by J. A. Little
“I always try.”
“Yeah, and I’m a supermodel,” I say, puckering my lips and vogue-ing. Matty lets out a snorting laugh and shakes his head.
“You’re so weird.”
“Hey now, I’m the coolest social worker you’ve ever had. Admit it,” I tease.
“You’re the only social worker I’ve ever had, Kayla.”
“Precisely. Now promise.”
Matty’s smile fades a little and his head drops. “I’ll try,” he mumbles. That’s pretty much the best I’m going to get right now, so I leave it. I run my hand over his head as I get up.
“That’s all I ask. Be good.”
Dean is sitting in Emily’s office at the front of the house as I’m leaving. He’s looking through papers. I feel a jump in heart rate—par for the course when I see him now, I guess.
“Hi, Dean,” I say.
He looks up. “Hey. Come in.”
I enter the office, looking around a bit. It’s not huge, but it’s decorated similarly to Dean’s with rich, dark wood. There’s a big window facing out front, but the curtains are pulled shut.
“Sit down. How did things go with Logan today?” I have a feeling Dean is used to commanding people to do things. Part of me wants to keep standing until he realizes how demanding he’s being, but I might be standing for a long time. I sit.
“He’s cynical and jaded and didn’t see the point.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“No, but he doesn’t have much time to figure it out. I’m taking my valuable time to teach him. The least he could do is listen,” I say agitatedly.
“So, you didn’t get anything accomplished?”
“Well,” I frown, “We had an incident. My little sister’s staying with us while my mom and her dad are on vacation. She came to see me today at work while Logan was there. He got a little sidetracked.”
“Did he know she was your sister?”
“Not at the time. One of my coworkers let it slip, though.”
“Did she not realize that wasn’t a good idea?”
“He and probably not. He’s one of my best friends. I think sometimes he forgets there’s supposed to be a separation of personal and professional.”
Dean looks down at his hands and begins fiddling with his fingers. I’m momentarily distracted by what he’s doing.
“Yeah, I guess that happens,” he says after a minute, snapping my attention back to our conversation.
“Well, as horrified as I was, I think that it might have been a good thing.”
“How so?” Dean asks, his fingers still moving against one another. I’m trying really hard not to look down at them again.
“My sister’s beautiful, smart, and ambitious. I think he realized that if he wants to catch a girl like her, he’s going to have to do more than try to cheat the system.”
“Okay,” Dean says skeptically, “so what’s his plan?”
“He wants to get a job. He’s got his driver’s permit and has been through all the classes, but he still needs to get his license.”
“One of us can take him to do that if you’d like,” Dean offers. “We’ve already been through it with Brayden. We’ve even got a Wyatt House car.”
“A Wyatt House car?”
“It’s an old beater,” he chuckles. “But it’s safe. Brayden is the only one insured to use it right now and we have a lot of restrictions on it. He has to ask permission to take it, and he’s not allowed to cart friends around, but it gives him some freedom. It’s more about teaching him responsibility than anything else.” Dean smiles. I can tell when he talks about Brayden that the two of them are close. “He’s been here a long time,” he says, answering my unasked question. “He’s like a little brother to me. I want him to do well when he leaves. Anyway, Emily can probably help Logan find a job. She’s good at that kind of thing. As the PR person, she has a lot of connections.”
“Makes sense,” I agree.
“What about Matty?” Dean asks. “What did he say?”
I swallow dryly and lick my lips. “He’s not ready,” I admit. “I think the best way is to spend some time with him. He needs to trust you. It’s just going to take time.”
“I can do that. We’re trying to find an additional house manager to take over some of my shifts so I’ll have some free time on my hands.”
“Oh” is my brilliant response. Dean scoffs a little, lifting the papers in front of him.
“My parents think I spend too much time at Wyatt House. They want us to find someone who can put in at least twenty to thirty hours a week.”
“How many hours do you put in?” I ask.
Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. A lot, I guess. I don’t really count.”
