. “Far be it from me to talk you in or out of anything, relative to the fairer sex…”
“But?” Brock was baiting him now but couldn’t stop himself. As if he needed to hear his own misgivings about a relationship between two people as fucked up as they were spoken out loud—by someone else.
“But shit, man, you have a hard enough time getting through some days. How could adding another person just as…challenged to that mix be anything but…a mess?”
Brock sighed and put his hands on the desk, staring down at them as if they might answer all his questions. “Honestly? I have no idea.” He felt Austin’s hand on his shoulder.
“I get it, though. There’s no accounting for women and what they do to us.”
“Yeah, that. Good thing they’re soft and smell nice—to make up for the PITA factor, eh, brother?”
Austin gave his shoulder a pat then withdrew. “I’m behind you, whatever you decide. But her brother may prove a barrier, you know. He’s a pretty protective guy.”
“He’ll be distracted this weekend, I’m willing to guess.” But Brock’s gut churned at the thought of pissing Kayla’s brother off, regardless of his more or less virtuous intentions. “She’s no more of a mess than I am. And it’s not like I’m looking to…to…”
Austin chuckled and slapped his back again. “Dude, I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be tongue-tied over a female. I’ll take that as a good sign.”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, letting his feet drop to the floor. “But whatever I know or don’t know, it’s almost time to get on with it.” He glanced at his watch. “You guys going up tonight, or tomorrow?”
“Rose travels best at night, so we’re gonna caffeine up and head out tonight, but not until after nine.”
“Thanks for listening,” he said, meaning it.
Austin shrugged. “I wasn’t much help.”
“Nope. But you always were useless.”
Austin grinned at him, went for a mock-punch to his jaw, which Brock mock-blocked and did the same to Austin’s gut. Man-speak for “Enough about feelings, already. Get me a beer.”
“I’ll see you there, then. I’m leaving from here, once I toss some candy to the kids.”
“Hey!” a voice floated out over the resumed keyboarding.
“You know what I mean,” he called over his shoulder. “Get ready for me in there, youngsters. Time for my daily debrief. You’ll be on your own here tomorrow.”
Austin turned as he was about to head out of the door. “Are you staying at the house?”
“Nope. I wasn’t invited and didn’t think it would be politic to show up for breakfast with the family in my PJs without Trent inviting me.”
“Good call. So you’re at the Inn?” He named the centuries-old set of cabins on Lake Michigan where they’d spent a fair share of summer fucking-around time as boys and teenagers. Their mother now owned half the deed, along with her Fitzgerald in-laws. The place wasn’t used anymore, given how busy Austin and Evelyn were with the brewery and the fact that their closest cousins were west-coast dwellers and had been for several decades. The collection of buildings included one large, genteel but ramshackle main house and four more updated cabins that were managed by a rental company.
“Yeah. I figure it’s about time someone blew the cobwebs off the furniture up there.”
“Watch out for the ghost.”
Brock shot him a thumbs-up. “I’m counting on him for company. I don’t see this as a sleep-over sort of weekend for me and the current object of my heart’s desire.”
“Good plan.”
“Give me some credit,” he quipped as he put his work away in his worn backpack. “Go on, Judge-y McJudge Face. I gotta feed the peanut gallery then get on the road. I am invited to a family dinner tonight, I’ll have you know.”
“Good for you, Brock,” Austin said. “I’ll catch up with you at Trent’s house tomorrow.”
* * * *
The two-and-a-half-hour trip flew by too fast and before he was ready to face it, he was parked in the long driveway in front of Trent’s massive lakefront mansion. Memories of his last trip here filled his head like smog. He’d been sure he and Caroline would make the friends thing work, but of course they hadn’t been able to stay out of each other’s pants. They were both too pre-programmed for that sort of abstinence.
And it had ended here—or rather Caroline had possessed the grownup ability to end it. That had nearly sent him spiraling downward. His typical response—and one that his brother had nipped in the bud, thank Christ.
As he wiped the sweat that had beaded on his face, he resisted the extreme impulse to succumb to the pity party building up steam in his chest. He took several deep breaths, repeating one of the mantras suggested to him by one of his many therapists through the years.
