Chapter Sixteen
Kayla stretched out on the couch, letting the murmurs of the others in the room soothe her. Brock’s burst of laughter made her smile even as she half-dozed. He’d been so amazing over the past twenty-four hours, jumping straight into the fray and forcing Trent out of the house and down the beach for a long, punishing run within minutes of his arrival. Then that first night, cracking jokes with Ross and Elle, who’d been put in charge of the food and booze for the weekend. He’d even forced a smile and one giggle out of Taylor, which had raised his positive points quotient for Trent, she knew.
Tonight, the night before the wedding, they’d all jumped into playing cards while the staff Trent had insisted on hiring did the cleaning up after the family dinner. When she’d realized she and Brock were going to be left alone once everyone else made their way upstairs to their rooms, she’d flushed hot as that odd rush of nervousness-tinged anticipation had filled every corner of her being. She’d decamped to the couch, thinking she’d go to sleep, her typical evasion measure. But it eluded her so she’d gotten up without saying anything to him and headed into the kitchen, wishing there were something for her to do. But it was sparkling clean and ready for the big day.
She stood in the doorway, watching Brock as he sat, feet up on the large leather ottoman, sipping some kind of herbal tea Elle had made for them all “to help them sleep.” The sudden realization that she wasn’t at all nervous or scared made Kayla square her shoulders and march herself back out into the living room, change the tunes to something mellow and bluesy and flop into one of the big chairs opposite the couch. When she put her feet up on the ottoman, their toes touched. Neither of them flinched away.
“I’d give my left nut for a joint right now,” Brock said, surprising her at first. She sighed and crossed her arms behind her head, stretching her legs out and relishing the tingling of her skin from her days in the sun. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be. Me? I might commit murder for a bottle of Pinot Noir and a cigarette. I’m feeling mellow tonight.”
He chuckled but kept his gaze up at the ceiling. “You weren’t kidding about the trauma drama. Jesus, please-us.” He ran a hand down his face and drank the last of his tea. “It sucks, thinking I’ll never be past any of this.”
“Junkies for life,” she said, parroting one of the many phrases they were taught. One is never ‘cured’ of addiction. One simply ‘lives with it’. Or not, as the case may be. A brief memory of the dead woman and the smelly, squalling, helpless little girl wafted across her consciousness. She shuddered and closed her eyes.
“Indeed,” Brock said. The silence between them felt soft, quiet and natural.
When the music changed to something she loved—Stand by Me, the original version by Ben E. King—she opened her eyes and found Brock standing to her left, his hand held out. She frowned, but his grin did its usual number on her nerve endings, making her think and do things she’d never, ever believed would be a part of her life. His palm was warm and calloused against hers as she let him pull her to her feet.
“We’re doing this now?” she asked as she molded herself against him as if she’d been doing it for years. The sensation of his firm body next to hers soothed her, as it had done the day before when he’d walked into the house in the middle of an anxiety attack.
“Yes, I think we are,” he said. One of his hands found the small of her back. The fingers of his other hand threaded through hers. The music filled most of her soul. Brock Fitzgerald—fellow junkie and hot mess extraordinaire—consumed the rest of it. “This is nice.” His breath blew the straggling hair that had sprung free from her ponytail. She was beyond exhausted, emotionally and otherwise. But she’d never felt more alive.
“Yes,” she admitted. “It is.” They danced together in the empty living room to the soft music until the song ended. One of her other favorite songs dropped into the playlist—At Last, sung by Etta James.
“Don’t let go of me yet, if you don’t mind,” Brock said, putting a bit of pressure with his hand on her back. Kayla had always wondered what it might feel like to be in this position, held by a man who wanted nothing more from her. He sighed into her hair. “I’m not trying to go too fast here or anything. I hope you don’t mind. It just feels so great, holding you like this.”
She sighed into his chest, wondering if she might be inhabiting some kind of a dream state. But reality intervened and the song ended. Something lame she couldn’t even identify filled the air so she disentangled herself and headed for the phone that controlled the sound track. When she turned around, tugging her hair back into its utilitarian ponytail, he was standing where she’d left him, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets. “I’m ready,” she said as Bob Dylan’s Tangled Up in Blue filled the large room. She waited, unsure what to do next, realizing the full extent of her non-knowledge, her sick, fundamental dysfunction and wishing she’d kept her stupid mouth shut.
“Nice song,” he said, not moving either. “One of my favorites.”
She nodded and started fussing with her hair, nervousness making her pulse race. By the time he’d made it across the room and stood in front of her, she understood that all her skin tingling had nothing to do with nervousness. He was humming under his breath as the few centimeters separating them seemed charged in a way that made the small hairs on her arms stand at attention.
