Chapter Seventeen
“Nice move, Fitzgerald,” Brock muttered at himself as he watched Kayla scurry up the steps like a scared little kid. “Jesus.” He felt boneless, cored out and empty in a way that confused him. Finding the leather chair right before his knees gave out and left him on the floor, he blew out a breath as he sat.
He felt as if he were moving in super slow-mo. His arms weighed a thousand pounds each as he raised one hand to touch his lips, reliving their incredible kiss only a few minutes ago. He’d been blown away by it. Even as he’d let her take the lead on purpose, knowing that if he came on too strong she’d bolt.
And heaven help him, she’d done it. She’d pressed those soft, perfect lips to his and his entire universe had exploded behind his eyes. The simple act of kissing a woman had never affected him that way, except maybe the first few times he’d experienced it. The kissing bit had always been a pleasant enough pre-tune to the foreplay for him. Something he’d prided himself on, knowing that women used phrases like ‘toe curling’ and ‘panty melting’ about that stage with him.
But damn Sam she’d taken him by such surprise he couldn’t tell which end was up for a few seconds. She’d tasted of chamomile and vanilla, with a back bite of cinnamon. Her small tongue had probed, uncertain, while she’d been unsure where to put her hands at first, keeping them pressed between them until he’d gotten a hold of himself and pulled her into his arms, where she belonged.
From that moment, when he’d held her so close he could feel her heart pounding against his chest, he’d been done for, a goner, ass over teakettle. Her lips were so sweet, her slim body perfect, he’d almost lost his mind. But again, it was in what he considered to be a normal way.
Sure, he’d popped a woody. What normal man wouldn’t have? But it didn’t come with the painful urgency that he’d always associated with his typical sexually aroused state. He didn’t want to shove a hand up her skirt, or to cup her breasts or clutch her ass. He’d wanted, simply, to kiss her. To put her at her ease in a slow, easy-going way that was so at odds with his usual M.O. it made him dizzy even now.
He swallowed hard and glared at the ceiling, ignoring that fact that his erection was still straining his zipper. He pondered this new-found control as his body worked its way down off the horny edge in a way that didn’t piss him off, or make him reach down and jack off so he could breathe. He found that he could breathe just fine. His heart was steady, not racing. His face devoid of the cold sweat that always accompanied arousal.
As he smiled, figuring that it had been a decent start anyway, even if she’d freaked out at the end, he let himself drift. It had been a damn long day—chock full of drama and, in his case, deflection and redirection. The meal had been delicious, although the company had still been strained, thanks to the teenager’s chokehold on everyone’s emotions.
But they’d made it through two solid days of stress and tomorrow the wedding part would be accomplished, despite Taylor Hettinger’s ongoing attempts at sabotage. And he had just kissed the woman he was starting to believe might be the elusive soulmate, despite all their combined thousand-pounds worth of baggage. He chuckled under his breath at the concept, and wandered out onto the deck that spanned the entire width of the house. The tiki torch flames were flickering in the breeze that had picked up in the last hour, so he went around and extinguished them all, his body still languid with anticipated satisfaction, his mind a smooth blank slate.
As he was about to take a seat on one of the cushy lounge chairs, thinking outdoors here might be as good a place as any to sleep, he heard a bizarre, almost animal growl behind him. He turned and caught the full force of a left hook to his nose from nowhere. It sent him spinning backward, where he collided with the deck railing with a loud grunt of pain. At first, he believed that someone had broken into Trent’s mansion and was assaulting him first since he was the only one downstairs.
He whirled back around, fists raised and got in a vicious uppercut to someone’s ribs and a roundhouse swing to the temple before a cloud slid aside overhead, and the moonlight hit the face of his attacker. Trent was backing away, blinking fast, one hand to his no-doubt broken rib, his other raised and ready to lash out again.
“What the actual fuck, man?” Brock stutter-stepped back and dropped his arms. Maybe Trent had thought he was an intruder, out here lurking in the dark when he had his own place to stay. “It’s me, Brock.” He held up his hands to let Trent know he’d disarmed himself. “Sorry about the rib—oof.” His breath rushed out of him when the man tackled him in the midsection, driving them both to the deck. Still confused, he struggled but the bigger man had him pinned. His nose broke with an audible crack before he could leverage his wits and strength and shove the guy off him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Christ!” He touched his poor nose with a wince, noting that the man was up and coming at him yet again. “Stop!”
Trent hesitated, one fist raised, his eyes shining in the moonlight. “The hell I will,” he growled before making another tackling move. Brock was ready for him this time and dodged under his arm. “You fucking shitty excuse for a man, don’t you run from me.”
“Listen, dude, I’m a lot of things but a shitty excuse ain’t one of ’em.” His voice was nasally and echoed in his head. “I don’t know what happened between our friendly card game and now but if you don’t mind telling me before you beat the shit out of me I’d appreciate it.”
“Fuck you, douchebag.” Trent spit a wad of blood onto the deck then raised his massive fists again. “You’re gonna wish you’d never laid a finger on her.”