You are in control of you. You are in control of you. You are in control of…
“Fuck,” he spat out, giving the steering wheel a smack and wincing at the pain in his palm. Time to act like a God damned grownup man, Fitzgerald. She’s in there. Kayla—the equally-if-not-more-fucked-up woman who had so compelled him for reasons he couldn’t justify.
The urge to kiss her outside of that stupid bathroom at the restaurant had been so strong. It had seemed perfect. The Old Brock—Mister Ladykiller Himself—would not have hesitated. He’d have gone for it, hard. And the night would have ended badly, to say the least.
The New Brock—Mister Sensitive for Now—had held back and the look of sheer relief on her face had been worth it. Of course, this weekend held all sorts of possibilities. None of which at this precise, sweaty, head-pounding moment seemed very attractive to him.
With a sigh, he climbed out of the car he’d had to park at the end of the long drive behind all the vehicles already stationed here. The afternoon was hot, and the sky was a bright, clear blue. But rain was forecast for the coming days, in a wishy-washy fifty percent way, leaving the wedding party at a loss on what to do about the huge tent they had on standby.
Kayla had texted him earlier.
Poor Mel, she’s sick as a damn dog from the pregnancy, weepy over the potential shitty weather and how Taylor’s behaving. I had to take Miss Thing outside and give her what for just now. I think it helped. I hope so. Trent’s pacing the floors like a caged tiger. Hurry up already. I need some help!
The thought of her needing him, of anyone needing his help with anything, was comforting, so he’d pressed the pedal harder and made it from the brewery in record time. Of course, now he stood here, gawking up at the three-story, arts-and-crafts monstrosity of a lake house, heart racing, feet frozen in place.
“Hey! Fitzgerald!” He jumped at the sound of her voice, then caught sight of her, leaning out of one of the upper windows. “Get your ass in here. Please?” Her smile was so wide and natural-looking he sensed a bit of his tension release.
The realization that they were both caretakers in their souls hit him as he half-ran up the drive to the side door. Odd, considering that junkies were considered to be the worst sort of selfish—the kind that preyed on the people who loved them the most. He’d done his fair share of emotional vampirism, he’d admit that. But his parents had been unwilling to admit that he even had a problem worth addressing beyond grounding him and taking his car keys away. It was as if he had to prove to them that he was, indeed, sick enough to warrant their full attention that drove him to some of his worst deeds.
“Only you can control you,” he muttered as he pulled open the door and headed into the large mud-room off the kitchen. The memories of Caroline tried to take hold again, digging into the frontal cortex of his brain with raptor’s claws and forcing him to stop and grip the high granite countertop to steady himself. If he closed his eyes, he could see her, hear her, smell her as her memory ghost moved around the giant kitchen he was staring at now.
She was and always would be a part of him, a physical extension of himself in a way, but one that was toxic, like an appendix gone bad. And he was an even worse vestigial organ for her—he was her addiction as she’d said so many times. He was her crack. In some ways, even harder to beat than his own, first to booze, then to sex, then to opiates. Because no matter how shitty he’d treated her—and he’d been forced to face up to some real doozies in that department—she couldn’t not come to him whenever he’d call or text or show up at her door in whatever state of wrecked he might be.
“Hey, it’s about time.” His eyes flew open at the sound of Kayla’s voice. He was shaking when he ran a hand down his face, but he pulled it together and smiled at her, relieved at her interruption. “What’s wrong?” She moved close to him, too close. He could smell her—something so opposite of Caroline that it turned his mild shivers into tremors. Sunscreen and lake water and sand filled his senses but with an undercurrent of something that was everything Kayla. A sort of vanilla-infused spice with the mildest hint of sweat. “Brock? Do you need some water?”
He closed his eyes against the urge to grab her, shove her up against the wall of this stupid room and fuck her so he could shove Caroline out of his damn head once and for all. Unfair. Unfair to Kayla, but also to him and to the now-absent old girlfriend.