She fixed her gaze on the front of his shirt—a pale blue polo-style that hugged his muscular torso and upper arms, emphasizing his strength and giving her the oddest sensation deep in her belly. A sort of liquid gooiness, not unlike the melting ice cream they’d shared so many times, arguing over anything and everything, from the legitimacy of bananas in dessert to that week’s political news. Her arms rose, seemingly of their own accord and her hands explored the firm terrain of his chest.
He cupped both her elbows and let her touch him. She stroked the incredible real estate of his torso, in wonder at his physical perfection. In their bare feet, he stood tall enough that she had to rise up on her tiptoes, but as she did it, she realized that she was making the first move. At the initial touch of her lips to his, she flinched, unsure of what to do next but already loving the sensation.
The full sensory experience of the moment overwhelmed her. The smells—sunscreen and outdoors—were so healthy, and ones she’d forever associate with him. Her first kiss, she thought, closing her eyes when he slid his hands up her arms, across her shoulders and alongside her face. He kept his lips closed, letting her do the exploring and ongoing first-moving but he angled his face the right way, alleviating her momentary confusion over what to do with their noses.
His warm, rough palms felt so wonderful alongside her cheeks. Her heart pounded a drumbeat and all she could hear when she traced the closed seam of his lips with her tongue was a loud whooshing noise. It drowned out everything. That, along with the realization that her entire body was flushed, alive and flowing with the blood her eager heart was pumping faster than ever through her veins, she pressed further, breaching his lips and sensing his slight shiver when she did so.
It was odd, this kiss, but more perfect than anything she’d ever experienced. Her mind was a blessed blank, free of any ugly memories or horrible words she used to hear while men hurt her. She’d been worried that the moment she allowed herself to be physically intimate with Brock, her past would invade her consciousness and ruin it. But all she knew was him—his lips, the sound of his breathing, the way one of his hands moved down to the small of her back so their bodies were now pressed close, no light or air between them. There was nothing more or less than this, and him.
She relaxed, wrapping her arms around his neck. He inhaled through his nose, surprising her, but she felt his tongue against hers then which eclipsed everything in her entire universe. Her whole body was alive, every nerve dancing, every muscle and sinew on high alert. She opened her mouth wider, and shivered so hard at the sensation of it, of part of him being in a part of her now even if it were only his tongue. He had to grip her tighter to keep her from sliding to the floor.
Her mind continued to fuzz over as her skin got hotter, almost too hot to bear. She could tell he was holding back, not pushing her, letting her set the pace. At that moment, she acknowledged the full range of her feelings for him. When she probed farther into his mouth, feeling rather than hearing the low moan coming from somewhere deep in his chest, something seemed to burst in her, lighting her from the inside out at the thought that he wanted her. Despite her ugly history, the way she’d been used like some kind of a pre-pubescent sex doll.
No, stop, she commanded herself. Don’t think of it. Don’t go there. Be here, with Brock. This man, kissing you as if his life depended on it.
She believed that she could taste his need for more, to push harder, to go deeper. She broke away, sad at the disconnection but feeling like she should say something. He sighed and pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her tight. She realized that he was trembling as much as she was. That he was confused and excited by it too—Brock Fitzgerald, the ladies’ man, super-hot, flirt machine was shaking in her arms right now. And his lips…dear Lord help her, she wondered what he’d think about her if she admitted how perfect he made her feel with something as simple as a kiss.
“Damn, woman,” he said with a small smile.
She closed her eyes, relishing the moment even as the absolute understanding that it would never be more than this rushed in to smother her happiness. She’d never have a normal sex life. All she knew was pain, ugliness and filth. Her brain seemed to open up, to overflow with the horror of her childhood years.
She wrenched herself out of his arms and backed away, hand to her lips, tears burning her eyes. It was as if a faucet had opened up wide, busting past a kink in her mental garden hose, flooding her senses with sights and sounds and smells. All the sex she’d been forced to have well before a little girl should be worrying about anything other than which of her friends she wanted to invite to her next sleepover.
“Kayla, don’t.” Brock’s voice tried to break through the wall of noise in her head. But she kept backing away from him, loath to put the space there, but knowing it was best for them both. “I didn’t mean to…”
She held up a hand. “It’s not you, Brock,” she said as tears spilled down her face. “I’m sorry.” She turned and ran up the stairs, willing the old memories gone, wishing the newest ones—the ones involving Brock’s arms, his lips, his strong, safe body pressed against hers—to the front. But it was useless. She was full to bursting again. Her skin was tight and painful. She needed something to release the pain, to distract her from all of it.