“Wait, hold up.” Brock’s mind wrapped around that revelation. But Trent was rushing him like a Brahmin bull so he ducked and whirled around, his own fists at the ready. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Laid a finger on who?”
“Don’t lie to me, you useless junkie dickhead.”
“Christ, man, talk to me, will ya? I really don’t want to make your face any uglier than it is for your wedding day.”
Trent growled and ran at him, managing to shove him back against the railing. The pain in his kidneys was visceral. He let out a loud groan and twisted to one side, not managing to block the blows raining down on his face. They stopped abruptly, as if the beating-Brock-to-a-pulp switch had been flipped to the off position. He slumped forward, his body a mass of agony from his bruised back to his thrashed face.
“What the fuck! Get the hell off me!” Trent was bellowing a few feet away from him. He couldn’t see who it was that had saved him, but he had an inkling. “I mean it, Fitzgerald. I’m gonna kill…”
“No, you’re not,” Austin said from the gloom, his voice as still as the surface of the lake. “Sit. Calm the hell down and tell me what happened.”
“I’m not telling you…shit! That’s my fucking shoulder, asshole.”
“Yeah? Well that’s my brother and best I can tell he’s been a big help to you these last two days so why don’t you get a grip on yourself and tell me what’s going on?”
“Fuck off,” the bigger man grumbled.
But as Brock wrapped his mind around the pain and got on top of it long enough to take a full breath of air, he realized the steam had gone out of his fight. He lunged for an empty chair, groaning as he sat, still trying to inhale enough oxygen to contribute to the conversation.
“Nope,” Austin said as he shoved Trent into a chair, two removed from where Brock sat, gasping like a fish on the sidewalk, marveling how he’d gone from kissing Kayla and relishing how normal he felt about her to this mass of quivering agony, thanks to her brother. Wondering if he needed to get his kidneys checked, he figured if he started pissing blood he’d worry about it. Wouldn’t be the first time, after all.
“Fuck me,” he grunted as he tried to move his nose back into its proper position.
“You’d better shut up, you goddamned prick,” Trent called from across the deck.
“All right, I’ll bite,” Brock said, his anger rising in the face of whatever shit the other man was slinging at him. “What in the hell did I do? Whose honor did I besmirch?”
“Shut up, or I’m gonna…”
“Sit, God damn you,” Austin barked from the doorway. He held two beers and a water bottle. The sight of it made Brock’s head ache worse. He could already taste the glorious malt and hops-infused liquid sliding down his throat. But he took the water bottle and downed half of it in a few gulps.
Trent took the beer. Brock studied him as his eyes adjusted further to the moonlit darkness. He took a long slug of it, wiped his lips with a wince, then set it on the table next to him. “You,” he said, his long finger pointed straight at Brock. “You…did something to her. You made her want to hurt herself. I found her…tonight…”
Brock rose, his mind clear and focused on one thing. He had to check on Kayla. Now.
He marched past the two men watching him with their mouths agape. Someone grabbed his arm but he jerked himself free without a thought as to who it was. “Touch me again, Hettinger and I’ll make sure your future wife doesn’t recognize you tomorrow, do you get me?”
“Brock,” Austin warned.
“Shut up. I mean, thanks for getting this crazy shithead off me but shut up. I need to check on her.”
“She’s asleep,” Trent said. “And if you think I’m letting you within a country mile of her you’d better have another fucking think, if your addled junkie mind can manage it.”
“Guys,” Austin pleaded, standing up between them. “Listen, I get it that he’s not exactly Prince Charming but you need to back the fuck off a minute,” he said to Trent before turning to address Brock. “And you. You need to come clean. What happened? Did you guys…uh…”
“No, not that it’s any of your fucking business.” His shoulders slumped. His pulse raced with anxiety and worry over Kayla. “Where did you find her? What had she…done?” But he knew already. She’d cut herself. And it had been his fault. “Shit,” he said, dropping into the chair next to Trent. “I didn’t do anything to her. I swear to God.”
“Fuck you, loser,” Trent grumbled. But he was holding his beer and looking out across the vast expanse of grass that would tomorrow serve as the scene of his second wedding. “I want to help her but I don’t know how.” He tossed back the rest of his beer and threw the empty bottle over the deck railing to the grass below. “I can’t fucking do this thing. My existing daughter hates my future wife. My future wife is dog-sick twenty-four-seven with my future kid. Ugh.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, spitting blood onto the deck surface.
Brock and Austin exchanged a look. Brock took a deep breath. “I didn’t do anything to her, Trent. We…we kissed. That was it. And she initiated it. She got upset though, and ran upstairs. End of story.”
Trent heaved a huge sigh and lay back, arm over his face. “Do you even know what she’s been through?”
Brock frowned. “Yeah. She’s an ex-junkie. Booze, painkillers, heroin. The gamut. Same as me. We would’ve thrown a mean party together, once upon a time.”
