The Wayward Sons: (Book 3) Starlee's Home

by Angel Lawson

  The car bounces on the rocky drive, slushy snow still along the edges. We’re just about at the turn when Charlie releases my hand and leans forward.

  “What?” I ask, immediately slowing. I’m hyper-worried about hitting a deer or another wild animal. I saw what happened to Tyler Wilkin’s truck after he smashed into one a few weeks ago.

  “Stop the car,” he says, hand already on the latch. I slow and peer out the window. Suddenly, I see something—no, someone hunched under the streetlight. Whoever it is is leaning against a utility pole. Charlie has jumped from the car before I’ve even come to a full stop. He races over and lifts the person’s head.

  A chill of fear runs through me.

  It’s George.

  I hop out the car, leaving it running, and run to him. I see the blood from feet away. The cloth he’s holding to his head is drenched.

  “What happened?” I ask, slipping in close. “George? Are you okay?”

  Hot tears instantly freeze on my face. I touch his cheeks and he winces. I feel his hand curl into my jacket for support. “It looks worse than it is. Just get me out of here.”

  Charlie curses under his breath. “Bastard. I’ll kill him.”

  George’s teeth chatter from the cold. I tug at his brother. “Come on, let’s get him in the car.”

  Charlie nods and throws his brother’s arm over his shoulder. I move to the other side and we help him get to the back seat. There’s so much blood and Charlie yanks off his jacket, covering his brother’s legs and then pulling off his sweatshirt and pressing it to his head. Satisfied, he gets back in the passenger seat, turning to face George.

  “This is about me, isn’t it?”

  George shakes his head. “He lost it. Not just about you, but me too. He shredded my portfolio. He found my applications.” I glance back in the rearview mirror and see him hold his brother’s eye. “He was drunk.”

  “I’m going to the hospital,” I announce turning the car around. When I get to the entrance of the resort, I idle the car. “Someone tell me how to get there.”

  “Star, no, it’s not that bad.”

  “You’re bleeding everywhere.”

  The brothers share a look. “We can’t get this into the system. Not yet. We need time to think about what to do.”

  “You call the police. You call Mrs. Delange!” My heart is beating so fast from fear and frustration.

  “They’ll move us again,” Charlie says.

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  George leans against the seat. “Does Sierra have her license back?”

  “It’s in review.”

  “Then god knows where they’ll send us next. Maybe a group home—and there are none in this county.” Charlie takes my hand. “It’s a gamble, what could happen next, and neither of us are willing to take the risk.”

  “Just get me cleaned up and we can go back,” George says. “Dad’ll be sleeping it off. He’ll be so horrified he won’t pick a fight for a while.”

  I stare at the twins, jaw dropped. “I’m not taking you back there.”

  “Then where do you want us to go, Starlee?” Charlie snaps. I know he’s also scared and frustrated.

  “Dexter’s cabin?” I suggest.

  “No!” they shout in unison. Charlie continues, “That could get Sierra in more trouble and with everything going on, I doubt they’ve fixed the heat anyway.”

  I think about where these boys can hide. Where George can get cleaned up and bandaged. Somewhere no one will look until I can figure out how to convince them to go for help. The answer pops in my head.

  I smile. “I know where we can go.”

  “Where?” Charlie asks, skeptically.

  “The perfect place. There’s heat, a shower, and more than one bed.” I glance at Charlie. “There’s even Wi-Fi.”

  His eyes narrow then brighten. “The back cottage.”

  I nod. “It’s one of the units out of use until spring. Leelee and Katie never go back there. It’ll give us time and the boys can help us figure out what to do.”

  The twins look at one another and George nods, his eyelids drooping. He looks a mess and we need to get him cleaned up. Fast.

  “Okay,” Charlie says. “We can go there for now.”

  He points left and I turn out of the driveway, starting the long drive back home. The situation sucks but I feel better knowing that they’re both with me and away from their dad. I know one thing for certain, they can’t go back home. It’s too risky—and not just for the boys. But also for their dad.

