by Brill Harper
“Hey. What was that for?”
“You’re watching her like she’s under surveillance.”
“At least I’m not leering at her.”
“I was talking about Tru.”
I try not to rise to the bait. “I’m not watching Tru.”
My dad huffs. “You’re worried about her.”
I shake my head. “In case you’ve forgotten, my livelihood is wrapped up in whatever is going on over there.”
I wish Stella was here, not something I wish very often. Stella needs to get her own life so she stops insinuating herself into everyone else’s, but she has a big heart. And huge ears. If she were here right now, she’d be able to listen in and report back. Who am I kidding? Stella would have invited herself to their table and just asked what she wanted to know.
My dad jars me out of my plot to infiltrate the enemy camp when he says, “That’s not why you’re watching her. You like her.”
I slide him a look. “Dad, stop.”
“She’s a nice girl.”
“She’s uptight and annoying and she’s trying to steal my business out from under me.”
“You like her.”
“I’m busy. Maybe you should go home.”
“Son, I’m the only one in here. You’re never busy.”
When Pauline leaves, walked to her car by my father, Tru tries to tell me everything went fine. But she’s quiet, more withdrawn than usual. She’s not fooling me, so when we close the bar, I convince her to come with me for a walk with Fifi.
She’s too quiet, but the night is still and pleasant, and finally she breaks her silence. “I really like her. Pauline.”
I didn’t expect that. Wouldn’t most women hate the other woman, even if they were technically also the other woman? “She seems...nice.”
“God, no wonder Richard...it doesn’t matter. Obviously, Pauline is more his type than I was. She’s probably every man’s type. I almost feel sorry for him that he was stuck with me.”
I would like to strangle Richard.
“Richard is a flea.” Which was the only appropriate F-word that came to mind when I started speaking. In reality, Richard is a dumb fuck who better hope he never meets me. “Don’t feel sorry for him that he had you and abused your trust. He didn’t deserve you. He’s an asshole.”
“Well, Pauline didn’t know about his other life either. He traveled a lot. They have a son. I can’t take money from a single mom.”
“It’s your money, Tru.”
“Is it? I don’t know. If we were legally married and he had a son from a previous relationship, he’d have to pay support.”
“With his money, Tru. His money. Not yours.”
“Anyway, I like her. She was a stripper. That’s how she met Richard. He went there a lot. To the club where she worked. He was a regular.”
Strangling Richard might be too fast. I think a long, painful death is more what he deserves. It doesn’t take a genius to know that the reason Tru thinks she’s not sexual is because he made her feel that way. All the while, he was frequenting strip joints.
“How did she find you? How do you know she wasn’t his partner and is still working the con.”
“I don’t have anything left for anyone to con me out of.” She shivers so I take my coat off and wrap it around her shoulders. “She lives in Port Jacks. Not too far away, really. She got copies of all the bankruptcy papers. She figured she’d start here as Ironwing was the only thing not encumbered. Which is basically the same thing I did.”
“Maybe she should take up being a private detective.” I’m not sure I trust this Pauline, and I can’t believe Tru does either. You’d think she’d be more careful.
We stop at the gazebo in the park and sit on the porch swing. “Anyway, when we sell Ironwing, I’ll have enough money for what I need.”
My back teeth are grinding against each other before she finishes her last sentence. It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? Getting rid of Ironwing. “Sure.”
“I’m selling my share—either to you or someone else. You know that, right?”
For some reason, I’m not really as worried about it as I should be. I should be talking to my lawyer. I should be trying to buy Tru out now. I should be doing a host of things that don’t include sitting on a porch swing in the park with the closest thing I’ve ever had to an enemy.
If you don’t include my mother.
Tru
I ROLL OVER AND WATCH the digital clock as the numbers change. There’s no reason to get up early. The bar is closed on Sunday because Nash likes to have Sundays off.
I hardly slept last night, thinking about Pauline. How she should hate me, but she doesn’t. I guess I should hate her too, but I don’t. She’s another victim of Richard, but she doesn’t act like it. She’s got confidence bigger than her boobs, and that’s saying something.
It’s hard to believe we shared a husband. Everything about the way she carries herself, the way she presents herself, how she says what she’s thinking...just all of it is so anti-me. She oozes that feminine sexuality that is an actual foreign language if you ask my body. She uses it to her advantage, too, even to support herself once upon a time. She thought I would think less of her that she was a stripper when Richard met her, but part of me is jealous. Not the part that understands objectifying women is often misogynistic. But the paradox of using your body to get what you want. Mostly, just not being afraid of yourself, I guess, is what I’m jealous of.
I can’t stay in this bed another minute.
Nash finds me in the kitchen still wearing pajamas holding a cookbook in one hand and a frying pan in the other. Without a word, he opens the cabinet and pulls out the fire extinguisher.
I set the book down. “Aren’t you the funny one? See if you get any waffles.”
“Waffles, huh?” He gives me a look, brows up. Infuriating. Hot. “How are you going to make waffles without a waffle maker?”
“How am I going to...Oh. I didn't...I didn't know.” I try to hide the defeat in my voice, but really? Can I not make a fool out of myself for one day? I’d been wondering how I was going to make the little squares in the dough.
