by K. L. Kreig
That settles her. For the next half hour, I sit in the grocery store parking lot watching people come and go with both my engine and tears running, listening to my mother tell me about a day I know she clearly remembers but happened sixteen years ago. I clearly remember it too because shortly after that everything changed.
The human mind is a complex thing. A three-pound gelatinous piece of gray matter filled with thousands of fragile, twisted nerves, veins, and arteries, each unique quadrant responsible for its own distinct functions. I’ve spent countless hours reading up on the human brain and how it works. Only with everything I’ve learned, I know nothing at all. I still don’t know how to help the person I love who is stuck inside herself and can’t find her way out.
“I was going to make some apple pie tonight for the girls when they get back from the store with Charles, but now I can’t because…because…I can’t…what was I saying?” she trails off.
I easily envision the confusion on her aging face. It crushes me.
“Momma, Millie’s going to give you some medicine. You need to take it. Okay?”
“But I don’t trust her. She’s trying to poison me. Get rid of me so she can have your father.”
I choke on a sob.
“She’s not poisoning you. Trust me. Would I let her hurt you?”
“No, Violet. You would never let anyone hurt your momma.”
Pain, barbed and quick, cleaves my heart. God, this disease is insanely hateful. Not only to the patient but to their families.
“Then do as Millie asks. Please, Momma. For me. I love you.” My voice is soft, coaxing, almost destroyed.
“For you, Vi Bear. I love you, too.”
Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.
The chime of the doorbell in the middle of the night.
Muted voices followed by my mother’s piercing screams.
The sick, knowing feeling that came over me when I stepped out of my bedroom and saw Violet’s door open, comforter unwrinkled, still tucked in neatly at the edges.
“Thank you,” I croak brokenly, blinking away the moisture gathering in my eyes. Most of the time I don’t let these conversations get to me because I understand my mother can’t help it, but damn. Today it’s hitting me square in the solar plexus for some reason.
More clanking, then Millie is back on the line. “Thanks, Willow,” she says softly. We’re both silent for a few heartbeats. I count mine beating out of my chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. So am I.”
“Umm…”
My stomach sinks. “What is it, Millie? You can tell me.”
“I’m sorry, but the water heater is acting up again.”
“Christ,” I mutter angrily. That’s another few hundred dollars I’ll have to come up with. Guess I know where tonight’s paycheck is going. “I’ll call the repairman. Weren’t they just out a few months ago?”
“It’s hard to find good help sometimes.”
It is, which is why I’m so grateful for Millie.
“I’m glad I have you. I’m glad Momma has you, Millie. I’m sorry if I don’t tell you that enough. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“No thanks necessary, Willow. You know how much I love you and your mother like my own.” Thank God for that.
“I’ll see you Sunday?” I whisper.
“Sure thing, sweetie. Have a good night.”
“Thanks.” I push end, drop the phone into my lap, and sit stock-still, trying not to let the guilt that weighs a metric ton sink me. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself it’s not my fault—I have a hard time believing it. I should have known. Why didn’t I know? I could have done something, couldn’t I? I should have done something. I missed the signs. How could I miss the signs?
A quick ping breaks the silence, saving me from a slew of pointless questions I’ll never have answers to. I pick up my phone and laugh a watery laugh.
Ser: I’m starving.
My fingers fly over the keyboard.
Me: Oh, so now eggs for supper sounds good?
Three bubbles pop up, followed by a quick reply.
Ser: Bitch, hurry up.
My friend is uncanny. It’s almost like she knew I’d slipped back in time and she needed to save me from the guilt I let ride me like a merciless bitch if I’m not careful.
I should have known. I could have done something. How could I miss the signs? They’re irrational, these thoughts. As an adult, I understand this. I do. Yet my fingers have fossilized around an illogical ideal that I could have somehow prevented the destruction of our entire family.
Taking a few deep breaths, I mentally box up all the shit of the last half hour. Shit that’s futile to dwell on. My mother needs me. I’m all she has left. I can’t let her down. She’s my focus now.
Remembering that and the fact I’m running late, I dry my eyes the best I can and shove my car in reverse. Easing from the parking lot, I turn on the radio and hum mindlessly to a new country tune that I don’t even care for, trying to get my mind right for tonight.
I’m stopped at a red light just blocks from home when a force from behind slams me forward, causing my seatbelt to lock and my head to knock violently against the headrest.
“What the hell?” I gasp. It takes a few blurry seconds to register what happened.
Son of a bitch. I was just rear-ended.
Could this day possibly get worse?
A glance in my rearview mirror shows a man sitting in a sleek black SUV, unmoving. Throwing the gear into park, I open my door, step out, and walk around to the back of my little car to see what kind of damage this asshole just did. I look over to see he’s still sitting in his vehicle looking down at something, trying to act like nothing just happened, when pieces of my yellow plastic fender litter the ground.
My mouth falls open while my temper flares.
I walk over to his tinted window and pound on it hard, hoping it cracks. “Hey, asshole!” I yell. I do not have time for this. Or the patience. Or the money.
When the window finally rolls down, slowly, I’m about ready to let a string of expletives fly when they instantly stick in the back of my throat.
