by Selena Kitt
“Come on, he makes Charlie Sheen look like a hero from a Nicholas Sparks novel.” Her friend smiled, amused at her own analogy.
Tilly snorted. Frankie had the confidence, the smarts, and even the timing, to be a great stand-up comedian, Tilly thought, but not the interest.
“But he’d still be a better boyfriend than Dante,” Frankie said darkly, glaring at the door as if she could conjure her ex and his new girlfriend back up. They’d seen the two of them exiting as they came in, an encounter that had, for a moment, threatened to turn violent when Frankie saw the blonde on Dante’s arm.
Tilly had managed to somehow get Frankie into Starbucks without incident, and had even taken her mind off Dante’s betrayal with the story of how she got the bruise over her eye.
“Stahhhhp,” Tilly urged. It was her turn to put her hand on Frankie’s wrist. “Don’t even think about him. He’s not worth it.”
Frankie nodded, looking down, and then up at Tilly, smiling.
“Did I mention I love that get-up?” asked Frankie, eyeing Tilly’s simple t-shirt and yoga pants. “So much better than the froufrou stuff your mom buys you. Excellent choice. Don’t turn into Zsa Zsa. That’s the dark side.”
Tilly laughed. “It’s not that bad.”
“No, I’ll admit. Your mom has slightly better taste.”
Frankie loved advising Tilly on clothing and makeup, and admittedly, Tilly usually needed the help. Mostly what she lacked was confidence. Even wearing yoga pants had been a leap for her, because they clung and showed off every curve she had. And she had quite a few.
The two women were a study in contrasts, physically speaking. Tilly was fair-skinned, short, and a little on the busty side, with a face tending more toward impishness than beauty, while Frankie was more what might be called classic model material—tall, thin, olive skinned, facial bones reminiscent of a young Sophia Loren. The two women loved to tease each other with jokes about their respective ethnicities—Frankie would accuse Tilly of being the anal-retentive WASP, and Tilly, in turn, would comically patronize the excitability of Frankie’s “Mediterranean character.”
At the moment, however, Tilly drew no attention to ethnic comedy. Frankie’s rival, she who had taken the ex away, was herself the consummate WASP.
“So... I’m probably going to law school in the fall,” said Frankie, changing the subject with a flip of her long, dark hair, an action that drew Mr. Married Laptop’s attention again.
“Really? After all? Why?”
“I don’t know what else to do.” Frankie shrugged. “And you know my Dad. He wants me to follow in his footsteps. I don’t have a brother, even a step one, to inherit all his lawyerly knowledge.”
Tilly sighed. “My mother wants me to go to graduate school. But I’m tired of school. I should have gone into music like I wanted to.”
“But then we wouldn’t have been able to room together.” Frankie grinned and waggled her eyebrows. They’d roomed together for three years at Mount Holyoke. Sometimes Tilly thought, if Frankie had ended up at a different school, that her mother would have refused to let her go out of state to college in the first place.
All she’d heard from her mother, for months before deciding on Mount Holyoke—admittedly because Frankie wanted to go there—was, “What’s wrong with Yale?” Nothing, of course. She’d even been accepted. But for Liv, the important thing wasn’t the prestige, it was that Yale was within commuting distance of the house.
“So Yale then?”
Frankie nodded, making a face. It was her father’s alma mater, and likely the reason she’d chosen Mount Holyoke in the first place. Massachusetts was a day’s drive from Connecticut, but still, when parents wanted to visit, you had some warning. And Frankie had been big on doing exactly the opposite of what her father wanted her to, back then. She’d even dyed her hair red and gotten her nipples pierced. She’d always been kind of a rebel. It surprised Tilly that Frankie was caving in to law school, but she knew it was probably because her Dante-dreams of a Martha’s Vineyard wedding had been dashed. She’d probably change her mind again before summer was out. Frankie was great at changing her mind, a luxury Tilly didn’t usually have.
“You were such a hot little flute player in high school,” Frankie teased. “You should so go back to doing that. The flute, that is, not high school. Fuck high school.” They both laughed. “But you should go back to playing the flute.”
“Yeah, well, you know how my mother pushed me away from a music. She wanted me to be a teacher about as much as she wanted Beast to be a soldier.” Tilly shrugged, not meeting Frankie’s knowing gaze. Flute wasn’t the only thing Liv had steered her daughter away from. But she hadn’t been able to steer Beast at all.
At the mention of Tilly’s mother, there was a strange silence. Frankie finally broke it. “So... how...?”
Tilly shook her head. “Nothing new from last time I talked to you—after the exploratory surgery. You know my mother. Must keep up appearances. ‘Garrett women do not give up,’ and all that.”
Liv was technically a Beeston now—she’d taken her husband’s name, and Tilly had taken it too, when she was officially adopted by Conrad—but she had pure Garrett blue-blood flowing through her veins. Frankie nodded knowingly at this classic and oft repeated line of Liv’s. Usually, Tilly would deliver this line in a comically jaw-clenching way, in imitation of her mother. Frankie and Tilly would laugh at this, but not today.
