Tapped

by Liz Crowe

  He’d rebelled against her in every way he knew how, from smoking as a teenager and screwing of girls in the basement of their house to the moment he took off for the west coast and then Germany with her disapproval trailing after him like fog he couldn’t outrun. Which left his twin brother behind to manage the fallout—something he’d managed, at least for a while, until…well, that was something Austin didn’t want to ponder.

  Not now. Not on top of all this other drama.

  The urge to shock and still please his mother nestled together in his psyche like he and his twin brother had been inside her womb thirty-some years ago. But he knew the whole relationship with Valerie compromise with her had to end. The fact that Brock was likely never coming back to be the head of their family business was simply not Austin’s problem anymore.

  “I know, Dad. I always do.”

  His father put a hand on his shoulder. “Is there someone else?” His green eyes were searching. Austin decided to own up to it, even though he wondered if anything would ever come of the whole thing, especially after their disastrous second day together.

  “Yes. There is. She doesn’t know it yet, though.”

  His father’s booming laugh eased some of the tension that had curled in Austin’s gut at the thought of the next conversation he had to have, and the one after that, with the actual woman in question who was, no doubt, expecting that conversation to involve a large engagement ring.

  Jesus, what a fucking mess.

  At that moment, he missed his brother so intensely he had to stop on the way out of the front door and lean over, hands on his knees, gulping air in an attempt to dispel the urge to yell, or put his fist through the wall.

  His heart was still pounding by the time he climbed behind the wheel of his car. He’d bought the stupid thing a few weeks ago, ditching the gas-guzzling SUV he’d been driving for a couple of years. This one was way worse on the show-off scale, but damn him if he didn’t love the deep rumble of the German-engineered motor and the roar of the manual gearshift. He sat, windows down, willing his pulse to stop racing and reliving the moment two weeks ago when he’d known he was ass over teakettle in love with Evelyn Benedict.

  Surprisingly, his brain reacted by hauling out an even older memory—that of the last conversation he’d had with his twin brother.

  ‘Brock, dude, what the fuck are you doing? I thought you were clean.’

  ‘What I should have done years ago. I’m sick of this shit, sick of pretending to be something I’m not. Sick of them interfering. Sick of…trying to be something they want but not from me, from you.’

  The ghostly tendrils of this final encounter with his brother made Austin’s heart clench. But he’d give a million dollars to talk to the guy right now. To bounce all this off him, listen to his advice—anything, really.

  Even as he acknowledged it was likely a bad idea to go with an impulse, he grabbed his phone and typed out a quick text to Evelyn.

  Hey. Can we talk?

  It took all of thirty seconds to get his response.

  No.

  He smiled and composed a reply, relieved she hadn’t ignored him.

  Come on, I’m sorry. I mean, for whatever it was I did that pissed you off.

  He waited another sixty seconds.

  You know why I’m mad. Don’t be obtuse. It’s unattractive.

  Trying to keep things easygoing, he typed out,

  You’re the attractive one. Not me.

  Flattery gets you nowhere. Go on now, take your girlfriend out to lunch or something. I’m sure she has nothing better to do. I have to work.

  Austin winced but made himself respond.

  I told you. She won’t be my girlfriend after tonight.

  Well, if your ability to control yourself around other women is any indication, it’s probably a good thing for her.

  He could practically see her furiously typing out her responses on the phone. Could picture her biting her lower lip in angry concentration. He gripped the steering wheel, trying to come up with a decent response. But he couldn’t, so he threw the phone in the passenger seat and squealed out onto the street, heading to his parents’ house, and his date with a bout of maternal anger. The last step before he met Valerie herself. They had plans to attend some tuxedo-required fundraiser with his parents. He’d tried to convince her to skip it, but she’d insisted. Probably anticipating some sort of scene she could avoid by being dressed up and hanging on his arm.

  Austin ran a shaking hand through his hair and stared at the woman who clung to him like a barnacle—in spite of the fact that he’d started out the night by telling her their relationship was over. She’d merely smiled, patted his face and insisted they attend this obnoxious fundraiser together, anyway.

