by J. Kenner
She shifted so that she was straddling him. She wore a pair of his old sweatpants, cut off to make shorts, with nothing else underneath. Now, the soft material bunched up her legs so that her bare ass and legs rubbed against his jeans in a deliciously enticing way.
With Spencer, need always hovered close to the surface, and it rose now, the sweetness of that initial kiss giving way to a wild abandon, more intense and desperate today because of all they wanted to forget—Richie’s execution, her family’s disapproval, the frustration of a world they couldn’t control.
But this—the wildness between them—was something they could claim and control and celebrate.
“I need you.” Spencer’s growl cut through her, his tone affecting her as intimately as a caress.
“You have me.” Her voice came out raspy with need. “Please, Spencer. I—“
“Yes. God, yes.” He captured her in a kiss again, and this time, his free hand slid under her tank top, his fingers teasing her bare breast and sending ripples of electricity rolling through her body.
Shamelessly, she ground against his pelvis, still tightly clad in denim. He was hard, his erection straining, and, dammit, she didn’t want to wait. With her mouth, she nipped at his lower lip, and as she did, she used her fingers to fumble open the button on his jeans and carefully lower his zipper.
“Christ,” he whispered when she reached in to free him from his boxers. “If you want to go slow, I think I just might die.”
“Fast,” she agreed as his fingers slid up her thigh, then under the fleece of her shorts. She was desperately wet, and he teased her with his fingertip, playing with her clit and making her breath come in gasps.
“Please,” she begged. “I want you inside me.”
He complied, thrusting a finger into her, which she rode shamelessly, all the while telling him that his finger wasn’t what she had in mind.
“Then show me,” he teased, and she reached to untie the drawstring of her shorts. His hand stilled hers. “No,” he said, then tugged the crotch aside. “Like this.”
The words were like an order, and she obeyed willingly, rubbing against his cock until the head was at her core, then slowly—so deliciously, painfully slowly—easing him inside. She wanted to ride him slow, to make it last for both of them, but that was out of the question.
Her body was demanding hard and fast—and so was Spencer. He had his hands on her hips, and with each of her thrusts, he drew her down hard, her tender flesh rubbing against the denim he still wore as his length filled her, the sensations inside and against her clit sending her spiraling higher and higher.
“I can’t wait,” he said, and she cried out that she couldn’t either.
She came wildly, violently, her body breaking apart in the most wondrous way, and then slowly and sweetly coming back together in his arms before drifting away on a sea of contentment.
She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew was that she was alone.
"Spencer?" Her voice came out low, groggy, and she pushed herself up on her elbows as she searched the dark room for him.
A sliver of light crept out from around the bathroom door, which had been left cracked slightly. Immediately, a wave of relief washed over her, and only then did she realize how on edge she'd been upon waking without him.
"Silly," she whispered, intending to roll over and go to sleep, but then she heard him. The sobs coming from the bathroom. The anguish of losing a man who'd been like a father to him for so much of his childhood. And the anguish of losing his father, too. Not to death, but to dementia, the victim of a stroke that had knocked the old man down the day Richie's first appeal had been denied.
For a moment, she considered going to him. But she stayed in bed, the sheet pulled tight around her and her eyes shut tight as she prayed for a way to save Richie. And by saving him, also saving the man she loved.
Brooke had made peace with the fact that her parents weren't coming to the wedding. Her mother had avoided the real issue, saying that she was on call all week at the hospital and couldn't get away. A ridiculous excuse since the wedding was being held at a friend's house in Central Austin, a short drive from the hospital where Brooke's mother was on staff.
Her father hadn't bothered trying to wrap his absence in a bullshit excuse. He'd simply said that she was a spoiled little fool who didn't appreciate everything he did for her. And that if she was going to marry a man who came from that kind of family, then she was on her own.
She'd been okay with that, though it hurt to know that her parents were so quick to cut themselves off from the little girl they'd always claimed to love so fiercely.
Still, she had no illusions about her father. Randall Hamlin saw the world in black and white, not shades of gray. And that was a perspective that had fueled every trial he'd ever won—and so far, that was each and every one of them.
So she'd been unprepared when he arrived at her apartment the night before the wedding.
"You're still determined to go through with this charade, I assume?"
"Daddy, I love you. But I'm done. If you came to try to talk me out of the wedding, then just go away. I have some girlfriends coming over in couple of hours, and we're going to celebrate by drinking wine and watching chick flicks. I really don't need you in my head. Okay?"
She started to close the door, but he stepped over the threshold, a hand thrust out to keep the door open. "That's not why I came. Please, baby girl. Hear me out."
She almost insisted he leave, but it had been so long since he'd used that endearment that her defenses went down. Besides, no matter what else he might be, he was her father. And some desperate, needy part of her wanted to fix things between them.
"Ten minutes," she said, opening the door fully to allow him to enter.
He stepped inside, and before she even had time to offer him a drink, he spoke. "I've been in touch with the governor. I say the word, and he's prepared to grant clemency to Richard Dean."