Staring at me, with dark aviators covering his eyes, is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.
Drop-dead-on-the-spot beautiful.
I would buy anything he’s selling.
Air. I would buy air.
I feel his eyes piercing into me as I take in his strong, square jaw, which is covered in what looks to be a five-o’clock shadow but I know is a carefully shaved masterpiece instead. His lips are plump, the bottom one a bit fuller. Shit, what I’d give to pinch that flesh between my teeth. Blacker-than-midnight hair is closely cropped on the sides but a bit longer on top, with that little flip thing in the front that I want to run my fingers through as he grazes between my legs. Rounding out the devilish package is what has to be a custom-tailored suit. The gray jacket molds perfectly to his broad, toned form. I just know the bright blue tie knotted around his neck would set off his eyes if I could see them.
Breathtaking. Breath stealing.
Why am I here again?
I know my mouth is hanging open when he says, “Can I help you?”
Holy hell. His commanding baritone voice matches his sinful looks. It feels like melted chocolate if you ran it through your fingers. Soft, silky, and oh so dirty.
Pull yourself together, Willow. Your car is lying in pieces.
“Can you help me?” I spit, my fury rising again. “Can you help me? Are you kidding? Yes, you can help me. You just hit my car!” My finger stabs the misty air in the direction where my parked Fiat now sits idle while traffic slowly weaves around us.
The phone he’s holding in his hand chimes, and he looks down.
He.
Looks.
Down.
“I hit you? I could have sworn that you hit me,” he says absently as his lithe, perfectly manicured fingertips caress the keypad like a lover.
I’m dumbfounded. Struck mute. I look around to see if maybe there are hidden cameras around and I’m being punked. Sierra is infamous for shit like this. Deciding that I’m not and he’s just a pompous bastard, albeit a stunning one, I take matters into my own hands.
“Are you on drugs?” I go to reach for his glasses to check for dilated pupils when his hand comes up lightning fast, latching onto my wrist.
I audibly gasp at the feeling of tiny electric pulses shooting through me from the place he touches my bare skin. I feel him everywhere, like thousands of fingers ghosting over me, in me. It’s the most strangely erotic thing I’ve ever experienced and very disconcerting that this stranger has the ability to awaken things in me I thought long dead.
If he feels a tenth of what I do, he doesn’t let on. Yet he must not, because his face is still glued to the screen in his other hand. Yanking my wrist from his grip, the unwelcome feeling dissipates. My brain function restarts.
“I want your insurance card,” I bite.
“Are you still here?”
I suck in an angry breath. “You have some nerve, you know that? You rear-end an innocent person sitting at a red light and try to blame it on them? I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I’m not leaving until I get your insurance information. You damaged my car, and you’re going to pay for it. I could be injured you know.”
I grab my neck, rolling it around on my shoulders for effect. I’m not, but everyone knows the strain of whiplash happens days later.
Now he looks up through the front windshield, still ignoring the fact that I’m standing here. He lounges nonchalantly in his car as if it’s such an everyday occurrence for him to smash into someone else that he doesn’t even react anymore.
“How do I know it wasn’t like that before you backed into me?”
“Whaaaat?” I choke in utter disbelief. “I backed into you? What the hell do you think I did? Threw her into reverse when I saw you pull up?”
He shrugs, finally turning my way. I’m disgusted with myself for the way I’m enthralled with his lips even as they spill patronizing words. “People do strange shit all the time when they see a nice car, sweetheart. Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to take advantage of me like that.”
I blink. I blink again. I keep blinking, not sure how I’m supposed to respond to this unfounded accusation. Do people really do that?
“Yes, my naive little Goldilocks, people do really do that.”
I huff, furious that not only did I use my outside voice, but that the name he called me, which was laced with ridicule, went straight to the apex of my thighs, making my sex clench. It’s now throbbing with unwanted desire for this despicable person.
I’m disgusted with not only him but my reaction to him.
Heading to the front of his car, I pick up several pieces of broken parts from the concrete, walk back, and, sticking my hand inside his open window, dump them unceremoniously into his Armani-clad lap. If I’m lucky, one will tear a hole in his eight-hundred-dollar slacks.
I turn my palm up, saying evenly, “Your insurance card. Now.”
His phone chimes again, but this time he doesn’t drop his gaze. It remains on me. At least I think it does because I can’t see a damn thing behind the reflective glass shrouding his mysterious eyes. I watch myself watch him and for the first time realize how I look.
I’m horrified.
My face is red and splotchy, both from working out and from my mental breakdown only minutes ago. Mascara is not only caked underneath my bloodshot eyes, it’s streaked down the right side of my cheek. My golden, sweaty hair is pasted to my forehead, and what’s not flattened to my scalp is sticking straight out of my ponytail like my finger was just pulled from a socket in the nick of time.
But what’s most horrifying is that my dark nipples are poking straight through my tiny light yellow and very wet sports bra. They’re so big you could probably see them from outer space.
No wonder he thinks I’m a freaking loon trying to con him. I look the part.
When his pink tongue darts out and moistens his supple lips, my thighs quiver as I wonder what his wetness would feel like mingled with mine.