  Charlie sends a text to Dexter and Jake letting them know we need help and we’re almost home. I don’t know how they’re going to get out of the house without Sierra noticing, but that’s not my concern. Currently, I’m occupied with parking the car where Leelee won’t notice it and getting the twins back to the cottage.

  “If you drive past the Wayward Sun and turn left between it and the RV park,” Charlie says, “there’s a small alley that runs back there.”

  “Really?” I’ve never noticed it.

  “I don’t think anyone uses it much. It’s basically a dirt road but I think it was to access the businesses without blocking the main road before they widened it.”

  I pass the lodge and then Sierra’s house, slowing to turn on the small road. I’d always just thought it was another entrance to the campground and I guess it is, as there’s a turn off that leads to the trailers, but Charlie gestures for me to keep driving and the paved road turns to crushed rock and to my left is the back of the Wayward Sun. I can see the cottage rooftops, including the one we’re looking for.

  “This is perfect,” I say, parking the car and leaning over to give him a kiss of thanks. “Can you get George?”

  “Yep. Go unlock the door.”

  I creep through the dark, pushing aside the brush and overgrowth behind the cottage, and walk around to the front.

  “Hey,” a voice whispers, and I’m relieved to see Dexter and Jake already at the door. “Where are the twins.”

  “Charlie’s bringing him from the back road.”

  “I’ll go help,” Jake says, vanishing in the dark. I find the key in the zippered part of my purse and Dexter takes it from me, unlocking the door quickly. Inside, he hands me a bag of clothing that Charlie must have asked for. Good idea. Both boys need to change.

  The cottage is cold, so like last time I go to the thermostat and adjust the heat. I go to the back bedroom and pull the blinds, turning on the light and then closing the door behind me.

  “What happened?” Dex asks, pulling me close.

  “A fight with his dad. It must have started with Charlie going to the tournament today and escalated from there. He’s got a bad cut, but he’s refusing to go to the hospital.”

  “I brought a small first aid kit from the bathroom at home but didn’t want to risk getting the one from the kitchen. There’s a few things in there—ointment, gauze, Band-aids. But he’s probably going to need bigger bandages. Maybe one of those kinds that closes cuts. George used one of those before when he fell rock climbing.”

  “And food,” I add. “They’ll be here for a few days.”

  Dexter thinks about it. “You stay here. We’ll run to the store to get a few things.”

  “Are you sure? I can go.”

  “Stay with George. Charlie may need some talking down anyway.”

  I nod. “Oh, take Leelee’s car and please clean out the back seat. There has to be blood on the leather.”

  I fish my car keys out of my jacket pocket and hand them over just as Jake opens the cottage door.

  “Get him in the shower,” I say. I need him cleaned up so I can see how bad the cut is. If it’s really bad, we’re going to the hospital if he likes it or not.”

  Charlie helps him in the back and Jake takes him the bag of clothing. Charlie returns a few minutes later alone, pulling on a clean shirt. He’s also in new jeans that are slightly short at the ankles. They must be Dexter’s. “He’s got it. H
e’s doing a lot better now that he’s warmed up.”

  Dexter nods. “Good. The three of us are going for supplies. Starlee is staying here just in case someone gets curious.”

  They don’t hesitate, other than Charlie stopping to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “Of course,” I say, not wanting to mention how many times they’d gone above and beyond for me. “Be careful.”

  I lock the door behind them and take off my coat. I grab the first-aid kit, walking down the short hall to the bathroom door. I hear the shower running. I knock and call out, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, almost done.”

  I wait for him, leaning against the wall, itching to go inside and check on him. Finally, I hear the squeak of the shower knobs turning and the water shutting off. The curtain scrapes against the rod and I say, “How does it look?”