I used to think I was intelligent. Then I tried to live in the world. The real one, not the removed-from-reality penthouse where I didn’t even get my own mail from a box.
Nash studies me; I look away. I don’t have much dignity anymore, but I’d rather not see myself through his eyes. He slowly sweeps his fingers up my arm, over my throat, and then gently cups my jaw, turning it back to him. My breath hitches and my heart squeezes when he forces me to catch his gaze. “No shame in not knowing something.”
The simple touch undoes me. That’s new also. I knew the love of my parents briefly and my grandparents longer—but as kind and caring as they were, they were not demonstrative. Richard, well, we only made love a few times, and aside from that, occasional kisses to my cheek as he left for his travels was all I got.
My skin is still electrified from where Nash grazed me so lightly. Like it’s waking up. Am I really so starved for human touch? It’s probably a good thing Richard and I had no kids. Would I even know how to love them?
Nash teaches me how to make scrambled eggs. He doesn’t say anything about the bits of shell in them while we eat at the kitchen counter.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asks, after swallowing the last of his coffee.
“I don't have any. Maybe Fifi and I will explore Brazen Bay some more.”
“Alone?”
I shrug. “I’m used to exploring cities alone. I used to go to the museums and galleries in New York by myself.”
“I thought all socialites traveled in packs.”
“I didn't really fit in with the social groups. At any age.”
He’s waiting for more. In that quiet way he has, I can feel him pulling at the things I don’t want to talk about. How pathetic I am, for starters. But he’s quiet and watchful and I find myself telling him about my grandpa
rents, their deaths. Richard. How it was difficult to maintain peer relationships when I was in school. How even as a married woman, I was alone most of the time. “After we got married, he wasn’t around very often.”
Not even holidays, though at least now I know why. He was with Pauline and Daniel, their son.
“Did you love him?”
“No.”
“I see.” He gets distant but pretends he isn’t as he picks up our plates and takes them to the dishwasher.
“It wasn't like that. He didn't love me either. We were friends. I knew what I was getting into. At least, I thought I did.”
“You married a man you didn’t love.”
“He offered me...”
His frown, the dark slash of his eyebrows, seems so strange on a face that doesn’t fluster often that I don’t finish my sentence. I just blink at him.
“What? What could he offer you that was worth that?”
“Why are you so angry about this?”
“I’m not angry,” he says in a perfectly controlled, perfectly angry voice, then lets out a breath of male frustration. “I’m not angry.”
Well, he’s something. I feel it coming off him in waves. “You’re disappointed in me.”
“I don’t have any right to that feeling either. Look, it’s none of my business.” His movements are choppy, not his usual laidback almost lazy way.
I don’t know why I care so much what he thinks of me. I’m not even that same girl anymore. But it hurts. “He was kind to me.”
Nash stops wiping the counter, his back to me, and his head hangs slightly.
I go on speaking to his back. “Richard was my friend. I thought. We never pretended to love each other. We just didn’t want to live life alone. I thought.” My hands start shaking, the remembered ache of loneliness so visceral. “I didn’t want to be alone, Nash. I know you don’t understand that because you’ve never been alone a day in your life. He offered me my only chance at a family, so I took it.”
Nash turns slowly. “Your only chance? Why would you think he was your only chance?”
My heart hiccups at the look of him, the stillness of his expression. “Please don’t make me say it.” Not when he looks so virile and delicious, and I’m just a lump shaped like a woman who’s never really felt like one.
“This is about you thinking you’re not sexual again, isn’t it?”
I try to slide past him, but he tugs me close.
“The last thing I want right now is for you to try to make me feel better. There’s nothing wrong with me. Just because I’m not interested in—”
He places two fingers over my mouth. “Do not tell me you are not interested in sex. You’re a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them.” He takes his hand off my mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re low on self-esteem and confidence, I’ll give you that. But you are a warm-blooded, beautiful woman who could seduce any man you put your mind to. I know because I’m one of them.”
“Nash...” I breathe, surprised, trembling, fluttering where I always seem to flutter if I think about him too much. I close my eyes when his hand cups my face and he bends low, covering my mouth with his.
I’m frozen in shock at first, the tender touch so surprising. So warm and wonderful. I can’t resist for long and respond, coming alive like Sleeping Beauty after her long nap.
A husky groan leaves him and he changes the angle, deepening the kiss. Heat like I’ve never felt explodes inside me. This is what a kiss feels like when a man wants to do it.
When I want to do it.
He presses my mouth harder, and I open to him, allowing his tongue to sweep into my mouth and intoxicate me much faster than trying to get drunk ever has. His mouth is clever, gliding and nibbling, pushing and retreating. I clutch his solid, firm biceps and arch into him. I want to get a better taste of him. I want to feel him in the places where he’s not touching me.
The riptide kiss pulls me far away from the safe shore I’m so used to, and all I can do is hold on to him.
He slows the kiss down, bringing it back to its tender beginnings. My rubbery legs are somehow still holding me up when he takes a step back. “It doesn’t seem gentlemanly to tell you I told you so, so I’ll infer it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but he just smirks. “That’s the same thing.”
