Travis lifted a brow and glanced at Clayton who was tearing into a bag.
“Yeah.” Travis shrugged. “Rough few days at work.”
What in the hell are they doing? Feeding you to the lions when you don’t crunch numbers fast enough?
A taut silence passed between them, as things Travis wouldn’t tell, and Trey wouldn’t ask, hummed in the air.
That silence was shattered by a shriek from Clayton.
“Cool!” Clayton yanked something out of the bag—it looked like a new video game. He flashed it at Trey and then tossed it down and ripped into the bag again.
Still staring at his brother, Trey moved the rest of the way down the stairs. If he let himself focus, he could catch the faintest edge, no matter how hard Travis tried to keep him out. Yeah, there it was . . . exhaustion, irritation . . . and a lingering pain. With a caustic smile, Trey asked, “So what are they making you do at work these days? Lay down on the road and let your clients drive trucks over you or what? That’s about the only thing I can think of that might make you look that run-down.”
“I’m fine.” Travis’s voice was short, almost brusque.
The hell you are. He glared at his twin and watched as Travis narrowed his eyes, glaring back. Then, because they didn’t have time for it now, he shrugged. “We can talk about it later, though. You in town long?”
“Yeah. I . . .” Travis cocked his head like he was searching for the words. “I’m on leave right now—I’m between jobs at the moment. Looks like I might be moving into a consulting capacity once I go back, or at least sometime in the very near future. But for now, I’m on leave. I’ve been . . . sick, had to take time off.”
Sick—instinctively, he went to step between Travis and Clayton even though a body wouldn’t stop germs.
Travis rolled his eyes. “Relax. I’m not contagious. Not like I’d come here if I was. I’m here more for the downtime anyway.”
“You didn’t get fired, did you?” Trey had to admit, considering how rough Travis had looked the past few months—hell, the past few years—it wouldn’t bother him at all if Travis ended up needing to look for another job. And bullshit that Travis had been sick—that wasn’t what had him looking like hell.
“No. I’ve got a job. I’m just taking some time off—we’ll re-evaluate in a few months.” Travis shrugged.
Was it him or did it seem that his twin’s mouth went tight at the movement? Like it hurt? Trey wasn’t sure.
“You’re staying here, then.” Trey didn’t ask.
Travis just grunted. “I was kinda looking forward to pizza and movies, but looks like you have plans.”
“Daddy has a date,” Clayton announced as he finished ripping the paper off a Nerf gun.
For the next breath, the only sound was the boy’s desperate, determined efforts to tear the packaging open. And then, Travis lifted his head, a wide, wicked grin on his face, one that chased away the exhaustion and the irritation. “A date . . . do tell, Daddy.”
“A date. In my case—and yours, it would involve social interaction with a female,” Trey said. “You’re familiar with the general idea, I think.”
“More familiar than you are, I’d say.” Travis bit his lower lip, held it there a moment as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Now why haven’t I heard anything about this? Last I heard, the only woman you were interested in, things didn’t exactly work out.”
Feeling the creep of red as it spread up his neck, Trey shrugged. “Not much to say, just yet. I asked her out a couple days ago, she said yes. We haven’t even gone out yet.”
“So this is a first date.”
Before Trey could respond, there was a knock at the door. Travis moved aside as Trey headed to the door. “It’s the babysitter.”
Travis grinned at his nephew. “A babysitter, kid? Is she pretty?”
Clayton went red. “She’s a girl!”
“Well, yeah. The best ones usually are. Is she pretty?”
Clayton darted a look at the door.
Trey hesitated a minute. “She’s saving for college.”
“Hey, I’m not babysitting. I’m on vacation, man.” Travis ruffled Clayton’s hair. “I want pizza, though. I’ll buy. Then I’m probably going to crash early.”
“But . . .” Clayton poked out his lip. “Movie? I thought you said a movie.”
“We’ll do that tomorrow when Dad can join us.” Travis bent down and whispered something to him.
Trey heard the word date and girl involved. It made Clayton giggle.
Shaking his head, Trey opened the door to let Annabeth Hawkins in.
One thing about having his brother crash like this . . . it had taken his mind off the panic. For a few minutes at least.
* * *
Ressa whipped off the dress and tossed it on the bed with its three predecessors. The black wiggle dress was a little too sexy. The red polka dot one was cute. That was the problem. It was too cute. The pink square neck one was just fine . . . if he was taking her home to meet his mother.
Snarling under her breath, she stood in front of her closet, a closet full of clothes, too, thanks to her somewhat problematic love for shopping. She wore a black bra shot through with a red lace ribbon and a retro piece that was both girdle, garter, and panties. It was moderately comfortable, sexy as hell and it managed to smooth things down so that if she had gone with the black wiggle, she would have filled it out just fine.
But it was a first date and the message she was going for wasn’t Fuck me now.
Even if that was the message she had on her mind.
Even if that was the message she’d had on her mind pretty much from the first minute she’d seen him again—well, it wasn’t the only thought on her mind.