“There’s the chemo, of course.” Tilly swallowed. Her mother had started wearing wigs, approximating her usual luxurious auburn mane with them. All real of course—human hair. “Appearances are getting harder to keep up.”
“Yeah.” Frankie blinked, looking up out the window. “Hey. Isn’t that your stepbeast?”
Tilly followed Frankie’s gaze, the sight of Tilly’s stepbrother making her middle clench involuntarily. The coffee in it felt like it was boiling in the heat of her belly at the sight of Beast striding toward them through the parking lot. He passed two teen girls, both overdressed for the strip mall, more like hookers than window shoppers with their high heels and over-applied smoky-eye, but he didn’t glance back at them. They, however, both turned to watch him, whispering and tittering behind their manicured hands. He was casually dressed—khakis and a black polo shirt—but Beast always looked like he could rip through any cloth that covered him just by flexing. And, Tilly thought, he probably actually could.
“Is he coming after you?” Frankie’s eyes widened as Beast reached the strip mall sidewalk, his dark hair so short Tilly could see the glint of his scalp in the sun.
“I fucking hope not.” Tilly sank low in her chair, hoping he didn’t see her. She had told her mother where she was going before she left, but Beast hadn’t been home then. Had Liv sent him after her? And if so, why?
Her first thought was something had happened to her mother. That filled her with a clawing panic, and she almost bolted out of her chair.
But Beast turned left when he hit the sidewalk, striding past their window, a man on a mission. He hadn’t seen them. He wasn’t there for her after all. Thank God, Tilly thought, but a hard little ball of regret bloomed in her belly, after her initial relief at knowing nothing was immediately wrong with her mother.
Had some part of her hoped he was coming for her, after all?
“Goddamn, Tills.” Frankie shaded her eyes and leaned forward to watch him walk away. “That man is so fine.”
“Oh, quit,” Tilly said, but she watched him yank open the door two stores down, his inked biceps rippling smoothly with the motion. Then he disappeared into the hardware store.
“You fucking know it’s true.” Frankie sighed, fanning herself as she sat back in her chair. “That man’s a panty-key if I ever saw one.”
“A... what?” Tilly canted her head. Then she got it, even before Frankie explained.
“You know.” Frankie pointed to her crotch and then mimicked turning a key. “I’d drop mine if he wanted me to.”
“He’s my brother, Frankie,” Tilly reminded her coldly.
“Stepbrother,” Frankie countered with a little shake of her dark head and a regretful sigh. “What’s he going into the hardware store for, ya think?”
“I dunno.” Tilly shrugged, but now she was wondering. He’d mentioned something about work today, but he hadn’t been forthcoming at breakfast about where he was going or what he was doing, in spite of Liv’s questions. He said something about getting his car out of storage before he had Liv’s chauffeur drive him somewhere. He’d obviously accomplished that mission.
“Is your toilet backed up or something?” Frankie snorted, reaching for her phone when it played the most annoying ringtone in the world—“watch me whip, watch me nae-nae”—and Tilly rolled her eyes at her friend’s choice of music. “Crap, it’s Marcello’s. I’m late. Are you coming?”
Frankie was already up, throwing her things back into her purse.
“You know I can’t do it.” Tilly shook her head in protest just at the thought. Going into Marcello’s was a guaranteed two-day migraine. “All those chemicals. Yuk.”
“You waiting here then?” Frankie hesitated, frowning.
“I’ve got a book—only about five hundred to choose from.” Tilly pulled her Kindle out of her purse. She’d made sure she fully charged it the night before. “Text me when you’re done and we’ll catch the movie.”
“Okay, I gotta run.” Frankie hurried out, waggling her fingers back at Tilly as she pulled open the door.
Tilly saw Mr. Married Laptop watching her friend leave, her long, tanned legs scissoring as she hurried along the sidewalk. Tilly opened her Kindle and started flipping through her library of books. That was one of the problems of having five-hundred choices available. Actually deciding on one.
She saw Frankie disappear into Marcello’s, all the way at the other end of the strip mall. But her stepbrother still hadn’t come out of the hardware store. Was he working there? She couldn’t fathom any reason Beast would take a job in a hardware store, but she would have once said the same about him enlisting in the Marines, so she was probably a poor judge.
Tilly was restless. She kicked the stool Frankie had vacated, flipping blindly past covers on her Kindle, not even seeing their titles. She had a good two hours to kill before Frankie was done with her cut, color and highlights, so she had to decide on something. But her body wouldn’t hold still. She fidgeted with her cup, turning it around and around, making wet circles on the napkin underneath.
Finally, she got up, seeing Mr. Married Laptop glance at her as she slung her purse over her shoulder. She left her half-full Starbuck’s cup on the table and went out into the sunshine, turning towards the hardware store. She intended to go in and see what her stepbrother was up to, but she nearly ran into Beast just as he was leaving.
He looked neither happy nor unhappy to see her. His eyes darkened a little, and he hesitated for the flicker of a second, but that was it. Then he just sidestepped her and headed toward his car. Tilly stood on the sidewalk, fuming, watching him striding purposefully across the lot. She knew she should just go back into Starbucks, tuck herself into a corner, and find a good book to read. But he hadn’t even said hello!
