Lost In Between: Finding Me Duet #1

by K. L. Kreig

  She was a fucking hot mess, but strangely, she was a hot mess I wanted to dive into headfirst, asking questions later. Much, much later, after I’d fucked her completely boneless. I haven’t had that kind of intense, primitive reaction to a woman in a very, very long time.

  Head in the game, Shaw.

  Telling my dick to deflate before my mother notices my semi, I ask, “Birthday girl?” while striding through the entryway into the spacious kitchen lined with windows that afford the most exquisite view of Lake Washington I’ve yet to find. Yanking open the fridge, I pull out a beer before turning back to my mother.

  She doesn’t have to say a word. I can tell by the crestfallen look on her face that Annabelle is not only not here, she hasn’t called either. It’s now seven twenty. Damn her to hell.

  “Where’s everyone else?” I cross the kitchen and tug her into my arms. She wraps her thin limbs around me, and I whisper, “She may still show.”

  I hear my five-year-old niece’s high musical laugh echoing from somewhere outside, although it’s dark. God, I love her. She could get me to do anything she wants with a simple bat of the most incredible lashes I’ve ever seen on a human being.

  “Cora wanted to catch some crappie, so Grandpa let her drop a line off the dock.”

  Cora is obsessed with fish, just like I used to be at her age.

  “Ah. Nicholas with them?”

  “And let his baby sister show him up?” She steps out of my hold before adding, “Gemma is out with your father, and Evan is watching Bear in the Big Blue House with Eli. He’s got a bit of a cold and is cranky.”

  My antisocial brother-in-law, Evan, will use any excuse to get away from family time. Now if there happened to be a beautiful woman wrapped around my waist it would be a different story. I have no idea what my sister sees in that cheating loser, but I think her patience is wearing a little thin. Finally.

  My gaze falls to the lake just feet away from my parents’ incredible state-of-the-art home. I see several shadows against the darkening horizon at the end of the dock. My father is kneeling, talking to Cora, and Gemma looks to be helping Nicholas reel in his line.

  I grew up here, in this house, on the water. Mercer Island. This haven in the middle of Lake Washington was named after my descendants, who founded it. I love it. I love everything about it. The tranquility, the view, the smell, the memories. It feels right every time I’m here.

  “And Linc? Where’s he?” When I spoke with my younger brother the other day, he said he would be here “with bells on.” I wouldn’t doubt it was literal.

  “One of his sous chefs called in sick, and they have three events scheduled tonight so he had to pinch hit.” She sounds as disappointed as I am.

  My brother is the executive director and chef at Seattle’s premier cooking school. Like me, he’s married to his career, and because our schedules rarely mesh, we don’t get to spend a lot of time together.

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  “You know all that does is upset her. She’ll think I’m checking up on her, accuse me of all sorts of things that aren’t true.”

  “Then I’ll call her.” I whip out my phone to give Annabelle a fucking earful when my mother places a firm hand on my arm.

  “Don’t. It’s fine.”

  “No. No, it’s not fine.” My voice elevates with each word I speak. “She’s an inconsiderate, spoiled brat.”

  I look around the kitchen and realize that my mother not only made homemade cannoli, she also made her famous spaghetti sauce with veal meatballs, a timeless recipe passed down from generation to generation. It takes all day for the spices to blend just right. Whenever my mother makes this dish, she starts early in the morning and watches it like a newborn infant, tweaking this or that until she’s satisfied it’s just right.

  “Shaw, please. I don’t want to upset her.”

  “Upset her?” I yell. “What about you? I knew you would do this. I knew you would slave all day and just brush it aside when she doesn’t show. Why do you let her get away with this shit, Mom?”

  “What’s going on in here?” my father’s deep voice booms. He’s insanely protective of my mother, which is another thing I don’t understand. He’ll jump my ass for raising my voice to my mother yet not say a word to Annabelle for upsetting her and being a no-show at her own goddamn party. It’s infuriating. It’s been the source of many arguments between us.

  My mother’s hands find my father’s. “Nothing, Preston. Let’s just sit down for dinner, okay?”