  If there was a hell, he was most certainly smack in the middle of it. Knocking back yet another of his brewery’s beers, he glanced around at the glittering crowd of rich assholes congratulating one another on being so rich by overbidding on lame-ass vacations and wine dinners for a charity he’d already forgotten.

  He pulled his arm out of Valerie’s clutches. The look she shot him would easily have floored a weaker man. But he kept his gaze flat and noncommittal. Only leaning in at the last minute. “I’m gonna find the bathroom, then I’ll be at the bar.”

  She sucked in a breath and he congratulated himself once again on how amazingly smart he was to do this now, before they went any further with the charade and made each other miserable until death did them part. Even after six beers, he felt stone-cold sober. Which was the exact opposite of how he wanted to feel.

  After getting abandoned in the parking lot up in Traverse City with Evelyn, he’d called a buddy from college who lived halfway between there and Grand Rapids. They guy had laughed his fool ass off at Austin all the way home. They’d gone out and gotten shit-faced after that, which had allowed Austin to force all memories of the amazing creature who’d fucked him, then left him high and dry two hours from home, out of his brain. At least until the crashing hangover had dissipated the next day and she’d filled his head again.

  And with her, came with the sorts of memories of his twin brother. Which made him irrationally furious at her for opening up his mind to such un-fixable crap. It was as if accepting how he felt about her had exposed him to an emotional fire-hose, a deluge of personal issues he’d thought were firmly locked away in the corner of his psyche labeled Brock.

  “Hey, Austin.” Some random tool in a monkey suit identical to his slapped him on the back. “Great job with the new place.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” He attempted to muster enthusiasm but couldn’t. He looked for an out but ended up talking to the guy for nearly an hour, feigning interest in his chatter. He got a lot of advice from people and usually he could let it roll off his shoulders, ignoring the bulk of it as people ignorant of running a business wanting to hear themselves talk. But this guy grated on his nerves like a fork on an empty plate.

  He drank another beer, waiting for the know-it-all to finish. But a feminine hand on his shoulder stopped him from rising to his feet and being insufferably rude. His foul mood had only deepened the longer he went without having some sort of resolution with Valerie. The sight of her well-manicured hand did nothing to dispel his frustration. He jerked out from under her palm and stomped away.

  As he emerged from the bathroom, a bit calmer after splashing water on his face and giving himself a lecture, his mother pounced. Clutching his arm, she led him over to a bank of plants and whispered in his ear, “You simply cannot do this to Valerie, Austin. It’s not right.”

  He glared at her. “Mother, it’s not your business. We had this discussion. Stay out of it.” He forced his natural urge to placate her while simultaneously rebelling under a thin layer of adult control. He took a breath. “I realize what you’re saying. But you said you’d let me handle it my way, remember?”

  She gave him the familiar, withering I’m-so-disappointed-in-you-son glare. He ignored her, took the phone from
his pocket, and pretended to take a call. She narrowed her eyes then moved away, her gait regal, revealing nothing of the trouble underneath.

  He had to get out of here before he imploded and made a scene. His discontent had rumbled around in his gut, kept him up late, and made him touchy and short with his staff. And he hated himself. Hated his inability to make Evelyn really listen to him and for being a weakling when it came to Valerie. Hated having ignored Ross all these past years. Hated his inability to help his brother when he’d been at such a low point.

  Well, at least one thing he would solve right the fuck now.

  He spotted Valerie across the lobby, her thin frame encased in designer black, her long hair swept up in an elegant pseudo-casual style. She was extraordinarily attractive—whip-thin and ethereal, compared to Evelyn’s less complex, open-book, raw beauty.

  Valerie had the pedigree. She’d no doubt take to the job of being Mrs. Austin Fitzgerald with all the gusto she put into her loud, over-the-top orgasms. But the thought of being married to her, having to be with her day in and day out, made him cringe. And it always had. Even if he never worked the damn thing out with Evelyn, at least she’d made him realize that. He gulped, knowing that ‘never working the damn thing out with Evelyn’ was simply not an option for him but unsure what to do about it.