She had other thoughts, too. Like how much she loved his smile. And how much she missed seeing him and Clayton. And of course, the occasional worry wiggled its way in—mostly about Neeci. She was spending the night with Ressa’s aunt, Neeci’s “Granny Ang” and although Neeci loved Granny Ang, sometimes things didn’t always go well when she didn’t sleep at home.
Which meant she needed to warn Trey about a potential problem. She suspected Trey, more than most, would understand, but just the thought of it made her gut clench, and yet again she thought that maybe she should just cancel the date.
Cut and run, because she could see herself falling for Mr. Trey Barnes, in the worst sort of way.
Fall for him, then end up walking away, or crawling away, when things ended badly or she ended up battered and bruised, brokenhearted.
Coward.
But really, did it hurt to have a real date with him?
Maybe once they had that one real date, she’d realize they didn’t really have that much to talk about. Sure they were combustible, but she’d had heat before.
Doubt started to niggle inside her and she went to sit down, but her gaze landed on the clock. Twenty minutes. She only had—
The phone rang. Panic grabbed her belly. He wasn’t calling to cancel, was he?
If he does, I’ll hurt him.
And then that bubble of panic popped as she recognized the number. With a jaded eye, she studied it, then without a blink, ignored the call.
Talking to Kiara always put her in a bad place. Always. She had to coach herself into going to visit her, into calling her. Sending her quick little notes wasn’t possible, although she did write—there was just nothing quick about it. It took three or four days to get the right words down, the words that said . . . I love you, but I don’t want to talk about the past anymore.
“You ought to be the one in here!” The sound of Kiara’s voice, even now, still echoed in her ears. That wound was mostly scarred and it helped that Kiara had mostly come to accept the truth, but still, the rawness was still there.
The phone went silent as she moved to stand in front of the mirror.
Catching sight of the little clock she kept near her bed, she swore. Down to eighteen minutes. Her hair was done, her makeup
was done, but she really should have something on when he knocked on the door.
Swearing, she grabbed a red dress off the hanger. She’d just ordered it and other than trying it on, she hadn’t worn it yet. Pulling it on, she smoothed it down over her hips and went to the mirror. The embellished design of the bodice accentuated her curves there and also left her tattoos bared. She fingered it absently, half thought about wearing something with a higher neckline, even as she gave the rest of her reflection a critical look.
The nipped-in waist definitely met with her approval and the skirt flared out in a way that flattered her full hips. She looked curvy rather than frumpy—that was good. She’d been hoping that would be the effect with the dress. She’d gotten pretty good at picking out the right styles, but shopping online could still be hit or miss. The fabric worked, too.
Frowning, she turned a little, eying the embroidery on the shoulders—each shoulder featured a cheekily grinning pin-up girl.
The cut of the dress was almost conservative.
A few months ago, if somebody had told her she’d be going out to dinner with Trey Barnes, conservative was exactly what she would have suspected would suit him. Of course, she’d have laughed her ass off, and then gone out of her way to find something completely not conservative.
But with the way the dress fit her, the dip of the bodice over her breasts, the sassy little pin-up girls and how it exposed her tattoos . . .
“Well, it’s sure as hell me,” she mused.
She turned away from the mirror.
Nothing in the closet was going to work any better.
Except maybe that wiggle dress, but if she put that on, she might as well issue an invitation for him to come on in and stay awhile. She’d bought it in a mood, not too long after that weekend she’d never been able to forget. She’d been thinking about him when she’d bought it.
Thinking. Missing. Wanting.
If she put it on, she’d do nothing but think about him peeling it off.
The phone started to ring again while she was pulling on a pair of heels, but she lunged for it this time. Farrah—it was the ringtone she used for Farrah and she needed her nerves soothed. Balancing on one foot as she fought one-handedly with the strap, she answered. “Make me feel better,” she ordered.
“Why?”
“Because my cousin just called and I didn’t talk to her and now I feel guilty and he’s going to be here soon,” she said in a rush.
There was a faint pause, and then Farrah said, “Fuck her. Half the time I don’t know why you even bother.”
“Because it’s my fault.”
“No,” Farrah said, her voice cold and hard. “No, it’s not.”
Ressa sighed. “Logically? I get that. Emotionally? Different story. Look, she’s my cousin. I love her. Now, tell me something to make me stop thinking about her,” she said, moving to deal with the other shoe.
“Are you ready?”
“No. I’m still buck-nekkid, with my hair in rollers and I’m shoving my face full of ice cream,” she said tartly. Her belly gave a demanding grumble. Maybe ice cream wouldn’t be a bad idea. Take the edge off. Ice cream made everything better, right? If she ate something now . . .
“Yeah, right. What are you wearing?”
“That red baby-doll dress I showed you a few weeks ago.”
“That?” Farrah’s disappointed tone did not go unmissed. “Why not that sexy black number?”
“Because that sexy black number says one thing—Do me. We’re going out for dinner.”
“Any reason you can’t have both . . . him and dinner?” Farrah sounded sly now.
“Whatever happened to the girl who was teaching me caution a few days ago?” Ressa asked wryly.
“Well, I want you to be cautious. Don’t get your heart broken. But if you can manage to have fun with him while it lasts and not get your heart broken? Go for it.”