“Don’t you have a social life?” I regret the question as soon as it’s out of my mouth. It’s none of my business. Dean looks down and then back up. He doesn’t look mad or offended, though.
“Emily says you’re meeting her for coffee,” he says, changing the subject.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Is that okay? That’s not against any rules, is it?”
He chuckles. “No, it’s not. Just don’t let her corrupt you.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “She’s far too late for that.” I want to die. I need to just shut up. I have no idea where my professionalism has gone.
“Good to know,” Dean says, smirking. The look on his face is playful, and, as much as I know I should put an end to the flirting, I don’t want to.
“And you’re so innocent?” I challenge.
He leans forward, his hands clasped together on the desk in front of him. “Do I look innocent, Kayla?” His voice has taken on a deeper tone—i tone that does inappropriate things to my body. I take a chance and brush my thumb over his knuckles, slipping my fingers underneath his in the process.
“Looks can be deceiving.” I trace the Xs with the tip of my thumb. Dean watches the movement. There’s a sudden sadness in his eyes. I’m curious as to what he’s thinking. I want to know everything about this man.
“Dean?” I hear a feminine voice call out behind me. Dean snatches his hand back, startling me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Tracey says, peeking her head in. “Hi, Kayla.”
“Hi,” I squeak.
“I just came to let Dean know dinner’s ready. Are you going to be joining us? I’m sure all the boys would love it.”
“No. I really need to get home, but thank you.” I smile at her and then turn back to face Dean. His eyes are trained on Tracey, a sour look on his face. It appears that his mood has changed—again. I stand up. “Next week, Dean?” I pull out my phone to check my calendar. “I can meet on Tuesday at two o’clock if you’d like.”
“That’s fine,” he says curtly. With a wave of his hand, I’m dismissed. Wow.
Tracey opens the door for me as I grab my coat. I glance one last time at Dean, but he’s obviously shut down. He won’t even look at me.
“Have a good night.” I sigh and walk out the door.
At home, I sit on the couch with my computer in my lap. Andy is nowhere to be found and Claire is holed up in the guest room doing homework or something. I’m alone with my thoughts—and a search engine.
I close my eyes, hoping the damn thing will stop taunting me, but it doesn’t. I need to know everything I can about Dean Wyatt. And it’s all only a click away. I hate this. I hate the guilt that’s already flooding through me for even considering looking him up. I hate that I’m about to completely disregard that guilt. I type “Dean Wyatt arrest” and quickly hit SEARCH, not giving myself a chance to back out.
The first thing that pops up is from The Star Tribune. My fingers tap against the keyboard nervously. I feel like I’m snooping.
Click.
A picture of a very young Dean appears on the screen. He can’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen when it was taken. It looks like a yearbook photo. Under the photo, the caption reads, “Dean Wyatt, 2001.” He’s clean cut, all
smiles, and absolutely adorable. Next to it is a mug shot. It’s Dean, a little bit older and a little bit harder. His eyes are what get me—he looks broken.
Dean Wyatt, 19, son of Wyatt House Group Home for Boys CEO Joseph Wyatt, was arrested last night on charges of driving with a suspended license and felony drug possession. His wife, Stephanie Wyatt, 20, was also in the vehicle. She was taken into custody, but released a short time later.
Mr. Wyatt was stopped for traveling 50 mph in a 35 mph zone. A driver’s license check alerted the officer to the suspended license. While searching, the officer found a small, clear bag containing a white, crystal-like substance, determined to be methamphetamines, in the pocket of Mr. Wyatt’s jacket. A further search of the Wyatts’ apartment did not reveal any drug paraphernalia and it is not believed that there was any intent to distribute. Wyatt was charged with fifth-degree drug possession, a felony with a maximum penalty of five years in prison and a $10,000 fine.
My lungs burn; my vision blurs. I hadn’t even realized that I’d been holding my breath. I let it all out at once and close my eyes.