  Preston Mercer lets his gaze fall between me and the love of his life, no doubt deciding if he should push the issue or not, but it’s all decided when a little voice screams, “Unca Shaw!”

  Looking in the direction of the earsplitting noise, I see Cora slide to a halt in front of me with a dark, writhing thing clutched tightly between her two tiny hands.

  “I caught a fish!”

  Beaming from ear to ear, she holds her prize proudly above her head. I squat down to take a closer look.

  “Wow, Coraboo. You’re probably going to be the most famous fisherwoman who ever lived, you know that?”

  “You think?” she asks with the kind of excitement only five-year-olds have.

  “I know.”

  “Look at his pretty eyes. They look like yours,” she says with awe.

  She’s comparing me to an aquatic animal? When she shoves her catch in my face for me to inspect, I stumble backward, falling on my ass, and she loses her hold on the creature desperately trying to wriggle back into its life-saving habitat.

  The whole room erupts into laughter and chaos as Cora and her seven-year-old brother try unsuccessfully to wrangle the fish, which is flopping all over the stone floor, closer to taking its last breath with every second that passes. Finally, my father reaches down and easily scoops it up.

  “How about we put this one back in the lake, boo?” he asks Cora.

  “Why?” she whines, bottom lip now quivering. “I wanna keep him. He’s my pet.”

  “We are keeping him, boo. You want your pet to be safe, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he has to go back in the water. We’ll keep him here in my special lake so we can see him again next time you come.”

  “Oh.” She thinks hard on that. “Okay. But can I name him?”

  “Sure, sweetie.” They head back out to the water, Nicholas on their heels. They immediately begin arguing about what to call a fish they’ll never see again.

  “It amazes me every time,” my sister Gemma says with a little chuckle when she extends her hand to help me up. I refuse it, jumping easily to my feet.

  “What does?” I look down, frowning at the dark wet spot now on my thigh, probably from the fish. This suit is headed to the cleaners.

  “That you can fall so head over heels for a little girl, but no woman can catch your eye.”

  “Fuck, don’t start on me already, Gem,” I grumble before tipping my bottle and swallowing the last of my now warm beer. I unpocket my cell to be sure I haven’t missed a text from Noah, which is ridiculous because I know the fundraiser hasn’t started yet.

  Jesus, it could be a very long night.

  “Gemma, why don’t you grab some glasses and, Shaw, please uncork the two bottles of wine chilling in the fridge,” my mother suggests, seemingly rescuing me. It’s not my first rodeo, though. I know it’s only a brief reprieve before she has me captive at the dinner table and can start in on me herself.

  On the sly, I send Annabelle a quick text asking her where the fuck she is but receive no reply.

  Fifteen minutes later, everyone is in their respective spots. Grace has been said, an absolute requirement at the Mercer household, and the meal is being passed when we hear a loud commotion at the front door.

  Gem and I exchange looks, both of us wondering which Annabelle is about to walk into the room. Erratic and combative or good-natured and appreciative. She plays both hands very well.

  Just before
I see her, I hear voices—voices, plural. My gaze floats first to my mother, then to the one empty place setting.

  “Did you know she was bringing someone?”

  She shrugs and rises from the table just as my little sister rounds the corner.

  It’s only been a few weeks since I’ve seen Annabelle, but her razor-straight hair has been colored again, this time to jet black. It looks like the dead of night and contrasts sharply with her fair, pale skin and brilliant blue eyes. She’s also changed her style, adding severe bangs and a few layers in her long locks. Painted-on black, high-waisted jeans and a black cut-off sleeveless tee that says “If Monday Had A Face I Would Punch It” hug her slim frame. Simple black Chucks round out her outfit.

  She has enough money through her partial trust fund to shop Gucci, Burberry, and Oscar de la Renta, but she looks like she just came from a cheap department store instead.

  As inappropriate as her outfit is for a family dinner, especially a Mercer family dinner, what’s worse is the uninvited tiny female she’s practically dragging behind her. This little girl is the epitome of clueless.

