Show Me How (It's Kind Of Personal Book 2)

by Brooks, Anna

  I take his outstretched hand and shake it. “Deal.”

  Chapter 10

  Mary

  Steve’s strong hand in mine makes me smile. He’s here. He’s alive. And Brandon was right, he really is happy.

  “So,” I say, as I sit on the bed across from him.

  “So,” he laughs.

  “How have you been? You look great.” I motion to his still muscular body.

  “Life’s been good. I can’t complai—”

  “I can’t wait out here much longer!” I recognize Elizabeth’s voice immediately and leap off the bed to open the door.

  She holds her arms out, and I take the single step to reach her and wrap my arms around her. Her motherly hug puts me at ease. Betty has been a lifesaver, but I’ve missed this woman—the one I looked up to, my role model. The perfect combination of sweet, caring, loving, and tough, she is what every girl hopes for in a mother. She’s the Carol Brady, the June Cleaver, the Clair Huxtable. Even though she was not my birth mom, I admired her as if she were.

  At arms’ length, she holds me back, smiling. “Look at you. So pretty.”

  I lower my head and shake it out of embarrassment. “Stop. Come on, let’s sit.” The excitement of seeing her again outweighs any nervousness I was feeling.

  She walks into my room and looks around, nothing but pride on her face.

  “This is so cute, Mary. I love the little touches of color you have all over.” Her eyes wander around the small space as she continues to talk. “I see you still love candles. And these curtains . . .” She tugs at the bright flower pattern. “They’re adorable.”

  She pulls the chair next to Steve and I sit on the bed across from them. A moment of awkward silence passes, and we all laugh.

  “I try not to be a therapist at home but, in this case, I just feel some things need to be said. And I want to get everything out in the open, okay? Once we talk, we can move on.” She looks at me, and I nod. Then her eyes squint at Steve before he nods his head in agreement and she turns back to me.

  “I should be mad at you.” Her voice takes on an angry tone, and I swallow loudly. “I’ve thought about this for a long time now. What I would say to you when we finally found you. Because I knew.” She leans forward and grabs my hands. “A mother knows. You ran away from us, all of us, because you were scared.”

  Tears burn the back of my eyes at her words, but I force them away. I will not feel sorry for myself, and I will not let them see me weak. All I can do is nod in agreement.

  “I knew all along that you were okay. I just knew it. As soon as I read that excuse for a note you left, my world spun even more than it had with Steven getting shot and Brandon going ballistic because he couldn’t find you.”

  She releases my hands and sits back in the chair. Steve reaches out and pats Elizabeth’s leg in a show of support. Encouraging her to speak.

  “I’ve been worried. Steven has carried guilt. Brandon has been miserable.”

  I suck in a breath and open my mouth to speak. To beg her to understand. Plead with her to forgive me and give me another chance, but she cuts me off with a hand in the air.

  “I should be mad. But I’m not. How can I be mad at you when you were only looking out for us? Brandon told us what you said. Why you left.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I can only admire you for having the strength to do what you thought was right in order to protect the ones you love.”

  A satisfied whoosh leaves my lungs and Steve pats my leg, giving the same encouragement he just did to his wife. No words describe the relief I feel knowing that she understands.

  “Steven told me what happened that night. He remembers seeing the look in your eyes. How scared you were. God, I can’t imagine. What else did you tell me, hon?” She looks at Steve. “Tell her what you told me.”

  He gives a slight nod before clearing his throat. “I said even through the fear, I could see the embarrassment. Right before Smith raised his gun, you and I looked at each other. It was only a glimpse, but it was there.”

  He’s right. Our eyes connected a brief second. My eyes must have given away more than I thought because even though I was embarrassed, the only thing I felt at that moment was fear. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Not only at my actions, but also because of why we’re here in the first place. My parents.

  “You don’t need to apologize,” they say at the same time.

  “You just need to promise me that you will never run again. We can work through everything else,” Elizabeth says.

  “I can do that.”

  “Oh, one other thing,” she smirks.