Dean went to jail on drug possession charges. That’s it? It’s horrible, but I was expecting something much worse, like grand theft auto or assault. Andy said he was in juvie. Maybe he got such a harsh sentence because he had a juvenile record. I mean, he wasn’t even out buying or selling. He was just in the car with his wife.
His wife.
Stephanie Wyatt.
Where the hell is she now? How long did he serve? Did she wait for him? I shouldn’t have looked. All I want to do is go to sleep and forget.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. I toss and turn all night, dreaming of showing up at Wyatt House and being met at the door by a gorgeous, tall, blond woman with long legs and big, perky breasts. She’s got a huge diamond on her finger and a smug smile on her lips.
“I’m Stephanie, Dean’s wife,” she greets.
“Kayla,” I respond.
“Oh, the social worker. Matty mentioned you.”
“Matty did?”
“Yeah, he’s such a great kid. We talked for hours. Actually, Dean and I were thinking about adopting him.” She motions for me to come in. It’s really weird. The house looks completely different and yet the same. I blink and we’re in a bedroom. She’s standing in a negligee, and Dean is behind her wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans. I can see his tattoos, but they’re not clear. Together, they look like the cover of a romance novel.
They completely ignore me as Dean grabs her neck and pulls her to him. They’re kissing—passionately. I’m uncomfortable. This is messed up. I turn to walk away, but the door is closed and locked. I can’t get out. I can hear them moaning behind me. I want out. I don’t want to see this. I hear slapping skin and groans and grunts. I shake the handle on the door a little bit harder.
“Kayla.” I hear Dean’s voice call out. I don’t look at him. I don’t want to see him with her. “Kayla.” I’m getting dizzy. “Kayla!”
My eyes snap open and I see Andy standing over me.
“What?” I groan.
“Jesus. That must have been some dream. I’ve been trying to wake you up for five minutes. It’s seven-thirty. I’m going to run Claire to school and head to work.”
I blink heavily a few times and clear my throat. “I’m getting up.”
I take my time getting ready, trying to forget my dream. I wish I hadn’t been so nosy. Now I have even more questions and an irrational jealousy toward a woman I’ve never met.
Chapter 12
Kayla
“Helloooo. Earth to Kayla?”
“Huh?”
“Where are you?”
I shake my head. “I’m here, I promise. God, it’s freaking cold out here. Hurry up so we can go back inside.”
Sara and I are standing outside a club we like to frequent. We’re huddled together under an outdoor heat lamp so Sara can smoke a cigarette. She’s not usually a smoker except when she’s been drinking. She hands me the cig and I take a long drag before handing it back to her. I’m not a smoker, either. I take a drink of whatever the hell is in my glass to wash away the nasty smoke taste.
Sara stubs out the butt and we head back in. “Where did Warren go?” she asks, lifting up onto her toes as if that’s actually going to help her. Even with the three-and-a-half-inch heels she’s sporting, she’s still only about five foot six at best.
“Do you see him?”
“No.”
“You’re not even looking,” she whines. I giggle and take another sip of my drink. I don’t need to look for Warren—he always finds me. Moments later, Sara is dragged onto the dance floor by some random guy. Okay, not really dragged—she goes willingly. He’s cute in an overgrown-frat-boy kind of way. I’ve dated my fair share of that kind of guy, but only because that’s who I was always around in my fancy private high school. Now I like them a little rougher around the edges.
I sway to the music all by myself, watching the bodies on the dance floor moving and grinding. It’s times like these that I wish I wasn’t going home alone. But I grew out of the screwing random strangers phase shortly after I graduated college, got a job, and was forced to become a grown up. Now I’m destined to watch as others hook up in front of me while I go home to the house I share with my brother, my empty bed, and my vibrating friend, Mr. Big. Just the thought of all those things in one sentence depresses me.
Strong arms slip around my waist and I tense for a moment, looking down. I recognize the hands—or rather, the large gold ring on the right one. I lean backward, feeling his lips against the skin just behind my ear.