“No, Brock. That’s not all.” Trent’s words sent a jolt of panic through him. When the man sat up and met his gaze, his eyes were no longer rage ignited. They were flat, exhausted, resigned. “I thought you knew.”
“Well,” he said, stalling for time as he ran his hand through his hair. “I mean, we’ve gotten to know each other these last few months. Meetings…and shit.” He stopped, realizing how lame that sounded. He didn’t know what else the man was talking about but he had a clear and sickening feeling that he didn’t want to know. “Maybe she should tell me herself,” he said, getting to his feet so he could see for himself that she was all right.
Austin pulled him back down. “I think her brother wants to tell you.”
“I’m not sure that’s…”
“I am. Sit.”
He sat. But all his nerve endings were humming on high alert. When Trent spoke, he kept his face turned away, looking out over his domain. The words poured out of him, slamming into Brock like hurricane-force winds, sending him reeling until he stood and stumbled inside, hands over his ears. He made it to the downstairs bath in time to throw up his dinner. He flushed the toilet but couldn’t get up from the floor. He sat, hunched over the bowl, staring into its watery depths. Trent’s revelations were bouncing around in his skull, careening off each other and back again. “Oh, God,” he moaned, dry heaving until his ribs ached as bad as his lower back.
After rinsing out his mouth, he stood staring at himself, wondering how in the hell the universe had conspired to throw the two of them together. A colossal joke—a big fat cosmic chuckle—that was what it was.
Even as his mind tried to remind him of how she affected him, about how great he felt around her—no longer fighting the sick compulsion to fuck and fuck and fuck some more—he realized it would never, ever work. Not in a million lifetimes. They were doomed to the sort of co-dependent friendship that would end with them ignoring each other out of self-defense.
He closed his eyes against the horror show of his busted nose and swollen face. She filled his consciousness then—her sweet, soft lips, her fragile frame, her smile, her laugh, everything about her that had compelled him for so long until he found himself here, smack dab in the middle of her lifelong nightmare.
The ultimate predator—he’d managed to locate the perfect prey.
That brought on a fresh wave of nausea but he muscled past it, rinsed his mouth again and splashed ice-cold water onto his face. He had to set things straight with Trent. He had to let him and his own brother know that he, Brock, had no intention of doing anything more with her. Of course she had no concept of a healthy sex life and he was the wrongest of wrong guys to teach her how to have one. Him and his disgusting urges, all the faceless, nameless women he’d screwed. The nights he’d spent trolling bars in whatever city he’d flopped in, high as a kite, slugging back water and searching out the ones who’d leave with him and take off his razor-sharp edge for a few hours. The drug-fueled orgies he’d gotten himself into, where he’d wake up the next morning with his head pounding, his mouth coated with slime, and his naked limbs coated in dried sweat.
He stopped halfway through the kitchen, groaning at his stupid old life, furious at the tease of a new life. And wanting a drink so bad it made his eyes water. Austin was at his side then, guiding him past the fridge, past the liquor cabinet, sitting him down on the couch and handing him another water bottle.
“Sorry, man,” Trent mumbled. “I didn’t mean… I mean, I did, because I thought…oh shit.” He tossed back his own water and glared down at the empty bottle. “This is such a fucked-up mess.”
“Yeah,” Austin said, patting the guy on the shoulder. “But it’s almost two in the morning on the night before your wedding. You ought to get some shuteye.”
Lightning flashed, followed by a clap of thunder so loud it made the windows rattle. “Oh, good Christ,” Trent moaned into his hands. “Now what?”
“Kayla has the tent on standby,” he said. “We’ll get them on the phone first thing. No worries.”
Trent sighed and met his gaze. “I really am sorry, Brock. I don’t know what got into me.”
“I’ll be fine.” He hesitated. “She’s… She cut herself? Tonight?”
“Yeah. Not too bad, but you know, bad enough.”
Brock sighed and sipped his water, already missing her but knowing what he had to do now. A woman who’d lived through the hell Kayla had deserved a much better man. One who could control himself, who didn’t have to take drugs to numb his inappropriate urges. “Yes, I do know.” He rose. “I should head back to the Inn.”
“You can stay here,” Trent said.
“No, I can’t,” he said, his voice firm. “And rest assured, I won’t be doing…anything more with your sister. I get it. I’m the polar opposite of the guy she needs.”
“I don’t know… I don’t know anything anymore.” Trent’s voice was flat.
“Well, I do. And I can tell you without hesitation that you don’t have to worry about me laying a hand…or anything else, on your sister.”
“She’s gonna kill me for telling you.”
Brock snorted, wincing at the pain in his nose. Exhaustion washed over him, making him unsteady on his feet. “Guess you should’ve thought of that before telling me anything. Much less the shit you laid on me tonight.” He stood.
His brother and Trent stared up at him. Shaking his head, fury warring with frustration and a looming despair, he took his leave, flinging himself behind the wheel of his truck and squealing out into the dark Petoskey street.