Suit

by BB Easton

  “Ken, why didn’t you go to college?” I practically whispered, speaking to him like a caged animal. “Why’d you quit the football team in high school? Why didn’t you date?”

  You’re so smart and handsome and athletic. Why are you wasting all of it?

  “That’s why we’re doing this, right?” Ken deadpanned, his eyes iced over. “So, you can tell me what’s wrong with me?”

  “Hey.” I reached over and cupped the side of his beautiful face with one hand, his midnight stubble scratching my palm. “As far as I can tell, the only thing wrong with you is you.”

  Ken dropped his eyes, sending his sable-brown lashes fanning out over his enviously high cheekbones.

  I relished the fact that, for once, my touch seemed more comforting than uncomfortable to him.

  Rolling my chair closer, I leaned forward and dusted his lips with mine. “You need to go to college,” I whispered more gently than before. “Just think about it. Okay? You might not hate it if you find a program you like.”

  Ken didn’t respond, so I kissed him again. I kissed him until he kissed me back. I kissed him until he forgot about the invisible wall he’d built between us and pulled me onto his lap.

  Then, I reached between us and unbuckled his belt.

  “What are you doing?” Ken asked, alarm in his voice.

  “I forgot to tell you.” I blinked up at him, trying my best to look coy as I unbuttoned his gray slacks. “This evaluation includes an oral exam.”

  Ken immediately wrapped one arm around my back and pushed off the desk with his foot. I squealed as we rolled across the office, coming to a stop next to the door, which he reached over and locked with a smirk.

  June 2003

  Twenty-fucking-one.

  That was how many years I’d been on the planet.

  You’re supposed to go out and get shitfaced on your twenty-first birthday to celebrate finally being old enough to buy alcohol, but considering that I’d started my drinking career before I started my period, the appeal of showing my ID to a waitress at Bahama Breeze was completely lost on me. Instead, I decided to drown my birthday sorrows at Fuzzy’s. The dirty beer steins and splintery barstools just seemed to fit my shitty mood better.

  I don’t know why the big two-one felt like such a kick in the cunt. Maybe I was annoyed because drinking, one of my all-time favorite bad-girl things to do, wasn’t a bad-girl thing to do anymore. It was just a regular, legal, grown-ass woman thing to do. And that made me sad. Maybe I was in a bad place because Jason wasn’t there to help me celebrate. Or maybe, just maybe, I was in a shitty mood because I was dating a guy who was weird about birthdays and hadn’t given me so much as a high five all day.

  It felt like Valentine’s Day all over again. I’d kept telling myself not to expect anything. That Ken didn’t do birthdays, and no amount of pouting was going to change that. But, of course, that didn’t stop me from pouting like a motherfucker anyway.

  I looked at the people gathered around the conglomeration of wobbly wooden tables that we’d pushed together at Fuzzy’s and tried to feel some sort of enthusiasm—or at least appreciation for my friends who’d come all the way out to Athens to celebrate with me—but…meh. Allen and Amy were making eyes at each other, the Alexanders were hitting on the waitress, Ken was vehemently trying to talk his sister out of investing in a tax-sheltered annuity—whatever the fuck that was—and Juliet was on her way back from the bar with yet another annoyingly girlie drink prepared for me by Zach.

  “Sex on the Beach for the birthday bitch,” Juliet slurred into my ear as she plopped down beside me. “I can’t believe you’re all growns up.” She reached over and ruffled the angled bob I’d spent an hour straightening to perfection.

  I smacked her hand away and smoothed my hair back down with my palms. “Am not.”

  “Are, too.” Juliet lifted a hand and began counting things off on her long, slender fingers. “You’re almost done with college. You’re practically living with Ken. You’re old enough to buy your own booze…” Juliet sniffled and pretended to wipe a tear from her black-rimmed, eyelash-free eye. “It seems like, just yesterday, I was teaching you how to inhale.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re, like, six months older than me.”

  Juliet was just about to reply when a big ole teddy bear put his hands on my shoulders from behind.

  “What’s up, slim?”