  He walked over to her, pulled her away from the crowd of similarly skeletal women, and sat her down on a couch as far from the crowd as he could get.

  She lifted her chin. “You’re drunk.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “No, I’m pretty sober, considering.”

  She leaned back, crossed her long, well-exercised legs, flashing him a glimpse of tan thigh. Valerie was no lightweight and he knew damn good and well she’d not go without a fight. He steeled himself for it. “I’m sorry, Valerie. Like I said, I probably should have done this months ago. Please try not to take it personally.”

  She sipped from her glass of wine, then pinned him with another withering glare. “‘Personally’ is the only way one can take being dumped, Austin. So, spare me your lame apologies.” She put the glass on the table at her side.

  He started to speak, but she stood, glaring down at him. “I repeat, spare me.”

  She moved gracefully away into the crowd. Austin sat back, amazed but relieved with a sudden urge to get the hell away from here and back in front of Evelyn. To make her understand how he felt, to appreciate the importance of what he’d done. He stood, sudden purpose lightening his soul. Ignoring everyone who stared, he strode out of the front door of the Women’s Club and into the cold night.

  He’d stayed silent once before when faced with a loved one who’d needed his help. And that had netted him the sort of loss he honestly thought he’d never get over. This felt like a shot at redemption—a chance to act, to do the right thing—and change his life forever.

  Evelyn stared at the laptop screen, willing it to work faster so she could complete the day’s report and take a shower. She pressed her fingers into her eyes, trying to take it all back. The flirtation, the temptation, the…sex in the damn beer cooler, all of it.

  Austin Fitzgerald.

  His scent, the feel of his body she’d gotten so briefly, made her shudder. Granted, it had been a long while since her last physical encounter; maybe she’d overreacted.

  But he would not exit her brain. His essence had latched on to her psyche, giving it a nice shake, just enough to rattle her, make her pissed off at herself yet again. She glanced around her Spartan, tidy apartment.

  And the fact that he’d been a self-admitted man-whore while in Germany only served to ramp up her lust in some kind of perverse, logic-defying fantasy world where she, Evelyn, might get to be the one who changed him.

  Right. As if.

  Along with the rest of her generation who’d grown up in Grand Rapids, she knew of his family and their fortune made in the food-supply business. Austin was their golden boy, one of a pair of fraternal twin sons. The other son, Brock, she thought she remembered was his name, had been the quieter one, less in the public eye. He’d dropped out of sight a few years ago, but since he’d not been as visible or show-offy as his brother, no one had noticed much. It had been Austin who’d displayed just enough overt rebellion as a teenager and now with his brewing dream to remain cool and dripping with women.

  And apparently destined to be with a fellow silver-spoon child of Grand Rapids royalty.

  She paced, sipping one of her favorite beers. When she glanced at the label—Fitzgerald 420 IPA—she heaved the bottle across the room with a loud curse, smiling when it shattered against the wall, making a lovely liquid amber mess of glass down her wall.

  A loud rap sounded at her door. “Hey, you okay in there?” When she peered through the grimy peephole, she had to stifle a groan of consternation.

  Austin.

  He was holding bags, more beer, and was dressed in—she squinted—a tuxedo. She turned away, leaned on the hard, wooden surface, and took a deep breath. Arranging her face into what felt like a neutral yet slightly annoyed look, she opened the door and stood, arms crossed.

  “You again?” She wanted to protest, but the time she’d spent alone, pondering him, had worn her down.

  He grinned, making her scalp tingle. “Sounds like you just brained a guy with a beer bottle in here. Need help burying the body? I’ll get a shovel.”

  She shrugged and stood back, ignoring the way every cell and molecule of her being wanted to wrap itself around his long, lanky form. “Well, come on in. But I’ll warn you I am in a shitty mood. I’ve had the most aggravating ride-along work days lately.”