  “You can come see for yourself,” he replies. The door swings open and George stands in the opening, white towel wrapped around his hips. My eyes start there, at his waistline and travel up, along the hair leading to his belly button, over the cut abs and chest more defined from working out and football season. Water glides down his skin and over the scars from past accidents. When I make it past his jaw, then lips, to the wound on his temple I gasp, seeing the painful gash in his skin.

  “That looks awful,” I say, clutching the first-aid kit. “Sit down so I can see it better.”

  He lowers the toilet seat and sits on the lid. His eyes, ringed in red, watch me as I open the kit and pick through a few things, feeling clueless. “It’s not bleeding anymore,” he says. “Which may or may not be good. Sometimes head injuries just bleed a lot at first, making it seem worse than it is.”

  I step forward between his legs, touching his chin and cheek. He grimaces. “I’ll be gentle,” I promise.

  “I trust you,” he says.

  His admission at a time like this makes my soul ache. I know how hard it is for him to say that about anyone. His hands move behind my legs, gripping tightly, and I inspect the wound. There are a few cuts—but I don’t see any glass—and although they may require a better bandage, none are deep enough for stitches. “How does it look?”

  “Like you got hit in the head.”

  He tilts his head, a little bit of the shine in his eyes coming back. “Can you put a little ointment on it and tape the gauze over it. Once the guys get back, I can strip it closed.”

  I find the ointment and a Q-tip to spread out the gel. George hisses when I apply the goo, his thumbs pressing into the back of my thighs. I use my teeth to tear the tape and place a small pad of gauze over the wound, then tape it against his forehead. “I’m not sure that’s going to stick.”

  “It’s better than nothing.” He leans his head back and I bend down, kissing him quick on the lips. He smiles weakly, the first time all night, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let me get some clothes on.”

  My cheeks heat at the reminder that he’s nearly naked. “Good idea.” I gather up the kit and exit the room, giving him privacy.

  I wait for him in the bedroom, the light dim, coming from a bedside lamp. When he walks in he’s still shirtless, hair damp and ruffled, the bandage holding. Gray sweatpants hang at his waist, Jake’s number and a football stamped on the hip. He doesn’t speak as he crawls into the double bed, patting the empty side. “Come here.”

  I kick off my shoes and I get under the covers, sitting with my back against the headboard. I scoot near him and he rests his head on my belly, wound facing up. I comb my fingers through his damp hair, making sure not to hurt him.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him that mad,” he says suddenly. “Not even when he had to pick me up from the police station for vandalizing the water tower.”

  “It sounds like he was worked up from his argument with Charlie this morning.”

  “I don’t know why he refuses to let us be who we are. Why does it matter to him if I’m an artist or Charlie does whatever the hell he plans to do with that gaming shit? Charlie’s smart. I’m a good artist, right?”

  “Really good,” I assure him.

  “Why can’t he see that we have talent and a shot at building our own lives?”

  His voice wavers and he blinks, making my heart ache for this sweet, amazing boy. “Your dad has a problem, George, with violence and drinking. I don’t think his issues are really with either of you.”

  “I know that—like, in my head and heart—I know it, but when he’s coming at me…he just makes me feel so worthless.”

  I stroke his hair and he wraps his warm, strong arms around my waist, holding me tight. “You’re not worthless and you’re not him. You’re not filled with whatever bitterness consumes him.”

  “What if I am?” He looks up at me, with soulful, lost, brown eyes. “I almost went after him tonight. I was so close. It took everything in me to walk out of there.”

  “But you did. And so did Charlie. You’re not going to let him hold you back.” I touch his chin and tilt his face upward, running my thumb over his bottom lip. “You’re going to do great things, George Evans. You’re going to use this pain in your art and come out stronger on the other side.”

  He watches me closely. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  He releases me and sits up. “How do you know the right thing to say to each of us. How do you know how to make us feel right—better—to kiss us differently, to show us a different side of your heart?”