Fun . . . while it lasts. Odd that even thinking that way made her feel kind of funny inside. Like she was already setting herself up for a heartbreak.
“I plan on having fun. Without jumping back into bed with him the very first time we actually have a date.” Rolling her eyes, she stretched out her feet, studied the shoes. They worked.
Then she glanced toward the hall, thought about that pint of ice cream she kept on hand for emergencies.
This wasn’t really an emergency, though.
Sighing, she turned her back on the thought of ice cream and made herself focus.
“Talk yourself out of a bite or two of ice cream?” Farrah asked.
“Yes. Damn it.” Ressa pressed a hand to her belly.
“Good. The dress fits perfectly now. Don’t go getting the nervous eats, okay? We don’t want to do another fitting. Now . . . how do you feel?”
“I’m nervous. I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous about a date.” Ressa grimaced.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this nervous about a guy.”
“Oh, I’ve been this nervous,” she said quietly.
There had been a guy. Ressa had cared about him. Enough to come clean with him about her past. He’d said he loved her. But when he learned about her past, he’d walked.
“He never really loved you. He just loved what he thought he knew,” Farrah said quietly. “You ready to go that route again with Trey? What if he’s the same way?”
The question had Ressa tensing. She had to focus, had to concentrate to make her muscles relax. Leaning forward, she scowled at the faint smudge in her eyeliner. She used one of the sponges to fix it before she answered. “It’s not the same thing; he’s not the same.”
“If that’s the case, then you see all the problems ahead of you, too, right? I mean, assuming this thing turns out to be anything . . . you know what kind of mess you could be asking for?”
“What problems?” She forced a light note into her voice. “Let me think . . . well, other than the fact that he’s this hugely successful author who is still dealing with some baggage—” That was a safe way to explain it, she figured. “He’s a widower with an adorable kid. Or maybe you’re talking about my mess.”
“There’s that,” Farrah said, her voice flat. “And other things. He’s white, you’re black.”
“Really.” Ressa eased away from the mirror, studying her reflection once more. “I never noticed.”
“That could be a problem . . . if it got serious. That, and a couple of things. Have you thought about that?”
“Yes.” Sighing, she turned away from the mirror. She didn’t want to think about serious. Not yet. Not right now. “You and I both know I’d just be hiding from the truth if I said otherwise. If . . . look, if we think we’ve got something, his skin color isn’t going to matter to me. I won’t care. I don’t think he will, either.”
“It affects more than just the two of you, though. It’s Neeci, it’s his little boy,” Farrah said quietly. Her sister had married a white guy. Her parents supported her . . . but the guy’s family? They’d cut him off. It had caused some rough spots.
Rubbing her thumb along the lines of the tattoo on her chest, Ressa said, “Mama Ang won’t care who I fall for, Farrah. All she ever wanted was for us to be happy.”
“Yeah . . . it looks like your cousin really got that memo.” Farrah’s voice was thick with sarcasm.
“Please.” Ressa closed her eyes. “Don’t. Okay? Just . . .”
“I won’t, honey. Although Kiara makes me crazy. Mama Ang, she tried so hard—Bruce, God bless him, he tried. You tried. Anyways . . . it’s not just about you all, you know that. Kids change everything.”
“We’re talking about things that might not even be an issue. For all I know, we’ll go out and we’ll bore each other senseless.” Plus . . . her gut started to twist, and as much as she didn’t want to think about Kiara, her cousin started to creep back into her mind.
Kiara.
The things that Ressa had done her best to overcome, to move past.
But
they were still a part of her.
Shit.
The doorbell rang. “I’ve got to go. I think he’s here.”
“Honey, you already know you’re not going to bore each other senseless. That’s why you need to be careful . . . and maybe why you should put on that black dress and get him out of your system, now. While you can still can.”
Chapter Eighteen
Trey knew what it was like to have the breath knocked out of him. Normally, he didn’t associate the sensation with good things. He’d felt that way when he’d fallen out of a swing when he was a kid—when he’d gotten knocked on his ass time and again in middle school during his very, very brief interlude with school sports. Maybe he’d enjoyed basketball when it was one on one, or when he was playing with his brothers, but team sports had never been for him.
That hadn’t kept Travis from nagging him into trying out for football one year. Trey had given it a shot—for that one year. During that time, he’d spent so much time getting tackled, knocked down, thrown around, that he’d ended up feeling like the ball himself.
He’d given it up—he was more for individual sports. Swimming was his thing and even then, he’d known what it was like to feel breathless—or worse, like he was drowning. Like when he’d gotten a charley horse while swimming a few times.
Then there had been the day he’d gotten the call about his wife . . . when they wheeled her in the surgery. Those unending moments when the doctor came out and told him the news.
His first look at his son, hooked up to a vent as he struggled to live.
Trey knew all about how it felt to have the air knocked out of him, but he generally associated it with pretty shitty things.
He didn’t think it had once felt like this.
Ressa opened the door, standing there in the doorway with light spilling out around her while she wore a dress of red that cupped her breasts and skimmed in over a waist that dipped in and all but begged for him to curve his hands around it, before flaring out over those lush, round hips.
Busted (Barnes Brothers #3) Page 18