  She stared, amazed at her own increasing capacity for stupidity as he stepped into her small kitchenette and set everything on the counter. Without a word, he stuck the six-pack in the fridge and pulled containers of delicious-smelling Indian food from a greasy bag.

  She remained leaning against the front door, observing his busyness in her space, trying to calm her pounding heart. After he found forks and brought the food to the table in front of her couch, he popped the lids off two more Fitzgerald IPAs and smiled at her.

  “Madam, we feast.”

  She grinned back, unable to resist. Then made herself find paper towels and her Dustbuster, so she could clean up the mess she’d made.

  “I love a girl with a healthy temper.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re trying to get into my pants again, sweet talker.” She stayed bent to the task, trying to ignore him, berating herself for letting him in the door.

  He slipped out of his jacket, draping it on one of her mismatched kitchen chairs. Finally, they stood, staring at each other long enough for it to feel awkward. “Why are you here?” She tried to sound strong, but it came out a weak whisper. “I’m not interested, remember? I’m the girl who left you without a ride in Traverse?”

  He chuckled, running a hand across his jaw. She immediately picked up on the fatigue in his stance, his red-rimmed, tired eyes. She held on to the back of a chair to keep from closing the distance between them and gathering him in her arms.

  The last week had been a sheer hell of remorse and emptiness. She’d missed him, amazingly enough, and not just his lips and hands, although those would be welcomed.

  No, she missed his voice, his humor, his beer knowledge, his presence. It had soothed her in ways she’d not been willing to acknowledge until this minute as he stood, looking at her, misery etched in every line of his face.

  “I broke up with her. I was going to, anyway. I promise. It was just…” He shrugged and stuck his hands into his trouser pockets, then slumped back against the wall. “A badly timed call from her, before I could erase that stupid picture and name in my contacts.” He held out both hands to her. “I’m here because I wanted to see you. Why do you find that so hard to believe? I mean, you’re a beautiful woman. I won’t deny wanting a repeat of our cooler moment, slower, easier, and without the risk of someone walking in on us. But I’m here to see you, to talk. If you�
�ll let me.”

  She frowned, trying to process this, still keeping her distance. “Okay, Fitzgerald. We can talk, but that’s it. You are not allowed to get close enough to touch me.”

  He nodded and sat, offering her one of the beers. She took it, steeling herself against the whiff of his cologne that caught her off guard. She lowered herself into a chair, right as the brew went down the wrong way, making her cough and sputter and flail around like Kermit the frog.

  He got up, smacking her back with a little too much enthusiasm. “Ow,” she muttered. He kept his palm against her for a second longer than was necessary, removing it only when she glared at him. But her heart had resumed its now familiar Austin-proximity rhythm and she knew she would be a goner if he remained in her personal space much longer. “Go sit,” she insisted, trying to keep her face neutral.

  But he stayed put, finally kneeling next to her and catching a lock of her hair that had come loose from the utilitarian tie-back. Her skin pebbled, but she kept her eyes down, watching as he rubbed the strand between his fingers before tucking it behind her ear.

  Trying not to bite her lip like a little kid, she chanced a peek at him and was shocked at the raw emotion on his too-handsome face. “Don’t,” she croaked out in what she intended to be a strong command that ended in a weird squeak.

  He ran a rough fingertip down her cheek, along her jaw and neck, resting briefly along her exposed collarbone. She shut her eyes, but her body betrayed her by responding, as if on a weird sort of lusty autopilot. When his lips touched where his finger had been, she meant to push him away, but apparently, her hands had a mind of their own.

  He leaned in, cupping her face with one hand, kissing his way along her shoulder and back up her neck as she threaded her fingers in his hair. Berating herself so loudly in her mind she was surprised he didn’t hear it, she let him part her thighs and settle between her legs, run his hands down her arms and around her waist then back up again. The heat spread south and she gasped as he put a palm against the curve of her bra-less breast, arching into him as if attached to a live wire.