To his surprise, when he opened his eyes and took the cool glass from her, his body didn’t do its usual lurch into over-the-top horny. He downed the water. Kayla held out her hand and he gave it back to her. Her thin but striking face was tan—she’d been here for almost a week of near-perfect weather already. Her hazel eyes were shaded more green than brown in contrast to the bronzed tint of her skin. When she reached out and put her fingertips to his cheek, he blinked, expecting the usual surge of inappropriate desire. But his brain remained in charge, and his skin prickled at her touch.
“Thanks,” he croaked out.
She nodded, turned back to the sink to refill the glass then returned. He took in the filmy sundress, the bikini top straps around her neck, her bare feet with their pink-painted toenails. As if to test his tenuous, new-found self-control, he shifted to one side so he could appreciate the way the sun’s angle backlit her figure. After a quick twinge below his belt, he moved back to where he’d been and downed the water, berating himself for being so craven. Even as he congratulated himself for how normal he felt.
Any red-blooded, healthy man would see a beautiful woman in a bikini not very well covered by a thin dress and get that below-the-belt twinge. Any normal guy. Could it be? Had he conquered that demon? He cast his mind back to the many post-meeting lunches and dinners they’d shared, laughing and joking and eating and being…regular people. He’d never once, until that last time, given any thought to her body, or how she’d feel, smell or taste. Which was at odds with how he’d operated for so long he realized now that he should have noticed.
But he hadn’t. He’d enjoyed her pleasant, snarky, intelligent company. Her beauty had not been lost on him. Any man who claimed that was a flat-out lying asshole. But he hadn’t required all his willpower not to leap over whatever table lay between them, to kiss her, feel her, inside and out. Not once.
The sight of her now filled him with something else. A sort of peaceful happiness—as if now, together, they could conquer this super-stressful weekend together and have some fun doing it.
She had to peel his fingers from around the empty water glass to get it away from him. “Better now? Or do you need some more time?”
He nodded. “I’m good. Seriously. Thanks.”
“This place will do that to you.” She tilted her head, which made a lock of her dark hair slip from the messy bun.
Without thinking, he reached for it, tucked it behind her ear, noting the sweet flush under her tan. Again, he didn’t get that sick testosterone and adrenaline-fueled compulsion to shove her to the floor and stick his dick in her just for the mental and emotional relief it might offer. All he wanted was to hold her in his arms.
She didn’t move as he let his fingers trail across her shoulder, which were red and peeling, and exposed by the dress. He watched his own hand, fascinated by it, as it moved down the arm she kept clasped tight to her body, concealing what he knew to be thick scar tissue from her years of cutting. Her skin was pleasantly warm under his palm as he cupped her elbow and tugged her close. She only hesitated a moment, as if sensing his need for her proximity.
“It’s all right,” she whispered as she slipped her arms around his waist.
“I know,” he agreed as he pressed his face into her hair, half-worried his body might betray him. He did get that twinge again but he kept a firm mental grip and allowed himself this surprising, tender moment. She felt fragile, bird-like, as if her bones contained air or smoke. And that gave him the strength he needed to keep his dick at parade rest, although the sensation of her breasts smashed against his chest made that a bit of a challenge. A normal challenge—like a healthy man might face when holding a woman in his arms.
She pulled away first, leaning back and raising one eyebrow at him. “You good now? Because I need your help with the circus out there.”
He smiled and let himself have a brief brush of his lips along hers. She stiffened. But he didn’t go any further. He knew she wasn’t ready for anything more, yet. He was eager to explore the parameters of this new way of feeling—of being turned on but not so much so that it felt out of control. Of being happy just to be in a woman’s presence, to be of use to her and her family, with the knowledge that more could—and very like would—develop later.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling away from her, but noting how she swayed in his direction for a few seconds. “Come on. Let me survey the damage.”
“Da-aaaaaaad! I told you she…” The loud cry of an unhappy teenager filled the air before trailing off. Followed by a matching, loud masculine roar of indistinct, angry words.
Kayla sighed and rolled her eyes. “I told you. This weekend is going to end in bloody murder before it ends in a wedding, I swear to God.”