All of the breath left her body, and she was glad she hadn't reached for her glass of wine. "What do you mean? You can get him released?"
"No. Not that. But I can get his sentence reduced. The death penalty removed. His sentence commuted to life in prison. And with the possibility of parole."
"I see." She licked her lips, her heart pounding so hard she was having a difficult time thinking. "This is—Daddy, this is incredible." She reached for her phone. "I need to call Spencer. He'll be—"
"No."
The word came out with the force of a demand, and she froze, cold terror creeping up her spine.
"You know that I'm close with the governor. And I'll tell you right now that I've already spoken to him about this. I say the word, and he'll take action."
"And you'll say the word when?"
"When you break off this wedding. When you walk away from that man."
She closed her eyes, knowing in that moment how it felt to hate someone you'd once loved. "That's horrible."
"Is it?"
"You're playing with a man's life, and you're making me a pawn in some goddamn medieval game."
"He already chose his path. He drove that car. He was involved in a murder."
"He wasn't," she protested. "He thought he was driving his friend to a convenience store. He had no idea the other guy was going to rob the place, much less kill the clerk."
"He was a participant. And he had a gun."
"Because he always had a gun. It was holstered under his jacket, but he was outside in the parking lot, and—"
"Felony murder," her father said coldly. "He drove the car."
"Wrong time, wrong place," she retorted.
"Perhaps. And perhaps that's why I'm making this offer."
"Contingent on me walking away from the man I love?" This was a nightmare. An epic, horrible nightmare. "You're going to let a man die—"
"The law is clear." Her father's voice was cold. "And so is my conscience."
"Daddy." She heard the plea
in her voice and hated it. But she'd get down on her knees and beg if that would convince him.
But there was no convincing him.
"You walk away. You don't tell him why—I won't risk the governor's reputation being tarnished. Or mine, for that matter. You walk, Brooke. And you don't look back."
He left without another word, leaving her alone to make her choice.
She canceled the girls' night, then spent the longest night of her life trying to decide what to do. A marriage balanced against the weight of the life of a man.
She was still awake when the sun rose, and she numbly dressed to go to her friend's house for the wedding. It wasn't meant to be fancy, and she held her simple white dress over her arm, still not sure what she was going to do.
It wasn't until she saw Brian, Spencer's best friend from Trinity, that everything became clear.
"Hey, gorgeous," he called as she walked down the gravel drive to the guest house where the wedding would be held. She turned, recognizing his voice, but not finding the speaker. Then she saw Brian sitting in the gazebo drinking a beer. She cut over to him and offered him a smile that she hoped looked genuine. Despite it being her wedding day, she wasn't in much of a mood to smile.
He lifted his beer in greeting and offered her a dazzling white grin. With his Robert Redford eyes, blond frat boy looks, and trust fund attitude, Brian hardly seemed like the kind of guy to claim Spencer as a friend. But the two had met on Spence's first day at Trinity and had struck up a solid friendship.
Although they'd taken different paths—Spence dropping out, Brian on the fast track to an MBA—they still saw each other regularly for beer and football and shooting the shit. Often enough, in fact, that Brooke had come to know Brian well, and for the most part, she liked him.
Of course, there'd been a few awkward moments. Brian made no secret that he was attracted to her. And although she was totally devoted to Spencer, she had to admit that he was easy on the eyes. In a world without Spence, she might have willingly caught one of his passes. But in the world as it was, he was just another pretty piece of scenery on the fringes of her life.
"Is he getting ready?" she asked Brian, who nodded.
"Rough night. He kept talking about how if things were different, Richie would be his best man. Not that he begrudges me the job, but—"
"Yeah. I know."
"You okay?" Brian peered at her.
"Of course. Just not enough sleep. Typical for a bride, right?"
"Mmm." He studied her a moment longer, his frown deepening. "You're not upset about the honeymoon, are you? Or the lack of a honeymoon."
"Are you kidding?" For over a year, Spencer had been pulling strings to land a network real estate flipping program. He'd finally—finally—got a contract with The Design and Destination Channel for a show called Spencer's Place. The producers had even committed to an unprecedented five-season run. But the kicker was that the producers wanted to start filming right away, and for that to happen, Spencer and Brooke had to cancel their honeymoon.
"We can take a trip anytime," Brooke said honestly. "This opportunity is way too important."
"I thought that's how you felt. But I wanted to make sure. You look a little off."
She forced a grin. "Exactly what a bride wants to hear."
"Wanna tell me?"
She sighed. Since Brian had a thing for her, she generally tried to keep her distance simply because she didn't want him to feel awkward when his interest wasn't returned.
So normally, she would have brushed off his comment, not wanting to get too down in the weeds with him. But today, with her heart hurting and her head confused, she accepted the offer to unburden herself, at least a little. "It's Richie," she said. "I feel so bad about Richie."
"Yeah, it's pretty much killing Spencer. And it's only gonna get worse."
"What do you mean?"
"It's a total fluke, but there's nothing he can do about it. Except Spencer says he can't handle it, and the network says that they can't reschedule. So they're at an impasse. I think Spencer's afraid they're going to throw up their hands and pull the plug."