  “Yes?”

  “Bring my son back to me.” Her pleading voice sends a chill through me. I ruined the boy she raised, and she wants him back.

  My head spins and I grip the comforter while she and Steve continue talking about things that have happened since I last saw them. I laugh and smile when I’m supposed to. My responses are the perfect lies, telling them that I’ve really been happy.

  Eventually, they make a move to go, and I walk them to their car. When Elizabeth helps Steve into the car, and she folds the wheelchair and puts it in the trunk, I feign a smile. Though it feels as if my stomach is crawling up my throat, I wave and stand in the same spot until they’re out of sight. Then I walk back to my room and lean against the door.

  Bring my son back to me.

  Dammit. I ruined his life. He’s been miserable because of me. But still, he says he wants me back. I’m not even sure what kind of emotions I’m feeling right now. All I do know is that I don’t deserve their kindness.

  * * *

  “Ha!” I laugh when Gracie Hart stumbles out of the airport hangar. She’s just been waxed and plucked to death, and her love interest can’t take his eyes off her. I love this movie. It’s my favorite. I know the entire thing word for word and being drunk just makes it even funnier.

  When Steve and Elizabeth left this afternoon, I opened up a bottle of vodka. I really am trying not to feel sorry for myself right now, but dammit, I do. I feel like shit for bringing other people down with me. I’m entitled to a night of self-pity, aren’t I?

  My throat burns when I take another shot then chase it with some juice. I’m not a big drinker, but it’s now the second night in a row I’ve been wasted. My life is in some kind of spiral, spinning and twisting with no end in sight. And I can’t tell if it’s going down or up.

  Living with the guilt alone is one thing. Pretending everyone else was okay was a delusion that made it easy to fake my way through life. Sure, I said I was doing it for them, to keep them safe, but did I ever actually stop and think how it would affect them? Nope. I’m so foolish.

  Bring my son back to me. ‘Cause Brandon left. I was the one who disappeared, but he left.

  “Shit!” I moan and sit on the floor, resting my back against the bed. My neck begins to cramp from the awkward position it’s in as I stare at the ceiling.

  Brandon really had been miserable. It hurt enough when he told me, but to hear it from his mother—that underlying anger on behalf of her son directed at me. Talk about feeling like an ass. I assumed he would have moved on. Not remained hung up on me for this long. Why didn’t he just forget about me?

  Slowly, I crawl onto my bed and lie on my stomach. I grab a couple of pillows, prop them under my arms, and rest my head.

  The movie makes me laugh, and before I know it, the laughter turns hysterical then the hysterics turn to tears. I sob into the pillows as my entire body shudders. Years of pent-up feelings spill out. Every emotion I’ve kept hidden pushes from the inside and claws to get out. Fear, anger, sadness, loneliness, guilt, regret. Mourning my parent’s death. Because they are dead to me. And if they are still alive, I hope they do die a painful death. But that’s not the way life works. They’re probably happy somewhere, just the two of them. High all the time. Oblivious to the troubles of the world. They’re horrible people and I hate them with everything that I am.

  I eventually
catch my breath and make my way to the bathroom where I splash cold water on my face and give my cheeks a few slaps. I wince when I hit the sore spot and examine it in the mirror. I’d covered up the bruise earlier, so it wasn’t noticeable when the Parkers stopped by, but now without concealer, the purplish-yellowish mark is more prominent.

  Without using a glass, two large swallows of vodka help to numb the pain. Back in my bed, with my back against the wall and my legs crossed, I try to focus on the movie. The phone on my nightstand rings, and I jump about three feet in the air, spilling vodka all over myself.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Mary.”

  “Hi.” Shit, shit, shit. I don’t want to talk to Brandon right now. Not when I’m in the middle of my own personal torment. Or do I? He always makes me smile.

  “I had to work late but wanted to talk to you on my way home.”

