Chapter Twenty
Brock’s entire body felt encased in concrete. His mind was sluggish. Even his heartbeat seemed slow as he watched Kayla run into the house with Rose. The sight of her had lifted his spirits, as it always did. But then, before he could say or do anything, he remembered Trent’s words. The brutal description of her God-awful life, abused by countless men, which had no doubt led to her various addictions.
Nausea rose in his gut but as he hadn’t managed to eat anything since puking the night before, nothing happened, other than saliva filling his mouth for a few seconds. After a quick check to make sure Trent wasn’t watching, he ran after her, calling her name, unsure what he’d do or say if she stopped and faced him but unable not to do it.
He’d lain awake the entire night once he’d made it back to the Inn. The place smelled mildewy and gross, convincing him that he’d either talk his mother into selling it or commit some of her vast funds to improve it. The old sounds he and Austin had labeled as ghosts during some of their summer nights spent there followed him as he’d paced through the cavernous living and dining rooms, the empty kitchen, the old parlor.
By six a.m. he’d been in his car and determined to head back to Grand Rapids. As he’d pondered his various, viable excuses, all of them hinging on Austin backing him up about a “problem at the brewery,” he’d played the memory loop of their kiss through his mind over and over again.
It had been, in a word, perfection. It had been beyond that, were there a word for such a thing. He’d never in his entire almost forty years of life felt so at ease kissing a woman. In one or more of his many sex addict anonymous meetings, he’d heard about this. Stories of men and women cured by the love of a soulmate. As a dyed-in-the-wool cynic when it came to love and all its attendant bullshit, he’d always scoffed, convinced that while it may be a stopgap, once he was addicted to sex the way he’d been, he’d always be that way, soulmate or no.
But last night, he thought he comprehended the concept. Kayla brought out something in him he’d never believed he possessed—a kind, gentle, loving, normal demeanor. He could be the guy who, while he wouldn’t argue with the opportunity to hop in the sack and enjoy a tumble with Kayla, was not a raving lunatic of testosterone-driven ugliness. He was no rapist, of course. He’d never, ever had sex with a woman without her consent. The problem was, consent had sometimes gotten a little slippery when all the drugs he’d used to get high and stay that way for hours had taken hold of his brain.
No. He was hands-down a monster. No better than Kayla’s stepfather or the men after him. He had to let her go. He’d only hurt her, and she didn’t deserve any more hurt.
He leaned against the open sliding glass door, listening to the happy sounds of the wedding turning into a dance party. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and felt Kayla in his arms again.
“Fuck.” He headed out onto the wet grass, not even hearing the distant warning rumbles of thunder or feeling the initial pinpricks of more rain on his face. Space. He needed it like he needed oxygen. His skin burned. His heart was pounding so fast it almost deafened him. Shame filled every corner of his being. Mortification at everything he’d done or said in the pursuit of pussy for almost twenty-three years of his useless life made his chest ache as he stumbled on the sand on his way to the dock. Seeking distance, space, breathing room.
The ants were joined by an army of mosquitoes, treating him to repeated tiny stings on his exposed skin as he remained on his hands and knees, trying to catch his breath. He’d taken his meds on time, as usual. Done his check-in with Austin at four-thirty to confirm it.
But the fact remained that he did not want to be here at all. Had not planned to be, but for a phone call he’d made as he’d sat, shivering in the heat of his car, attempting to man up and get his ass where it belonged, no matter his horror at seeing Kayla again. He’d called the number on autopilot, not sure why and not even aware he’d done it until he’d heard her familiar voice in his ear.
“Hello? Brock? You there?”
He’d sat, breathing heavily like the perv he was, trying to formulate coherence.
“Brock? Are you okay?” Caroline’s voice sounded concerned.
“No,” he’d managed as he’d wiped a hand down his sweaty face. “No. I’m not.”
“Where are you?”
“In Petoskey. I’m supposed to be going to Trent and Melody’s wedding, but I’m thinking about ditching it.”
“Why?”
“I… It’s complicated.”
“Are you taking your meds? Going to meetings still?”
“Yeah, I am.” He’d run his hands along the expensive leather steering wheel, feeling himself rev up at the sound of her voice. It had been sickening in its familiarity but at least he’d understood it. His dick had been so hard he’d had to unzip to relieve the pressure as he’d leaned his head back against the headrest.
“Brock, honey, why are you calling me?”