My God in heaven, I need to get the hell out of here before I do something stupid, like crawl through his window and rub myself all over his lap like a dog in heat. How is it possible to be so attracted to someone and hate him even more?
Shaking my hand back and forth, I arch a brow and remain silent. He chuckles lightly before reaching for his wallet, sitting in the middle console. I try to remain unaffected by that dark tone of his feathering down my spine. Removing a business card, he sets it in my upturned hand, careful not to touch me, which I’m secretly grateful for. Or not.
“I’m not looking for a date. I’m looking for payment.”
A smirk tilts the corner of his lush mouth. Although I can’t see his eyes, I know it reaches them. He’s enjoying this now. Smug looks impossibly sexy on him. Oy!
He nods to the crisp white stock with scarlet lettering now weighing heavy in my palm. “Call that number. It will be taken care of.”
“This had better be real,” I warn, drawing my hand back just enough to rest it on the doorjamb. I don’t let my eyes drop to the card even though they want to. Even though I’m dying to learn what name was gifted to such an exquisitely assholish creature.
When he leans toward me, I swear I can’t breathe. The oxygen in the force field now surrounding us is replaced with thick longing. Just mine, I’m sure. Bushy, manly brows rise above his glasses when he speaks. “I may not like it, but I always own up to my mistakes.”
“Yeah, well you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust you after you tried blaming your ‘mistakes’ on me.” I use air quotes to mock his word selection, hoping it distracts him from how breathless I sound.
Shaking my head, I walk away, but not before his laughter reaches my ears, making my nipples tingle. When I open my door, instead of getting in, I reach for my cell phone and walk back to where our cars are almost joined. Throwing a fake smile in his direction I open up my camera and snap a few pictures, both of my car and his, which hardly has any damage. But I’m not doing it for that purpose. I want his license plate in case this card turns out to be for one Cherry Pitt at the local strip joint instead.
Without a look back, I hop into my now wrecked Fiat and put it in drive. Luckily for me the light is green, so I hit the gas, trying my hardest not to look back.
I get all the way through the intersection before I give in to my urge to burn this handsome man’s features into my memory one last time. A reflexive grin breaks out when I look back to see him, sans glasses, smiling. He’s watching me with a full-blown, genuine smile that bathes his entire car in golden rays.
Sweet baby Jesus in a manger.
Suddenly I’m glad he had those glasses on earlier. I’m quite sure I would have fallen into him and gotten lost. Just before I peel my stare away, I swear our eyes connect. But then he fades from my vision when he turns left while I continue straight.
Taking a deep, full breath for the first time in fifteen minutes, I replay every second of what just happened for the next three blocks. It’s not until I pull into my parking spot that I peek at the now crumpled card still in my hand.
Dane Knowles
Wildemer & Company
206-555-3298
Huh. That’s it? I expected even his name to run tiny shivers of throbbing need through me. It doesn’t. He doesn’t look like a Dane. And isn’t it typical to add a fancy title to a business card to impress everyone you hand it to?
I test his name on my tongue.
Dane.
Nope. Nothing. Nada. No zing. No shivers. No mad desire to have his head between my legs.
In fact, now that I’m away from Dane’s intoxicating presence, I’m convinced I made up my entire reaction to him as an escape from real life, if only momentarily. There is no way someone I’ve just met can cause that type of visceral reaction in me.
I look at the dash and realize it’s almost seven. I will most certainly be late and Sierra won’t get fed. Refocusing on the evening ahead, I begin to get my game face on, stepping into a different persona. Put my Master of Fine Arts degree to work. I block Dane Knowles from my mind, compartmentalizing him like I do everything else. The only thing I’ll be getting out of that egotistical jackass is a brand-new bumper, nothing more.
Just as well. A guy who goes around hitting other people and tries to weasel his way out of it is not the kind I need in my life.
4
When I pulled into the driveway, I fully expected to see Lianna’s white Lexus waiting for me, signaling that my mother had, in fact, sabotaged me again. But it wasn’t. I breathed a small sigh of relief that I wouldn’t have to make small talk with a woman whose heart I know I crushed in order to please my mother.
Despite my intent to delete her voice mails from earlier, I had listened to them on the drive here and promptly texted Noah that he’d better not fail me tonight. Lianna is an independent, proud, well-cultured woman who comes from a good family, which is why I think my parents gravitated toward her. They wanted us to breed mini Liannas, move back to my family’s homestead, preferably next door, and live the life they want for me.
That’s not what I want, though. Now or ever. And I may not want to date Lianna anymore but I also never wanted to hurt her. The cultured, usually strong woman whose sobs echoed off the interior of my Range Rover sounded devastated. Broken. I feel guilty I didn’t break things off earlier so she didn’t have time to get so attached.
“You’re late,” my mother scolds when I step into the foyer.
“Unavoidable. My apologies.” I kiss her cheek and hope she drops it. I don’t feel like discussing the strange little mishap on the way here. Or why I’m still thinking of the demanding, disheveled little sprite that stood outside my SUV with nipples that could cut glass. Or why her fierce attitude caused a rock-hard erection that didn’t abate until halfway across Lake Washington.