  “Oh. Hi.” I pull the phone away from my ear so he can’t hear my drunken laugh, and only catch the tail end of what he says when I put the phone back to my ear. “ . . . feel after they visited unexpectedly.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said I wanted to see how you feel after my parents stopped by. I told them not to, to give you time, but obviously they didn’t listen.”

  “Welllll. I think I’m fine.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Nooo . . .” A laugh escapes me and I fall to my back.

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  I hold up my fingers about an inch apart, at least I think it’s an inch. “This much.”

  “Christ, you can’t even talk.”

  “I can talk, too. See. I’m—” I hiccup into the phone and laugh again. “I’m talking right now you . . . To you. I’m talking to Brandon.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Hello?” I ask. When there’s no answer, I try it again, “Helllooo. Brandon, where did you go?” After no answer again, I hang up the receiver and lie back down for a bit. I pour the last drops of clear liquid down my throat and allow the numbness to take over.

  “Mary! Open up,” Brandon’s voice yells from the other side of the door. Even in my drunken state, I can understand the anger in his voice. For some reason, it makes me giggle. The door shakes from the force of his fists. God, he’s strong. He’s also hot. Really fucking hot.

  “Hold your horses. I’m coming.”

  My fingers fumble with the locks, and after several failed attempts, I still have one, two, three chains to unlock.

  “Shit,” I whisper, realizing I might be a little more intoxicated that I thought.

  “Mary. Open the fucking door.”

  “I’m tryin’.”

  I think it’s been about five minutes, and I’ve just unlatched the last chain. The door flies open, and I start falling from it being ripped from my hands, but Brandon reaches down and pulls me up before I do a face plant.

  “Whoa . . .” I breathe. “That was close.”

  “Babe, you’re wasted. How much did you drink?”

  “Umm.” I lean over and pick up the empty bottle of vodka. “This much.”

  “Fuck. You drank an entire fifth of vodka by yourself?” He rips the now empty bottle out of my hand, and I stumble into him.

  “No, silly. I spilled some of it. See?” I lift my shirt to his face. “It’s stinky.”

  He shakes his head and pulls my shirt back down. “You need to get to sleep.”

  “But I’m not tired.”

  Ignoring my protest, he picks me up and sets me down on the bed. He’s so strong. And hot. Even hotter than I remember. How does that happen in the span of a day? A storm settles low in my belly, and all I can think at this moment is I want him. I want him to take the pain away. I want his lips to erase the memories. I want his body to fill the loneliness.

  I grab at the front of his shirt and back of his head, pulling him to me. My mouth finds his, and I attack him. He protests, gently trying to get me to stop. Sloppy, drunk, and vulnerable, I fight him. I pull on him as he tries to push me away. My hands ache from the force I’m using to hold him close.

  “Stop it, Mary,” he growls, ripping his mouth away from mine.

  “No.” I grip him tighter, and even though my nails are digging into his skin, I don’t stop. All I want is to touch him, to feel him.

  “Dammit. Stop.” He pries my hands away and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “So I’m good enough for you when you feel like sticking your fingers inside me. But what? Not good enough for you to fuck?”

  “I’m not fucking you like this.”

  I laugh. “Like what? In a motel? Too trashy for you, Brandon Parker?” Now I’m embarrassed and pissed off that he turned me down.

  “No. Jesus, Mary. You’re wasted.”

  “I’m not too drunk to know what I want. And I want you.” I attempt to sit up on my knees, but fail miserably and end up falling on all fours. Lifting my head, I blow some stray hairs out of my face. “I want you to fuck me.”

  “It’s not happening. Look at yourself right now.” He presses his knuckles into the mattress inches away and gets in my face. “When I fuck you for the first time, you’re going to remember it. I want you to remember every second of my cock inside of you. I’ve been fuckin’ my own fist to the thought of it since I was a teenager. I’m not wasting our first time on a drunken night. I want to be able to fall asleep with my dick still inside you and not have to worry about you waking up to be sick.”

  My mouth falls open and he nods.