“I need…to hear your voice. You’re the only one who fucking understands me, Caro.”
“Bullshit,” she’d said, but her voice had been soft and sexy. He’d groaned as his back teeth had begun buzzing, like he’d been biting down on tin foil.
“What about Kayla? Isn’t she there?”
The sound of Caroline speaking Kayla’s name had been like a pinprick to his inflated libido. His brain had fuzzed over and he’d been able to take full, deep breaths for the first time in hours. “Yes,” he’d said, his voice breaking a little. “She is. How do you…? Never mind. I’m sure…”
“Austin told me, just in case you did call or show up or pull one of your usual, um…stunts.”
“Ah, I see.” A spark of fury had ignited behind his eyes. “So you know about her.”
“A little,” she’d admitted. “I’m… I’m happy for you, Brock. You know that, right?”
“There’s nothing to be happy about, I assure you. She’s… She’s an abuse victim, Caroline. She was raped by not only by her stepfather but by a bunch of his buddies before she ran away and hit the streets. Which is when she added junkie to her résumé. I can’t…” He’d pressed his palms against the wheel, trying to drive out the urge to kill the men who’d done that to her.
“Oh, God. That’s awful. But she’s all right now? You guys go to meetings together and stuff, right?”
“Yeah.” He’d swiped his nose, wishing he had something normal in his damn life.
“Well then, I suggest you get your ass to that wedding. I’ll bet you’ve been helpful. You always were great under pressure.”
He’d snorted but had felt an easing of his stress at her words. “I can’t,” he’d whispered, needing her to say more to convince him, to remind him that he wasn’t a useless douchebag of an addict posing as a man, as Trent had so poetically described him the night before.
“Yes. You can. Now go on, scoot. Enjoy the rest of the weekend, and be a friend to Kayla, if nothing else, okay? For me?”
He’d ground his teeth. “I…loved you. A lot.”
“I know you did. But we all know how that turned out.”
“Are you happy…there, in D.C.?” He’d wanted to hear that she was miserable, broke, hating life and as single as fuck.
“Yes. I love it. My job is amazing. And…”
“Great. Cool. Say no more, please.” He’d straightened up, not even sure why he had any right to be jealous of her life. She deserved the best. She always had. They all did. They all deserved not to be hampered by him.
“Go on, Brock. Stop being a pussy.”
“Nice mouth, Miss Thing.”
“I mean it. You really are an amazing man when you put your damn mind to it. Go prove that…to her.” Her voice had dipped at the end, as if she hadn’t wanted to say it.
He’d ended the call, turned the car around and driven straight here. But had gone well out of his way to avoid seeing Kayla as long as he could. Now, having seen her, he believed that his heart might break. Such sappy bullshit—but nothing was more true.
He got to his feet as lightning split the evening sky and thunder filled the world. With a primal roar of his own, Brock tilted his head up and accepted the rain to his hot face. He was soaked through to his skin in seconds but it felt great. The lightning made him laugh. The thunder answered with more growling as he stood there, willing himself into some other life.
“You are a nut job,” a voice broke through all the noise. “What is the matter with you?”
He wiped the rain out of his eyes and stared down at her, at Kayla, the woman he believed he loved— the way adult people are supposed to love. And the woman he had to reject, outright, to save them both.
“That is a proven fact,” he said, not smiling at her. “And the answer to your question would fill a fucking book so I’ll spare you.” He shook his head, spraying water in all directions like a dog. The rain had let up some but not stopped. She stood in her bridesmaid’s dress and a dark denim jacket, almost as soaked as he was even though she was gripping a tiny umbrella.
“So you duked it out with my baby brother last night, eh?”
He blinked then touched his sore nose. “Yeah. He had some points he needed to make.”
“About me,” she said, her eyes darkening.
He looked straight up, opening his mouth and drinking the rain for a few seconds by way of evasion.
“Tell me what happened, Brock. All of it.” Her hand gripped his biceps, which put her close, way too close, for his comfort.
“It’s between me and him.” He pulled away from her.
“Why won’t you look at me, then?” she demanded, yanking him around again, surprising him with her strength. “What did I do to deserve this cold shoulder bullshit?”
“Nothing. I’m not… I didn’t mean to… Shit.” His shoulders slumped. Rain ran down his face but he couldn’t feel it.
A loud shout of laughter and other noises waxed and waned from the tent behind them as people came and went, slogging through the rain, some of them stopping to kiss or otherwise make out in the near-dark. “Missing a good party.” He motioned behind her.