  That familiar voice had a genuine smile splitting my face for the first time all day. I craned my neck back to find my favorite co-worker grinning down at me.

  “You came!” I squeaked, turning around backward in my chair and sitting up on my knees to hug my bodybuilding buddy.

  Juliet cleared her throat.

  “Jules”—I turned toward her, one arm still around Jamal’s neck—“this is Jamal. Jamal, this is my best friend, Juliet.”

  “What the fuck, B?” Juliet snapped. For a minute, I thought she was really pissed, but the smile on her face gave her away. “You have another black friend? When were you gonna tell me?”

  “Oh my God, I hate you,” I muttered, releasing Jamal so that I could bury my face in my hands.

  “That’s what I’m sayin’.” Jamal chuckled as he walked around to sit in the empty chair next to Juliet. “I thought I was special.”

  The two of them began joking and laughing at my expense while I nursed the disgustingly sweet concoction in my glass. Everyone at the Frankentable was now happily paired off, engrossed in their conversations, except for me.

  I grabbed my purse off the back of my chair and shoved my arm in elbow deep, looking for something entertaining. I was hoping for a pack of cigarettes or maybe a set of throwing knives, but my hand pulled out a buzzing, vibrating cell phone instead.

  I deduced in a tenth of a second who was calling without even looking at my caller ID. I’d already had my traditional pizza-and-lopsided-homemade-birthday-cake dinner with my parents—most of which, I’d fed to the dog—so I knew it wasn’t one of them. My closest friends were all sitting within ten feet of me, so I knew it wasn’t any of them. I was fairly certain that Hans had already forgotten my birthday, and Harley was still in jail.

  But Knight…Knight didn’t forget shit.

  “I’m going to smoke,” I mumbled as I pushed my chair out from the table.

  Ken turned away from his sister and glanced at the phone, now silent in my hand. Lifting his eyes to mine, he said, “You can smoke in here.” There was accusation in his tone. It matched his chiseled, stoic features.

  “I don’t want to,” I snapped, pushing the creaky old thing I’d been sitting in back under the table.

  God, I’m being a bitch. Ken hasn’t done anything wrong.

  Exactly. It’s your birthday, and Ken hasn’t done anything. At all. At least Knight still calls you on your birthday.

  Yeah, but he only calls to scream at me.

  True dat.

  I pushed the front door to Fuzzy’s open, which weighed more than I did, and felt my phone vibrate once in my hand, indicating that Knight had left a voicemail. I stared at it as I leaned against the brick windowsill, debating whether to press Play or Delete. I usually deleted them so fast; you would think I was deactivating a bomb. But I was feeling especially needy.

  As my thumb hovered over the Play button, I heard the sound of a motorcycle engine revving across the street. I gasped and looked up, a strangled scream caught in my terror-stricken throat, as a middle-aged man with a potbelly pulled out of a parking spot on an old Harley Fat Boy. My eyes scanned the sidewalks for any signs of a psychopathic ex-Marine in biker gear, but the only guys I could see were drunken frat boys with their polo shirts tucked into their khaki shorts.

  You’re okay.

  He’s not here.

  You’re totally safe.

  He’s not here.

  But, evidently, I didn’t feel totally safe because, when I looked down at my phone, I realized I was holding my can of pepper spray in my opposite hand.

 
; Delete.

  I had just tossed everything back into my purse and gotten my breathing somewhat back to normal when the door next to me swung open.

  A faux-hawked, tattooed, fruity drink–making Zach waltzed out, wearing a megawatt smile. “Happy birthday, killer.”

  Killer. That was appropriate, considering my mood.

  “Thanks.” I pulled my pack of cigarettes out of my bag.

  The spark from Zach’s lighter greeted me the second I placed one between my lips. Giving him a half-smile, I dipped the end of my Camel into the flame.

  “So, that’s the guy, huh?” Zach nodded toward the front door as I exhaled.

  “What guy?”

  “The gay guy who invites you over to watch movies.”

  I snorted the rest of the smoke out my nostrils like a dragon. “Yep. That’s him. Turns out, he’s not gay after all.”