  I look down but he touches my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve watched you do it. And…it’s amazing. Like that night under the mistletoe. Four kisses. Each completely different. You see us, Starlee, in a way that no one else ever has.”

  His eyes dart to my mouth and there’s a short beat before his lips brush against mine, moving from slow to more intense. There’s no doubt about his need for reassurance and I give it to him, matching his pace, falling into his rhythm.

  “You should be careful,” I say, touching his head. His chest rises and falls and his hand grips my hip.

  “I’m tired of being careful,” he says in a low voice. “I’ve done my best to follow the rules. To play the game. I’ve kept the smile on my face through all of this, but I don’t think I can do it anymore.” He exhales. “Or at least, I don’t think I can do it tonight.”

  His hand moves under my hair, cupping my neck, and he pulls me close, so we’re nose-to-nose, mouth-to-mouth, eye-to-eye, and a shiver runs down my spine. “I just want to feel right.”

  Not good. Not happy. Not any other adjective.

  Right.

  George is correct. Somehow, some way, I know what these boys need and when. And tonight? I’m ready to give George what he needs.

  32

  George

  It isn’t a demand or even a question. It’s a statement.

  “I just want to feel right.”

  My heart is heavy, bogged down from the altercation with my father, the slow decline of adrenaline. Starlee stayed behind to take care of me—she always takes care of us—and right now I need her more than ever.

  I don’t want to admit how much my father’s vitriol hurts. Charlie knows. I see the darkness in his eyes. That changes when he looks at Starlee. Me too, the hardening of my heart softens and a sliver of light pushes in just by being near her. Now? She’s so close I can taste her. So near, my body reacts without provocation.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, and I blink, wondering if she means my heart or my head.

  “I trust you’ll be careful.” With either. Both.

  Her kisses are sweet and I let her lead, because I can’t move too fast. She pushes me back, until my head rests against my pillow. Her hands land on my chest, hot and soft, while her leg swings over my hip. She sits above me, hair falling down her shoulder like a trail of fire. She starts by gently giving me slow, gentle kisses down my chest. She takes her time, sending chills across my ski
n. Her fingers rake through the hair on my belly, shooting desire straight down my body. Her thumbs graze my hipbones and I fight thrusting my pelvis in a search for friction. I thread my fingers in her hair and pull her to me, wanting to kiss her mouth.

  Our kissing grows heated and her body rubs against mine. I’m dazed when she sits up and pulls her shirt over her head, revealing the light blue bra with thin lace straps. Goosebumps cover her arms and I know she wants me.

  And when she bends down to kiss my lips, her breasts rubbing against my chest and her belly caving when I trail my fingers along her side, I know that this…this is right.

  It’s not that it’s not awkward. Or hurried. Or without insecurities. Because it is. When she tugs at the drawstring of my sweats and when her eyes widen at the size, I wonder if this was a terrible mistake.

  I’m broken.

  Bleeding.

  Scared.

  But then she touches me and my mind shuts off, my body takes over, and through the fog of absolute desperation, we feel our way. She’s smart, unlike my dad, vanishing for a second and returning with a condom. I help her roll down, both of us taking responsibility. Proving I’m not him.

  I dip my fingers between her legs. I make sure she’s ready for my readiness, kissing her lips until they’re puffy and pink, twisting her skin until she squirms, lowering herself on me, taking care not to jostle too much. It’s a testimony of how bad my head hurts that I let her lead, picking the pace, riding me in a sweet, slow, painfully pleasant way. Because my body wants it faster, harder, but she touches my chin and forces my eyes to hers and my overeager body slows in rhythm.

  Together, fumbling together, we find our way.

  And after, knowing the clock is ticking before my brothers return, I shower her in kisses. Lick the sweat from her collarbone. Whisper in her ear.

  She lays her head flat against my chest and she counts my heartbeat, her fingers tapping against my abdomen in time. And just before our moment is over, I tell her that nothing, no one, can take away the one thing in my life right now that’s right.