“Yeah, what else is new? Brock, you’d better tell me what’s going on in your head. I just… I mean last night I… I did something I never thought I’d do, much less enjoy. And I enjoyed it a lot.”
“I did too. But Kayla…”
“Don’t you ‘but Kayla’ me. What the fuck is going on? Why didn’t you come back this morning? Where are you right now?”
Frustration filled his head. “I’m here God damn it. Right in front of you.”
“No, you’re not. You’re some other damn place. And if you don’t tell me what is going on I’m going inside and you can forget anything else with me.”
He reached out for her then let his hand drop. “Maybe that’s for the best,” he said in a whisper.
“What did you say?”
“I said…”
But he couldn’t finish because she had launched herself at him and had her arms around his neck and her lips on his before he could say anything else. The sensation of sinking into her, into this moment, suffused him as it had done the previous night. The taste of her mouth, the way her body fit to his, made his mind go blank as he kissed her back, desperate to communicate something, anything, before he had to give her the news that they would never, could never, be more than friends.
But dear God help him he loved this, loved her so much right then, the urge to somehow overcome it all together, to give it even more of a college try than he’d been doing for the past few years overcame him. He dropped to his knees, pulling her with him. The sand bit into his kneecaps. The rain pelted them, soaking their faces and hair again as they clicked teeth and bumped noses in an unpracticed way.
The urge to protect her, to have her trust him was stronger than anything—even stronger than the desire to make love to her and prove how a real man treated a woman, although that compulsion was gaining a firm foothold. Could he do it? Would she trust him? He cradled her face with his hands as he broke from her, giving her lips one last swipe with the tip of his tongue.
As she stared up at him with those huge, green-brown eyes, he realized that the answer to the question was a profound “no”. He let go of her and dropped onto his heels, breathing heavy, his eyes burning with tears he didn’t know how to shed. “I’m sorry,” he said when she tilted his chin up so he was forced to look at her. “I’m so, so, so sorry, Kayla.”
“Sorry about what?” But she seemed wary all of a sudden, on guard in a way she hadn’t been with him in months. It ripped at his guts, but he knew it for what it was. She was afraid of him. As she damn well should be. He reached for her, wanting to kiss her, to reassure her, but she jumped to her feet, clutching her arms close to her sides. “Sorry. About. What?” Each word was a knife blade to his chest.
He rose, keeping his distance, watching her expression morph from wary to furious in an eye blink.
“Hey! What’s going on over there?” Trent’s voice broke through the silent standoff. “K, are you all right?”
She kept her angry gaze on Brock but spoke to Trent, who’d approached them, beer in one hand, suit coat off and tie askew. “You,” she said. “You told him.”
“Honey, I don’t know what you’re…”
“You betrayed me, Trent,” she said, her voice raising with every word. “You…you nosy jerk!” She was screaming by the end, backing away from them both. “You had no God damned right to tell anybody.”
Trent glanced at Brock, but Brock had nothing left. He’d gone and done it again. Hurt her without meaning to. Making this whole mess even worse.
“Kayla,” Trent said, trying to lunge for her. But he was halfway to drunktown. Brock could smell the booze on him. He stumbled and dropped onto the sand, leaving Kayla standing over him. Brock helped him up just as the heavens broke open and spilled what felt like a gallon of water on them all at once.
“I hate you,” she screamed over the noise. “I fucking hate you both!”
As he watched, his body once again encased in concrete, Kayla ran across the lawn and up the deck stairs, leaving the two of them staring after her with their swollen eyes and busted noses.
“Gosh, that went well,” Brock said.
Trent glared at him through the bruises. “You’re an asshole,” he muttered. “But if you don’t go up there and talk to her, calm her down and tell her you don’t care about her past, I’m gonna throw you off the fucking boat back there.”
Brock lifted his chin. “I thought you didn’t want me within a country mile of her.”
“I don’t. But my wife reminded me that I am not in charge of her, or of you. If you’re the one to make her happy, you’d best get on that, pronto.”
Brock sighed. “I can’t do it, man. I’m…a shit. I don’t deserve—”
“Fucking-A, Fitzgerald, get over yourself already. Be a man. Be the man my sister deserves.” He lifted a fist. Brock waited for the blow but it never came. And when he opened his eyes into the rain again, Trent was gone.