  Zach shrugged. “You win. Serial killer it is.”

  I laughed, just a little. It felt good.

  “Speaking of murderers, your girl in there is gonna strangle a regular any day now.”

  “Probably.” I smirked. “Let me know if y’all need help burying the body.”

  “No offense, but you don’t look like you’d be much help.” The yellow streetlights lining the sidewalk brought out the gold flecks in Zach’s eyes as they slid up and down my body.

  I blushed, taking another drag from my cigarette to hide my swoon. “What I lack in brute strength, I make up for in leadership skills.” I exhaled. “I can supervise like a motherfucker.”

  Sticking his cigarette between his teeth, he extended a thick, tattooed hand in my direction. “Fine. You’re hired.”

  I slipped my perma-cold palm into his with a smile. “Emergency Body Burial Supervisor BB, reporting for duty.”

  Zach held my hand a second or two longer than a guy who was just a friend should, and I hated the thrill it gave me. I hated how desperate for attention I was. I hated that my own boyfriend didn’t look at me or touch me like Zach the bartender just had.

  Finally releasing my hand, Zach sighed and flicked his cigarette into the street. “Well, I better get back in there. You good?”

  I nodded and held up what was left of my Camel. “Almost done.”

  The second the door shut behind him, I blew out a shaky breath, hoping all my guilt would blow away with it.

  We should have just gone to fucking Bahama Breeze.

  Taking one last drag, I dropped my cigarette to the sidewalk and smashed it with my busted, old combat boot. Mustering all my strength, I yanked on the handle of the solid oak door separating me from my friends, but this time, it flew open almost effortlessly. I stumbled backward as Ken breezed through, adding a chill to the hot, humid air.

  “You okay?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously as I righted myself.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I straightened my spine. “I was just coming back in.”

  “Why are you still out here? People were asking where you went.”

  “To keep myself from slapping you.” My eyes went wide once I realized I’d actually said that out loud. I guess all those Sex on the Beaches were catching up with me.

  Ken smirked and raised one eyebrow. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Ugh,” I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Are you just pissing me off on purpose so that I’ll hit you? That’s fucked up, Ken.”

  “Pissing you off?” His ghost of a smile disappeared. “What did I do this time?”

  “Nothing!” I yelled, throwing my hands in the air. “Nothing! That’s the point! It’s my twenty-first birthday, and you haven’t done shit! No party. No cake. No gifts—”

  “I got you a gift.”

  I stopped mid-rant and blinked at him. “You what?”

  Ken reached into the back pocket of his charcoal-gray slacks and produced a single white envelope. “I got you a gift. I was gonna wait to give it to you until we got home, but…” Ken frowned. “Here.”

  I accepted the paper from him with a scowl on my face. Turning it over, I noticed the word Brooke written on the front in Ken’s teensy, tiny, chicken-scratch handwriting.

  All I’d wanted was for him to acknowledge my birthday, but now that I had a gift in my hands, I was suddenly afraid to open it. I could practically see my hopes dancing above our heads. They were way too high. What if there was nothing inside but a coupon for a free salad bar at Ruby Tuesday? I’d have to kill Ken, and then I’d be stuck supervising a body burial with Zach and Juliet on my birthday, and nobody likes to work on their birthday.

  Ken stood, silent and serious, as I forced myself to open the flap. Giving him a smile that I was sure looked more like a cringe, I reached inside and pulled out some kind of glossy, full-color brochure.

  The fuck?

  I turned it so I could read the front cover.

  EUROPEAN TRAVEL MASTERS

  10-DAY BRITISH ISLES TOUR

  ENGLAND ~ IRELAND ~ WALES

  I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew that I couldn’t fucking breathe.

  “You said, the next time I went to Europe, to take you with me. So…”

  I lifted my eyes, which were probably bulging out of my head from oxygen deprivation, and frantically scanned Ken’s face for any trace of sarcasm. He couldn’t be serious, but the hard line of his mouth said that he was even more serious than the heart attack I was about to have.