“Ven a bailar conmigo.”
I don’t speak Spanish, but I understand enough to know what he’s asking. I turn in his arms and smile up at him.
“Let’s go, then.” Taking his hand in mine, I lead him into the mass of bodies. I love dancing with Warren. He makes me feel incredibly sexy. I think I dance better when his hands are on me. Depending on how much we’ve had to drink, his hands will occasionally roam. I don’t mind as long as he knows the boundaries.
Warren continues to whisper in my ear. I don’t know what he’s saying, but I’m pretty sure it’s dirty, whatever it is. I love it, because it makes me smile. He’s a good friend. Sara joins us a little later after dumping the random. Apparently, he got a little too worked up and, after dodging his tongue a dozen times, she gave up and ran away.
I stop drinking around one o’clock, and by two we leave the club. I share a cab with Sara because she lives in Edina, less than ten miles away from me. Warren lives in the other direction in Plymouth. For a guy with a multi-million-dollar trust fund, he lives modestly. His house is still way too big for one person and really nice, but it isn’t all decked out in expensive shit. He’s a bachelor; for him it’s about comfort. That’s one more thing I love about the man.
Luckily I’m not too hungover when I wake up in the morning. I’m thirsty and craving bacon, but that’s probably because I can smell it wafting through the house. I lie in bed until I can’t stand it anymore and finally drag myself down the stairs into the kitchen, where I find Andy slaving over the stove. He’s got bacon cooking on one burner and scrambled eggs on another.
“You look like shit!” he laughs. I grunt and flip him off before grabbing a piece of salty, fatty goodness off the plate on the counter and shoving it into my mouth.
“What’d you guys do last night?” I ask once I’ve swallowed.
“Well, your sister spent half the night on the internet and the other half texting. She wants to spend the night at a friend’s house tonight.”
I frown at Andy. “Richard doesn’t let her do that.”
“I know. Why not?”
I shrug. “‘Cause he’s an asshole. ‘Cause I was a lying little whore when I was her age. I don’t know.” I shove another piece of bacon in my mouth and then pour myself a cup of coffee.
“Don’t do that,” Andy scolds. “You know that’s not true.”
“Whatever. Where does she want to go?”
“Caitlynn’s, I think.”
“I don’t know a Caitlynn,” I admit. Not that I know all of Claire’s friends, but I tend to remember the ones she mentions. “I’ll talk to her and find out.” I sit down at the table, waiting for the caffeine to penetrate my alcohol-soaked system.
“How was your night?” Andy asks, turning off the stove and filling up two plates with eggs and more bacon before sitting down next to me.
“It was good. Sara was accosted again, but what’s new?”
“Is she okay?” he asks, concerned.
“Yeah, she’s fine. She dodged the guy and joined us. Warren and I made a Sara sandwich and the guy disappeared.” Andy sets his coffee down a little bit harder than necessary, spilling some of it on the table. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. It just pisses me off to know you guys can’t go anywhere without being harassed.”
“Nothing happened, Andy. She’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine.”
“Fine,” he mocks.
“So I’m guessing Claire’s still asleep?”
“Yep. She was on the computer all night, so who knows how late she’ll sleep.”
Andy and I talk for another hour before Claire wakes up.
“Are you going to let her go?” he asks me quietly as we watch her eat breakfast.
I shrug. “Do you think I should?”
“It’s up to you. Do you really want to risk it? She’ll be able to do whatever she wants in another year and half anyway.”
“No she won’t,” I answer, shaking my head. “She’ll go to whatever Ivy League school Richard picks out for her and be expected to get a perfect GPA so she can become a world-class lawyer or surgeon or whatever other profession he deems appropriate for his daughter.”
“Sounds like you’ve already made your decision.”
When I tell Claire that she can go to her sleepover, you’d think she just won the lottery. She jumps up and down and hugs me so tightly that I can’t breathe.