by Lyla Payne
Which doesn’t make it any less embarrassing when my stomach growls loud enough to startle the fish away from the two old men in a dingy floating twenty feet from the dock. My face feels hot as Dylan chuckles under his breath.
“Have you had dinner?” he asks, casting another bemused glance my direction.
“No. Grace should be home, though, and she’s good about feeding me.”
He nods. “I was going to run by Debbie’s, myself. Have a hankering for that chicken salad. Care to join me?”
I should say no. Grace likes us to eat dinner together and I’m inclined to do whatever Grace wants, aside from let her talk to herself like a loon, but all of a sudden the chicken salad from the diner sounds as good as a bowl of shrimp and grits from S.N.O.B.
“Sure. I’ll just get Grace something to go.”
“I’ve got to get back to the station, anyway, so I was planning on taking it, too.”
This time, I give Dylan the once-over. There are dark circles under his eyes, too, and wrinkles around his eyes I swear weren’t there when he visited me in the hospital a few days ago. He works too much. I barely have the energy to look after my own health and affairs, never mind anyone else’s, but it doesn’t take a genius to make that cognitive leap.
“When was the last time you ate a meal somewhere other than your desk?” I grunt, letting him pull me upright from the bench. I am a beached whale, basically, but that fact means his interest in me must be platonic, and that gives me great relief.
“I can’t remember, but I also can’t remember the last time I cleaned my kitchen at home, so that’s probably a good thing.”
My nose wrinkles. His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me over the wooden planks and back to the uneven sidewalks, then stays put. The warmth of it seeps more comfort beneath my skin than it has any right to, but it’s been a long time since anyone’s touched me with any sort of kindness. “I mean, who cleans the kitchen at the police station? Because I’m guessing that’s pretty gross, too.”
“We get by, Miss Cooper.”
That makes me roll my eyes, but it’s what I get for calling him Detective Travis earlier. “You come over Sunday for dinner. Beau will be there, I’m sure, and I get a little weary of watching them make eyes at each other over their mashed potatoes. It will be nice to have someone else to talk to, and you’ll get a decent meal out of it besides.”
“That would be lovely, if you’re sure it’s no inconvenience.”
“None at all.”
We stroll the rest of the three blocks to Debbie’s soaking up the first days of a South Carolina autumn side by side, and he leaves his hand close to touching me the whole time. Maybe it’s wrong, to take from him without any intention of giving anything back, but right now, I’m too tired to care. Too tired to go grocery shopping, too.
Dylan doesn’t know about the curse. He doesn’t know that Jack’s probably going to die before his thirteenth birthday. He doesn’t know how bad it is in my head, how many nights I wonder how many of the horrible thoughts are coming from Mrs. LaBadie and how many are mine. How I’ve started to lose things that pop up later in all the wrong places.
Dylan sees a sad pregnant girl who needs a friend, maybe a hand on her way to get dinner. He doesn’t know I’m going slowly mad, or that there’s a growing certainty in my soul that I won’t live even long enough to meet the little boy growing inside me.
Chapter Five
Beau
I have the front door in my sights when Brick pops into the entryway from the library. He stinks of cigar, which is what he, my sister, and my father use the room for since they’ve read every legal text in that room three times over and neither of them has any use for the other tomes. A lot of the first editions were handed down from previous generations, some gifted by the Middletons years ago, before the Union Army burned their own extensive library, and some were collected by the brother we never speak of aloud, Bennett.
I’d speak of him and even to him, if he were here, but he’s long gone.
“Beau. Can we have a small conversation before you run back to the backwater you call home?”
He motions me into the library. I follow, because he’s going to have his way regardless, and the faster I can get out of this house and back to Heron Creek—backwater or not—the better.
The smell of old glue and leather combine with the sweet scent of Brick’s lingering cigar smoke to overwhelm me, both with strength and nostalgia. The curtains are closed to block out the bright sunshine of the early afternoon and the desk lamp is on, casting a weak glow into the darkened room. It’s giving off a whole Godfather vibe that’s ridiculous, given that my brother is not as scary as he wants to be, at least not for me.
A smile plays on my lips at the memory of the way Gracie went off on him at my house during the early days of my trial prep. He doesn’t intimidate her, either. Then again, dead or alive, most people don’t.
Brick offers me a cigar, holding it out like it’s the ark of the covenant. Illegal and Cuban, no doubt.
I shake my head. “No thanks. What did you want to discuss?”
“You’re familiar with our longtime friends, the Middletons.”
I roll my eyes. “The family that has been connected to ours through marriage and land and politics since before the American Revolution? Yes, I’m familiar.”
My sarcasm only makes him smile. It’s like spinach is to Popeye.
He smiles. “Yes, well, I thought you’d like to know that the firm has taken on Loretta and George Middleton as clients.”
“Which ones are they? And why does this concern me? I don’t work for the firm anymore, remember?” This conversation begins to bore me, but my gut warns against being lulled.
“They happen to be the ones suing Amelia Cooper Middleton for custody of her unborn child.”