  I opened the brochure and felt tears stinging my eyes as I drank in pictures of the places on my vision board—the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Stonehenge, little thatched-roof cottages surrounded by fluffy white sheep, the rolling green hills and rocky beaches of Ireland, pubs lining the streets of Dublin, and the place I wanted to go more than any other, Blarney Castle.

  “There is a catch.” Ken’s voice wavered.

  I looked up with glistening eyes, begging him not to tell me it was all a sick joke.

  Please don’t fuck with me, I pleaded. Not about this.

  Ken took a breath. “I know you’re taking summer classes, and I don’t want you to miss school, so…the trip isn’t until next May. After you graduate.”

  I blinked.

  Next May.

  I swallowed.

  Next May.

  “Ken…” I blinked again, expelling one big, fat, overwhelmed tear from my eye. “That’s almost a year from now.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “We should probably go ahead and count it as your birthday present for next year, too.”

  I laughed. No, I fucking cackled and buried myself in his chest.

  Ken wrapped his reluctant arms around my shoulders as I cried and hiccuped and giggled all over him.

  “And maybe graduation and Christmas while we’re at it,” he mused, gradually relaxing into my embrace.

  “And Valentine’s Day?” I giggled, peeking up at his stubbled, square jaw.

  Ken’s hard mouth curled up on one side, and I knew before he even parted his lips what he was about to say.

  “Fuck Valentine’s Day.”

  I smiled.

  Yeah. Fuck Valentine’s Day.

  “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Ken and Chelsea. Happy birthday to you!”

  A week later, I was sitting in Mr. and Mrs. Easton’s formal dining room as the lady of the house brought out a gorgeous white bakery-commissioned birthday cake. She placed it in the center of the table, careful not to wrinkle the antique lace tablecloth, and smiled at her adult children. I laughed to myself as Ken stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, stubbornly refusing to help his sister blow out their shared birthday candles.

  As soon as the pomp and pageantry were over, however, Ken helped his mother cut the cake and pass the plates out to everyone.

  Realizing I didn’t have a fork, I walked into the kitchen where Mr. Easton was refilling his glass of sweet tea from a pitcher on the counter.

  “What can I do for you, miss?” he asked in that charming Gone with the Wind ki
nd of Southern accent that you just don’t hear anymore.

  “I just need a fork. Please.” I smiled.

  I liked Ken’s parents. They were as conservative and traditional as my parents were unconventional and eccentric, but they were kind to me despite my purple hair, lack of manners, and the fact that I was obviously sleeping with their son before marriage.

  “Comin’ right up.” Mr. Easton opened a drawer and pulled out a polished silver utensil. “You know,” he said, glancing into the dining room and lowering his voice, “when Ken was born on Chelsea’s birthday, I felt so bad for them. I thought, These little people should have their own birthdays. But then Ken decided not to celebrate, and it was like Chelsea did have her own birthday. And it was kinda sad. This is the first time he’s been here on his birthday in…gosh…four or five years.”

  “Really?” I whispered with wide eyes as I accepted the utensil. “Why doesn’t he celebrate?”

  Mr. Easton shrugged. “Can’t say for sure, but I think it’s just on account of how much he hates being the center of attention. He’s shy, that one. When he was a kid, he used to hide inside his jersey anytime he scored a touchdown just ’cause he couldn’t stand everybody lookin’ at him.”

  I stuck the end of my fork in my mouth and leaned forward, hanging on his every word. “But you guys are family.”

  “I know. Seems silly, don’t it?” Mr. Easton glanced into the dining room and nodded at someone. “Shoot,” he whispered. “The missus is givin’ me a look. We’d better get in there.” Glancing back at me, he added, “I just wanted to tell you, thanks. I don’t know what you did, but it’s sure nice to have our boy home on his birthday.”

  I followed an older, softer, grayer version of Ken into the dining room with a smile on my face. Had I actually done something? Was I fixing him?

  We made pleasant small talk over cake and then “retired to the sitting room” for coffee. When I walked into the living room, I was horrified to find not one, not two, but, like, eight perfectly upholstered armchairs. Two plaid ones over here, two leather ones over there, two facing the TV…