Alarm bells clanged in her head. "Brian. What are you talking about?"
"The first day of filming. It's the day of Richie's execution."
She shuddered, then closed her eyes, opening them only when she felt Brian take her hand. "He's refusing to show up for filming, isn't he?" She knew the answer. He'd never abandon Richie, and certainly not at the end.
Brian squeezed her hand, and she clung to him, craving comfort.
"Those bastards," she said. "They can't bump it one fucking day?"
"You need to tell him, Brooke," Brian said. "Tell him that Richie wouldn't want him to lose this chance."
She couldn't tell him that. He'd never listen, and she didn't believe it, anyway.
But there was still something she could do. A way to make it better. To save Richie, and to save the show.
And all it would cost was her happiness. And Spencer's.
Chapter Seven
The feel and scent of Spencer stayed with Brooke for days. The way he'd pressed her into that alcove in The Fix. The way his skin had felt against hers. The roughness in his voice. The low, ominous promise of retribution.
And though she tried to concentrate on her work and on her business, it was Spencer—always Spencer—who filled her thoughts.
Him, and the demand he was making. Or, more accurately, the threat.
She hugged herself, replaying the scene in her head. "The meeting's in a couple of hours, and I still honestly don't know what to do," she told Amanda. "He hates me."
"Well, you did leave him at the altar. That's not exactly a recipe for lasting devotion."
Brooke pressed her fingertips to her temples. "Thanks for your insight." They were in Amanda's downtown condo having breakfast on her balcony that overlooked Lady Bird Lake, which wasn't really a lake at all, but a river that ran through downtown Austin. "How can I work with a man who hates me?"
Brooke hadn't told Amanda about Spencer's very specific—very intense—demand. All she'd said was that Spencer had cornered her in The Fix and made it very clear that he didn't appreciate being strong-armed into the show, and that he intended to take out his displeasure on Brooke.
"Professional actors work together all the time, and some of them hate each other," Amanda pointed out. "And you said you walked because of cold feet, right? Have you explained that to him? I mean, it's not ideal, but at least it's understandable."
That had been the story she'd told Spencer on that horrible day. That it was all happening so fast, and that they needed time apart, to think and to grow. She'd thought she could outsmart her father that way. That she and Spencer could put the brakes on. And then, once Richie was safe and there was no going back, she'd explain the deception to Spencer. They'd get back together, and her father would be shit out of luck.
Needless to say, it hadn't worked out that way. Her father knew her well, and he'd told her flat out that if she tried to backdoor the wedding by reconciling with Spencer after the governor granted clemency, then he, her father, would leak Spencer's juvenile record, his gang affiliations, and any other dirt that Mr. Hamlin could dig up on Spencer.
"And then see how that precious show of his fares. No little girl of mine is getting involved with scum. And that's the way it's going to be."
He'd played her like a puppet, and she'd danced for him. Just like she'd done her whole life. And in the end, she'd walked away from the man she'd loved, her only consolation being that she'd saved his brother.
After the wedding was cancelled, she'd gone to Dallas for medical school. Not because she wanted to, but because her father had insisted. And she didn't argue because Spencer wasn't there to give her strength.
She'd been alone. So damnably, horribly alone.
She'd been twenty-three, but she'd felt so much younger. Lost and scared. Lonely and desperate. And angry. Dear God, she'd been furious. With herself. With h
er father. With the whole goddamn world.
Hell, she'd even been furious with Spencer for believing that she'd willingly betray him. He should have known. He should have realized that someone was pulling her strings.
But he hadn't, and she'd moved like a zombie through her first year, only poking her head up at the end of the year when she finally found the strength to drop out. Spencer's show was on the air by then, though she'd only caught a few minutes of the first episode before realizing that it was far too painful to watch.
Still, she heard about the show. She knew that it was a runaway hit. That Spencer Dean had become a household name, with endorsements and a magazine and a book deal. She'd been so damn happy for him, and when Brian had called to say that he was in town, Brooke had immediately invited him to her apartment for drinks, eager for even that small bit of connection to the past—and to Spencer.
"Honestly, I haven't seen him in ages," Brian said when she asked about Spencer. "I've been working my ass off—I'm doing financial management now—and he's been so busy with the show." He shrugged. "You get it."
She'd agreed that she did, then offered him a drink while they caught up. They'd hung in her apartment, then gone to dinner, then returned for another drink. And maybe she should have shut it down sooner, but this was Brian. A constant presence in her life for as long as she'd known Spencer.
Maybe she shouldn't have invited him over.
Maybe she shouldn't have had that first drink.
Maybe if she'd done things differently, it never would have happened.
But it did.
She shuddered, blocking the hateful memory.
No. Dammit, it happened. It. Happened.
He'd slipped something into her drink. He’d ripped her choices away. He'd taken her control.
She would never—ever—forgive him for that.
But at the same time, she had to thank him, too. That one, horrible, awful night had changed her life. Shifted her perspective. And she'd ended up quitting medical school because fuck her parents and their puppet strings.