  Short, stark blond hair. Wary hazel eyes. A slight blush on her tanned cheeks.

  But it’s what she’s wearing that’s put a hush on the entire room. If she coughs, her generous breasts will shoot out of the deep purple corset cinched around her trim waist, more appropriate for the bedroom than the dining room. A two-inch long skirt showcases her toned legs but barely covers her butt cheeks. High-heeled short boots elevate her short frame by several inches.

  She looks like a slutted-up version of Miley Cyrus. Oh, wait…bad comparison.

  I hear Gemma, who is sitting next to me, pretend to cough as she covers up a laugh. My eyes flit across the table to Evan, her husband, only to find his tongue practically wagging and his wide eyes bugging out of his head like a cartoon character. When my gaze lands on my father, his face is beet red. His jaw is ticking furiously. He. Is. Fuming.

  “Sorry we’re late. Pile up on the 90.” Bullshit. I just drove the 90. She kisses my mom and turns with a flourish to the room. “Everyone this is Trixie.” Trixie? Really? Reeeeally? “Trix,” she continues, going around the table pointing at each person as she ticks them off until she gets to me. “And this is my very single, very successful, and smokin’ hot brother, Shaw.”

  Huh? She used no descriptors for anyone else. A bad feeling swarms me.

  Annabelle hops over to give me a hug, or that’s what it seems like until she tugs my dress shirt from my pants and up my torso.

  “What the hell?” I slap her hands away and haphazardly tuck it back in. “What are you doing, Bluebelle?” I try to catch her eyes to see if they’re bloodshot or dilated. She’s acting like a fucking lunatic.

  “What? I just wanted to show Trix your cool 3-D tattoo. Trix was thinking of getting a tattoo, and I was explaining it to her. She wanted to see it.”

  “Annabelle Marie,” my father warns on a low growl.

  “Sorry, Daddy,” she replies contritely. Another move she has down pat. “Hey Gemamma, would you mind moving so Trix can sit next to Shaw?”

  Christ.

  Help me.

  This time Gemma doesn’t hold it in. She laughs loudly as she scoots her chair back and picks up her plate, all the while shaking her head.

  “Oh no, that’s okay—” Trixie tries to protest but Annabelle cuts her off. This poor girl has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.

  “It’s fine. She doesn’t mind. Besides, it’s my day, so I get what I want.”

  “Terror,” I mumble underneath my breath.

  “What, Shaw?” Annabelle asks sweetly. She knows exactly what I said.

  “Nothing, Bluebelle,” I reply just as sugary, but my glare says it all. When I get two seconds alone with her I’m going to rip her a new one, and she knows it.

  A couple minutes later, an extra chair is brought in and I’m seated next to a girl who can’t be more than twelve but is trying to act twenty-five.

  “I’ll get a place setting for you dear,” my mother tells Trixie, who is watching this whole thing unfold like an unexpected circus act. She’s uncomfortable. At least there’s that.

  “Oh no, Mother. I’ll get it.” Annabelle jumps up. “Trixie’s a vegetarian.” Her eyes drop to the veal meatballs. “So, I’ll just get her something she can eat, if you don’t mind.”

  I’m going to fucking kill her.

  “I’ll help,” I announce, throwing my napkin on my plate.

  I exchange a look with my father, who silently begs me to get this train wreck under control. I seem to be the only one who has any influence on Annabelle whatsoever. My silent response is that I’ll do my best. It just never seems to be enough where she’s concerned.

  “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, Bluebelle?” I hiss lowly once I get into the kitchen, trying not to be overheard.

  She opens several cupboards, pulling together an extra place setting for her uninvited guest. My mom would never turn a soul away. Hell, she nurses injured, bug-infested birds back to health, but had my younger sister pulled this shit at my house, both she and her “friend” would be thrown out on their asses. I love my little sister to pieces, but she’s the most disrespectful little brat I’ve ever come across.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Shawshank.”