  “Yeah. When you wake up in the morning, your pussy will be so deliciously sore from me owning it that you won’t be able to walk straight. And if I fuck you like I really want to, like I’ve been dying to for as long as I can remember, you need to be with me. Your eyes need to be looking into mine when I come inside you for the first time.” He takes a deep breath through his nose and continues, “It will happen. And it’ll happen soon. But not tonight . . . not like this.”

  I lick my lips and crawl forward. “I’ll remember.” My hand darts out and grabs the hard bulge in his jeans.

  A hiss of air passes through his teeth before he rips my hand away and actually pushes me back. I fall on my face, and finally give up.

  “I get it,” I mumble into the comforter. He doesn’t want me. I mean, I’m drunk off my ass. Can’t blame him. “Why don’t you just leave? I’ll be okay. I’m always okay.”

  Chapter 11

  Brandon

  Jesus fuck, this woman is gonna give me an ulcer. She continues mumbling about how she’s okay and I shake my head at her alcohol-induced antics. Finally, she passes out, and I reposition her so she’s on her back with her head propped up on a couple of pillows. I grab the garbage can from the bathroom and set it close to her on the floor.

  She’s gotta have some Tylenol or something, so I dig through her cabinets. A tan, oval-shaped box catches my eye, and I pull it down. Already knowing what’s inside, my gut clenches as to why she would need birth control pills. I don’t expect her to be a virgin, but the thought of her fucking somebody else makes my body shake with rage.

  I won’t pretend I’ve been a saint, but any woman I fucked was nothing but a willing pussy, something to take the edge off. Only once did I attempt an actual relationship, and it was shot to shit when I called her Mary on four separate occasions. The three times in my dreams, she could live with. She was upset about them, but who can control their dreams? It was when I called her Mary while we were fucking that she gave up even trying anymore.

  I certainly never blamed the woman; I’d be pissed if the person I was with was thinking about someone else the whole time. But that’s been my life. Sure, I pretended to move on, but there was always that whisper in the back of my mind that said not to give up on Mary. That there was still a chance.

  Before I shove the offending pill container back, I read the name on the prescription, Gracie Hart, and laugh out loud. Her and that damn movie. I grab the pills I originally came lookin
g for and fill a glass with water then set them down on the stand next to her bed.

  I strip down to my boxer briefs and set my clothes on the little table in the corner. Before I crawl into bed with her, I grab my cell and call my neighbor, Kelsey. She moved in the weekend after I did. My work hours are crazy, and I ended up not being able to feed Kat a couple of times, so I gave Kels a key to my place so the poor thing wouldn’t starve because of my weird schedule.

  “You realize it’s after midnight, right?” Kelsey answers.

  “Don’t act like you’re not up still.” She’s an artist and often sleeps during the day after being up all night painting.

  “No wonder you made detective so fast. You’re just so gosh darn inquisitive, picking up on my schedule like that,” she laughs. Metal echoes in the receiver and I chuckle back, knowing she’s already got my keys in her hand. “I’m on my way.”

  “You’re such a smartass.”

  “Whatever. Do you need me to feed her in the morning, too?”

  “No, just tonight. Thanks, Kels.”

  “No problem. Anytime. Go get the bad guys.”

  She hangs up before I can reply, and I toss my phone on top of my jeans. I lock the door and turn to find Mary sitting up, shooting daggers at me.

  “Who was that?” she snaps.

  “What?” How is her drunk ass even awake?

  “On the phone. Who was that?”

  “My neighbor.”

  “A neighbor you fuck?”

  My mouth hangs open for a minute, and I’m speechless. Then I remember how I felt this morning when I saw a guy in her room. Jealousy is nasty. But I can’t chastise her for it because I felt the same fucking way.

  “Is it? Huh?” She successfully sits up on her knees and crosses her arms. “Do you fuck your neighbor, Brandon?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Hmm.” She looks away then back to my body, scanning me from head to toe. My dick rises at the scrutiny, and she bites the inside of her cheek, drawing attention to the blush starting to cover her face. Even drunk she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her glossy eyes get heavy and her body sways a bit.