It takes a moment for the words to file into the proper order in my brain. Once they do, my stomach sinks and my hands curl into fists. I want to accuse Brick of taking this case just to make my life harder—to pit my family against Gracie’s, or to align me with the Middletons, but the truth is, he probably didn’t. There’s no other firm they would have gone to first and no Drayton would turn away family.
As hard as I’ve fallen for Graciela Anne Harper, the Middletons are family. Always have been, and even if I saw with my own two eyes how evil Jake had turned out, it doesn’t mean the whole tree is rotten down to the roots.
I stare at Brick. Think about my spineless father, my cold mother, and my brother who left because we basically made him an outcast in his own home. The words I said to Gracie the day we ended up saving Amelia and her unborn child from being beaten to death ring in my ears: My family is one of the most powerful and influential in the state, Graciela. Those things don’t come without sacrifices. Family is usually the first thing to go.
It’s true. We’re not a family, not in the average sense of the word, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know how to circle the wagons. In fact, it’s one of the only things we still do well.
Practice makes perfect.
I eye Brick. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to lobby on behalf of justice or rail against me for making your life with your shorts-wearing girlfriend harder yet again?”
“No. They’re Middletons and they asked you to represent them. What were you going to say, no?” I shake my head, anger grabbing at my lungs. It needs to stay put for just another couple of minutes. “My relationship with Graciela is my business, as I’ve told Mother. Amelia’s parents have enough money to hire attorneys of their own, so I suppose we’ll have to leave this one to the courts, and may they decide in the best interests of the child.”
Brick smirks, the look in his eyes promising that he knows something I don’t. “The Coopers have some money, Beau, but they don’t have nearly enough money to even get to a courtroom. Amelia is incompetent, has already tried to commit suicide at least once, and she’s going to lose
her parental rights as far as that child. I wonder if Gracie will ever be able to look at you again and not see your last name, and what we’ve done to her beloved cousin.” He shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”
It takes every last ounce of self-control I’ve ever thought about possessing not to punch him in his smug face. There’s no way I’m getting involved in this case, no way I’m taking his bait, so I do the only thing I can.
“I’ll see you later, Brick.”
I turn and walk away. Straight out the front door of the house where I grew up. The one that should have sheltered me, should have given me a place to turn into a good man, but instead tried to twist me into the kind of man who wields power without regard for those on the receiving end.
A man like my brother.
The car starts up, the engine purring smoothly. I pilot it back to Heron Creek and Graciela, trying not to think about the fact that Brick, for all of his faults, is almost always right.
By the time I make it back to Heron Creek my worries have eased, if only a tick. My girlfriend can be a little out there about some things—like following the letter of the law, for example—but she keeps a cool head about things like family and the way of the world. It won’t be like Brick says. She knows I’m not my brother, that I’ve spent years distancing myself from the Drayton name. I believe in her, and in what we’ve built these past couple of months even if a lot of it has been under duress.
It’s too early to go grab her now even if it’s the only thing I want to do. She had plans this morning, something about going to confront her ghosts head on, whatever that means. I think I’ll go to the office but instead of turning into the parking lot for the municipal building, I slide right past. Park near the boardwalk and take a stroll, end up at The Wreck of Jack and Anne.
I decide what the hell and order two plates of fish tacos to go, climb back in my car, and push the speed limit all the way to the Harpers’ house a few blocks away.
My heart speeds up at the sight of Gracie’s beat-up Honda in the driveway. My mind skips from her being home early to Amelia still covering at the library to the two of us naked with our run of the house. By the time I get to the front porch I’m over-warm and grinning and nothing sounds better than the two of us forgetting all of the shit in our lives for the next couple of hours, then maybe making dinner together and watching a ballgame.
She opens the door, sweat shining on her face but in a glowing kind of way, and gives me a surprised, happy smile. “You’re here early.”
I love the way she makes it sound like a good thing, being surprised. Being interrupted, maybe. I love the way her grin turns sly as her gaze skims my face, guesses my thoughts, and the way she gasps as I grab her up in my arms and whisk her over the threshold, slamming the front door behind me with my foot. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”
She laughs, softly, nuzzling my neck in a way that makes me want to take the stairs three at a time, safety be damned. “You just saw me yesterday.”
“That was forever ago.”
We make it to the blue and cream bedroom she loves. It’s a sanctuary of sorts; I feel it too, when we’re here together, as though it exists in some kind of bubble. The windows are open, letting in a humid breeze that seems to suggest more rain is on the way. There’s something perfect about this room—the smattering of sunlight winking through the trees, the heavy feel of the air, the scent of cleaner and fabric softener and, in my arms, a woman I can’t get enough of.
I drop her on the bed. She looks up, watching me with hungry green eyes as I yank loose my tie and sling it on the chair in the corner, the one she calls Anne Bonny’s seat. I can’t help but cast a glance to the corner where she says the lingering ghost, Henry Woodward, likes to sulk.
She giggles. “He’s not here. Henry doesn’t like company, not even the ghostly kind.”