  I shake my head at the ridiculous nickname my baby sister tagged me with. From the age of thirteen to sixteen, Annabelle obsessively watched The Shawshank Redemption like she was plotting a future prison break or something and needed a blueprint. It’s not really stretching the truth because sixteen is when all hell cut loose with her, and she has spent a night—or several—in jail.

  “You’re practically undressing me in front of your jailbait pixie fairy for fuck’s sake. What is she? Sixteen?”

  Annabelle yanks open the refrigerator and fills her arms with hummus, cheese, and already-diced vegetables. God forbid her “guest” would eat what my mother worked all day slaving over.

  “No, dumbass. And her name is Trixie.” She emphasizes her preposterous name again. As if anyone could forget. Gemma walks in right at the moment Annabelle announces in a tone that implies Trix and I are perfect goddamn soul mates. “She’s nineteen, and she’s your perfect match.”

  “Nineteen?” Both Gemma and I cry in unison. Christ, I could practically be her father. The thought makes me shudder.

  “Oh my God, Shaw. Do you always have to be so melodramatic? She’s beautiful, has a big rack, and I heard she was your type. It’s a gift, really. You should be thanking me with like a new car or a European vacation or something, not bitching me out. Jesus, you ungrateful snob.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to rein in my temper before I take her over my knee and beat her bratty ass until it blisters. A good spanking would do her wonders. Maybe if my parents had laid a hand on her when she was little, she wouldn’t be such an obnoxious snot today.

  “And what type would that be exactly?” I ask on an exaggerated exhale. I cannot wait to hear this.

  “She’s into threesomes.”

  My jaw drops open in silent horror at the same time Gemma gasps and covers her mouth with the back of her hand to either suppress a smile or a curse; it could go either way. “For the love of Mary, Bluebelle, we’re supposed to be finding him a wife, not a whore. God knows he doesn’t need any more of those.”

  “Hey,” I protest, visually hurling blades at Gemma while Sister Christian over there shrugs nonchalantly like Gemma didn’t just insult her friend. “I thought you were on my side here?”

  “I am on your side. You need a wife, not another plaything to break.”

  “I don’t want a goddamn wife!” I shout, incensed at both references. And I don’t break women unless that’s what they’re into. “How many times and how many ways do I have to say the same damn thing before you get it through your thick skull? And you”—I turn my ire toward my free-spirited little sister—“butt o
ut of my sex life. If I so much as catch a whiff of perfume I don’t recognize or hear a high-pitched, unfamiliar laugh when I step foot in this house again, I’m banning every single female family member from my life for a year.”

  “You don’t mean that,” I hear my mother say softly behind me.

  “And that goes for you, too!” I whip around and pin her with my angry glare. My mother may not have had a hand in this little charade tonight, but she’s been the instigator many times before and I’ve pleasantly, respectfully kept my mouth shut.

  Well, I’m done.

  Enough is fucking enough.

  “Don’t talk to your mother like that,” my father says in a low voice.

  My hands slap against my thighs after I throw them unceremoniously in the air. “Dad, with all due respect, this isn’t any of your business.”

  “How you speak to your mother is absolutely my business, Shaw. I don’t care how many years out of diapers you get or how many zeros you have in your bank account, you will treat your mother with the respect she’s earned. Understand me?”

  I clench my jaw and breathe deep before pulling my mom in for a hug and whispering an apology in her ear. She hugs me tightly so I know I’m forgiven.

  When I release her and look around, I see my entire family, minus the kids, standing in the kitchen. “Say, if everyone is in here, who’s with Pixie in there?” Gemma’s two-timing husband, that’s who. He probably already has the kids in front of the tube and his dick out waiting to be sucked. Gemma’s face turns stony right before she hurries out of the kitchen. It’s as if she’s read my mind.

  “Come on, let’s eat.”

  “Just a minute, Adelle. I need a moment with Shaw. Go ahead and start. We’ll catch up.” He kisses her lightly before they exchange a knowing glance, one that says I’m going to get hit with something I won’t like. And my mother is in on it.

  Apology rescinded.

  Everyone files out, leaving my father and me alone. My gut churns at the serious look on his face.

  “I need your help, son.”