So she followed him. Like Alice after the white rabbit, it was like something she just couldn’t resist.
Even as she told herself not to, she practically ran to catch up, knowing she was doing nothing but playing the role of pesky kid sister. It wasn’t a role she wanted, but she went after him like a playful puppy anyway, peppering him questions.
“Watcha got in the bag, bruh?” she asked, forcing her own cheerfulness, dancing about him with her hands clasped behind her back.
“I’m late.” He tried to sidestep her again, but Tilly was too quick. She snatched the bag out of Beast’s hand and looked inside. He stopped in his tracks, sighing at her as if he was waiting patiently for the nonsense to end so he could carry on with whatever it was he was doing.
“What’s all this? Let’s see. Duct tape—that could be for just about anything. Zip ties. Going to arrest some people? How many AWOL soldiers do you expect to see around these parts anyway? Don’t the Marines give you handcuffs? Nylon rope... some kind of dog chain or something...”
“Tilly, quit,” he said, as they continued walking towards his car. “You don’t need to know what I’m doing. There’s somewhere I have to be and I don’t want to be late.”
He snatched the bag away from her. Tilly smirked, enjoying herself. If he was going to treat her like an annoying little sister, maybe she’d just play the part.
They reached his car—a red Mustang GT with black stripes. Tilly just loved this car. It suited Beast perfectly. The vanity plate read DVL 666.
He unlocked the door automatically, clearly thinking he was finally rid of her, but Tilly got in the passenger side, slumping impishly into the seat. Obviously exasperated, Beast threw the bag into the back.
“Get out.”
“Unh-unh.” She shook her head, ponytail flying. “Not until you tell me what you’re up to, mystery man, with all that stuff in the bag.”
Beast muttered something under his breath, hands gripping the steering wheel, then he cocked his head at her and forced a smile. “Fine. I’m the new star in a home improvement show. I don’t really know what all this stuff is for. I don’t write the script.”
“You’re kidding. Is that the best you can do?”
“Pretty much.” His knuckles were turning white on the steering wheel. “Now get out. I’m going to be late.”
“Is it that weird Canadian one?” she pondered aloud, enjoying the way the tops of his ears were starting to flush. He was really getting mad. “That Red Green show? He fixes everything with duct tape.”
“Yeah. That’s it. Now you need to go.”
Tilly’s imagination was running riot. “I know! You’re a serial killer. You’re doing the Dexter thing.”
“If you like, sure.” Beast jerked his head toward the door. “Now get out.”
“But you need garbage bags and plastic sheeting,” she mused, glancing into the back seat at the bag he’d carried out. “Lots of plastic sheeting. Can I be your Lumen? We could be a brother-sister tag team serial killer duo. Who will we kill first? We should go to the medical supplies store and get some latex gloves, too, and maybe a few scalpels...”
“Maybe some other time.” Beast gave her a slow, icy smile in spite of himself. “Now for the love of God, will you please get the fuck out of my car?”
Other possibilities occurred to Tilly. She was really curious now. Maybe he was going to rescue stray dogs? No, that wasn’t it. He wasn’t really into animals, not like Tilly was.
Maybe, just maybe, she thought with a sudden surge of delight, he was going to build her a secret dog house!
He knew she’d always desperately wanted a dog, and Liv would never let her have one. Maybe her mother had finally changed her mind? She wondered if her step brother had convinced her to do so. He always seemed to have so much more leverage with Liv, even though he never used it. It wasn’t fair. But if they were going to surprise her with a pet dog, she had best not mention this possibility, or they would think the surprise was spoiled.
Her own dog. What could be better? Still, it seemed pretty unlikely...
“Tilly, I’m not fucking around.” Beast reached over her for the door handle. “Get out.”
“What’s the big secret?” Tilly grabbed his forearm—it was like holding onto a tree branch—before he could reach the latch. “Just tell me. I won’t tell my mother.”
“It’s none of your business.” He looked down at where her hand gripped him, then his gaze shifted up to meet hers. His eyes were dark, and he was so close, she could see the stubble on his cheeks, so black it was almost blue. If he really was heading to work, it was somewhere very casual where they didn’t care if he had two days beard growth.
“Why?” The question even surprised her. “I’m your...”
But she didn’t follow that up with anything. She couldn’t. She swallowed the word, the thought, the fact, as hard as she could, seeing something flicker in his eyes, an expression that was there and gone in an instant.
“You’re in my goddamned car,” he growled, his big arm lunging forward, hand groping for the latch. He pushed the car door open, hard, and it squealed on its hinges, letting in a whoosh of cool summer air. She hadn’t realized how suffocating it was in the car until he did that. “Now get the fuck out.”
“Why?” she asked again and he sighed. She swallowed, feeling the tremble in her lower lip and biting down to stop it. “Why can’t you tell me? Why is it such a big secret?”
“Why is it so important to you?” he snapped. “I went into the hardware store and bought some stuff. Big deal. Now I’m late. And I’m getting later by the minute. So. Get. The. Fuck. Out.”