She ran into her bedroom, blind with remembered agony. The pills she’d started taking had blunted things for a while but had sent her spiraling down a different path, one she now wished she’d had the guts to finish. Death from overdose would be easier than this—this shit show of complicated emotions that had sent her rushing away from Brock.
She dropped to all fours and crawled the last few feet, reaching under the sink where she’d put her supply—the things she never allowed herself to be without, even if she didn’t use them. Her fingers closed around the small plastic bag, which sent a jolt of sick relief down her spine. The memories faded as she sat with her back to the giant soaking tub, one of the many amenities bought and paid for by her successful baby brother and now part of her life.
Just holding the bag of razor blades, antiseptic ointment and gauze bandages calmed her for a few minutes. Her breathing slowed. Her pulse rate dropped to a semi-normal rhythm. Her hand was curled so tightly around the bag she felt the edge of the razors, which touched off the part of her that had sent her up here in the first place.
Fingers shaking, she opened the bag and pulled out the blade, letting the other stuff spill onto her lap. It was a familiar tableau, and one she understood, unlike the terrifying moment downstairs when she’d believed that she wanted more from Brock. That she’d allow him to touch her, to make love to her like a regular person. A low groan escaped her chapped lips. She fumbled with the razor, holding it in the usual way. The light from her bedroom caught the metal, sending a reflective shard into her eyes.
“Don’t,” she heard herself say. “Don’t do this. Go back to Brock. He’s your anchor now, not this.” But before she knew it, she had the lethal end pressed into the tangle of scars on the inside of her upper right arm. The release…she craved it, required it, it would make her better. Cutting the ugly out of herself, giving herself the pain that had been part of her life for so many years.
“No,” she said, even as she saw the blood speckle the business end of the blade. “No…oh…God,” she sighed and leaned her head back as the endorphin rush her body had been trained to experience at the sight and sensation of her own blood running down her arm made her groan. Her body pulsed with that weird energy she didn’t understand but welcomed because it shut out the yammering ghosts of memory—including the one of Brock’s face when she’d bolted from him earlier.
“No,” a voice said as she relaxed into it. She wondered if she were still talking but didn’t care. The release—the relief—was so great, she didn’t want it to end. “No,” she heard again. Her eyes were so heavy, she couldn’t keep them open. The blood was warm as it oozed into her open palm.
“No, God damn it, Kayla, I won’t let you do this.”
Shocked, she found herself nose to nose with Trent. He was on his knees, prying the razor from her fingers. His eyes—so much like hers it was like staring into the mirror—were dark with worry.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching for him but finding herself too depleted from the hormonal, adrenaline rush of her encounter with Brock followed by the blood-letting she’d engineered for herself. “Oh, T… I am so sorry. I’m ruining your weekend.”
“Shut up and let me get this bleeding stopped already.”
She flopped back. Her head felt like a giant bowling ball, too heavy for her neck to support. She watched as if from miles away as he used a warm cloth to clean up her arm and hand, his touch gentle, his expression intent and non-judgmental. “Hold this,” he said, pressing a dry cloth to the fresh cut. She did as he told her, while he wiped the floor clean.
She sensed herself fading, falling, entering the blessed empty blank space where she didn’t have to constantly be fighting all the demons. She saw him then, sensed his presence, tasted his lips, felt his arms around her. “Brock, I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out for him.
“What did you say?” Trent’s harsh voice near her ear jolted her back to consciousness. “Kayla, answer me. Did he…do something to you? Make you want to hurt yourself?” She touched her brother’s clenched jaw. He jerked out of her reach. “Don’t make me ask him, K. Tell me what happened.”
She watched as he smeared the new wound with ointment and bandaged it, before he dropped down next to her with a low moan. “God damn it, if that Fitzgerald punk put a hand on you…”
“No, Trent. It’s not… He didn’t, I mean… We, um…shit.”
Her brother jumped up, his eyes blazing, his hands balled into fists. “I knew it. I knew he couldn’t be trusted. I don’t care how great you and Melody tell me he is.”
“Wait, don’t.” She tried to get up but stumbled. Trent caught her, picked her all the way up and carried her to the bed. “Brock isn’t…” But she was so fucking tired. All she wanted was to close her hot eyes and drop into oblivion for a few hours. “He’s…”
“Sh, K. It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.”
A soft blanket covered her. Trent touched her cheek. Kayla tried like hell to struggle past the looming fog, to tell him what happened so he didn’t misunderstand. But it pulled at her, whispering sweet nothings, and the last thing she remembered for a while was Trent, promising her he’d “take care of everything.”