He presses a different kind of kiss to the top of my head. “Richard the Flea was a dud in bed if you kiss like that but think you aren’t interested in sex. But don’t take my word for it. By all means, let me show you sometime.”
“Nash...”
He winks at me. God, I love hating him. “Pops is making barbecue tonight. He prides himself on his sauce. I know he’d like it if you came by. You can ride with me if you want.”
I nod, saved from saying something awkward when Fifi goes to the door.
Later that day, we’re sitting on Brandon’s deck overlooking the water. The salty air is nothing compared to the salty language between Nash and his dad, but their stories are funny, and I enjoy the good-natured teasing between them. Nash hasn’t touched me since this morning, and luckily he hasn’t mentioned the kiss. The kiss I can’t stop thinking about.
Some kind of door has opened. Maybe more like the lid on Pandora’s box. But I look inside at my frigid sexuality and now I have questions. Questions I think Nash could answer for me. But I’m also so afraid of letting my guard down, I don’t know if I could let him.
Brandon brings out his guitar and sits next to me on a bench. Nash rolls his eyes at him. “That thing doesn’t work on all the women you know. Have some self-respect.”
Brandon ignores him, tuning the strings. “You play any instruments, Tru?”
“I played the violin poorly through middle school.” I think of the beautiful piano that used to belong to my grandmother. “My grandmother played piano. She was quite good. And my grandfather used to play records but no instruments.” Brandon laughs and forces the guitar at me. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Sure you can.” He teaches me some chords, which I play poorly, but Brandon is as patient a teacher as his son. It takes me a minute to realize what I’m feeling. Peace. A sense of well-being. I’m not guarded. I’m not trying to politely engage someone’s attention—they just give it to me here.
I look up and catch Nash watching me. I can’t read the expression on his face, but it feels colder than what I hoped for.
Chapter Six
Nash
THE RIDE HOME FROM my dad’s house was awkward, and that was all my fault. There was a moment when she was laughing and playing the guitar, that she was so beautiful, she stole my breath. I had to remind myself that she’s trouble. That she’s upending my life.
That she could fit so easily into it.
Not that either of us want her to. Hell, I have never wanted to settle down. I like my life just the way it is. No drama.
So, I got spooked and cut the evening off early. Because inside, I’m twelve and don’t know how to deal with complicated feelings. Damn it. Now I need to apologize.
I turn off the shower and wonder what the hell is wrong with me. It’s not normal for me to sulk. She’s done something to me. Some kind of spell, maybe. I bet if we just had sex, got it out of our systems, all this would turn around. It sounds dumb, even to me, but that kiss today...that was unlike any kiss I’ve ever had.
Get it together, McKendrick. It was just a kiss. The two of you have chemistry. Serious chemistry, but that’s all it is. It’s been brewing for a while, like something in a cauldron she cooked up, so of course it was going to boil over.
I nearly run her over as I’m coming out of the bathroom. I start to apologize until I see the look in her eye. She’s dumbstruck.
Of me in a towel.
Who’s cooking up the spell now, Gertrude?
She can’t find words, she’s just blinking, her mouth open, her eyes dilated. It makes me hot. And hungry.
“Are you ogling me, Dickinson?”
She blushes such a pretty color. “No. Yes. Not...I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I like being ogled.” I waggle my brows, lightening the mood. Maybe we really should have sex. It doesn’t seem like such a dumb idea now, looking at the naked desire in her eyes over my near naked body. She wants me. I want her. We’re adults.
And I fucking love making her blush.
“Wanna dry my back?”
Her hands go to her hips, signaling that her mind is reengaged and she’s about to get prissy again. “You know, you always drop these ridiculous innuendos on me because you know I get flustered. What if one time, I took you up on it?”
My cock twitches. “I'd be happy if you took me up on it.” Every cell in my body would rejoice if she took me up on it. This would be the best way to stop those weird angsty feelings I keep getting around her. It’s genius. I’ve never had problems detaching feelings from sex. It’s always been one and done for me and the woman I’m with. By mutual consent. Tru should be no different. “Say the word and this body is all yours for the night.”
Her upper lip curls, but I’m not buying her disgust. Her nips are clearly poking the pajama shirt she’s wearing. “I think you just say things to make me blush.”
“I really do like the way you blush. It makes me wonder how far down your creamy skin that shade of pink goes.” I reach for her hand, pick it up, and kiss it. “Tell me what you want, Tru.”
Please say me.
She’s trembling. I like it, but not if it means she’s scared. “I’m not the kind of woman you’re used to. I don’t really...enjoy the act.”
“The act? C’mon, Tru. Did you ever think that maybe the reason you didn’t enjoy ‘the act’ is because Richard wasn’t any good at it?”
She ponders this. I can tell because you can practically see gears moving when she’s thinking hard. “Are you saying that because of some sort of male one-upmanship contest to feed your ego, or do you really think he wasn’t good at it?”
“Did he make you come?” She blushes and stammers nonsense in response. “Then he wasn’t any good at it. Trust me.”