“That’s good.” I step out of my pants and then lean over, tugging Gracie’s shirt over her head and taking a moment to enjoy the view. “Because I’m pretty excited about having you all to myself for a few hours.”
Her gaze travels down, landing on the front of my boxer briefs with raised eyebrows. “I can see that.”
I pounce on her then, attacking her neck with my lips and teeth and tongue until she turns into a puddle of sighs in my arms. I get lost in the feel and taste of her, trying not to rush but dying for all of her. Then Gracie takes control, flipping me onto my back and ridding both of us of the rest of our clothes. She’s on top of me, staring down into my face with her peculiar mix of mischief and lust, and when we start to move together time stands still. It’s forever but not long enough, and I could watch her push us both toward a precipice for the rest of my life.
My fingers dig into the soft flesh of her hips, holding her steady as her breathing turns ragged and her eyes hold on to mine. When she comes I do, too, and for several moments there’s nothing but gasps and moans, hands pressed into sweaty skin, the silky curtain of her hair brushing my face.
When the world spins back into focus she’s flat against my chest, our lungs heaving in unison. I knead little circles across her back, not ready to let go, maybe never ready to let go. We lie that way for a long time, past the return of our breathing to normal. We’re connected and I don’t want to move. It’s almost as though we’re one person—breathing, thinking, feeling—and it’s been so long since another human being has been this close to me that it’s almost uncomfortable.
But I let her stay.
“I’m hungry,” Gracie mumbles against my neck some time later, twisting her head so that her cheek rests on my shoulder. Her breath tickles.
“I left fish tacos in the car.” Food had totally slipped my mind when I saw her car in the driveway. “They might be ruined.”
“It hasn’t been that long.” She rolls off me, leaving a chill where her damp skin parts from mine, and checks her phone. “Okay, it’s been almost an hour. That’s impressive. Except I think ruining tacos from The Wreck might be grounds for some kind of punishment.”
“I kind of like the sound of that.”
Gracie laughs, the sound washing the room with light, and whacks me on the arm before rolling out of bed and making for the bathroom, snagging my dress shirt on the way. I enjoy the view, then sit up and pull my underwear and pants back on once the door blocks my enjoyment. She emerges a few minutes later, still looking sex-tousled and sexy in nothing but a pair of panties and my shirt.
“If you plan on walking around like that we’re going again before your cousin gets home.” Mentioning Amelia returns worry to the edges of my mind but I banish it, if only for a few more hours.
“Why do you think I’m walking around like this, handsome?”
I follow her downstairs, then volunteer to go outside to get the tacos since I’m the one wearing pants and the last thing I want is for her to put hers back on. She gives me hell about walking outside without a shirt on, since no doubt her nosy neighbor Mrs. Walters is spying with her binoculars from down the block, but I figure the old biddy wouldn’t know what to do if she didn’t have some kind of gossip to spread down at the hair salon.
Except there isn’t a hair salon right now. The thought reminds me that I have actual work to do down at the mayor’s office; approving a new building permit is on our to-do list.
We sit at the table in her grandparents’ sunny yellow kitchen, digging into lukewarm tacos and rice that may or may not send us running for the toilet in a few hours.
“They taste okay,” Gracie mumbles around a mouthful of mahi and pico. “But I kind of can’t believe you’re eating unrefrigerated food without a fight.”
“Yeah, well, I met this girl who’s slowly but surely showing me the benefits of living dangerously. On occasion.” I shrug. “Plus I just happen to know that most food safety standards state that food can be left up to three hours at room temperature before it reaches dangerous levels of bacteria growth.”
“That’s super sexy, Mr. Mayor, but if we could refrain
from the use of the word bacteria while we’re eating, I’d be much obliged.” She takes a sip of water. “How was tea?”
“Fine.” I measure my words between bites of food, torn between wanting to tell her everything now—my mother wanting her help with the archives at Magnolia, Brick and his Middleton bombshell—so she can help me sort it all out and wanting to hold on to the magic of this afternoon for a bit longer.
The latter wins out. Just having Gracie find out that I’ve never mentioned my family’s connection to the Middleton family during the past several months is going to be a rough conversation. There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up: so, hey, you know the guy who nearly killed your cousin and the people who are trying to steal her kid? We’ve been tight going back to the American Revolution and shit.
Maybe not.
“That doesn’t sound good.” She acts as though her interest in the matter has already dissolved, but I know better. Our pasts, our families…those are two major topics of conversation that the two of us have hardly breached.
“It’s my mother. There’s rarely good news where she’s concerned.”
“Was your father there?” Her green gaze flits to mine and away, her voice tripping over the word ‘father.’ There’s something about the word that’s hard for her, a hidden question behind the one she’s asked, but it’s impossible to know what.
My gut says my girlfriend has secrets of her own, but oddly, it doesn’t bother me. It’s exciting, knowing that there are still depths to be plumbed—and not just the physical kind. “My father was playing golf. Or drinking. Probably both. Your favorite Drayton brother put in an appearance, though.”
Her cute little nose wrinkles. “Has he gotten more misogynistic and awful since the last time I saw him?”