by Jo Barrett
Shut up, Wyatt. SHUT UP!
Dylan realized in a flash that he was more pissed at Wyatt than at the men walking toward him with baseball bats and a gun.
Dylan spun on his heel and pushed Wyatt as hard as he could. Wyatt was caught off guard, and he stumbled on his prosthetic leg.
“Shut up, Wyatt! I told you to let me handle this!” Dylan roared, nearly bursting a lung.
Dylan saw the punch coming, but it was too late. Wyatt arched his fist back and connected a strong punch squarely into Dylan’s arm. Dylan fought dirty by kicking Wyatt’s fake leg out from under him.
Wyatt jerked backward and fell on the gravel, and Dylan leaped on top of him. The two brothers rolled around, punching, kicking, scratching, and generally bruising the crap out of each other, until Wyatt got dirt in his eyes and called for quits.
“Time out, time out!” Wyatt sputtered, waving his arms like a referee.
Dylan was out of breath, and his lip was split and bleeding from Wyatt’s famous “upper crunch” elbow thrust.
Wyatt was coughing up dirt and his right eye was swelling up with a nice fat shiner, compliments of Dylan’s expert right hook.
“Are you finished?” came a voice from above them.
Dylan looked up and realized his vision was blurred by sweat and dirt. It was Felix. The bookie looked somewhat bemused, but tried to maintain a steady face. This was serious business after all.
“I’m Wyatt’s brother,” Dylan said, as he wrestled himself to his feet. He brushed himself off. “Dylan Grant,” he said, holding out his hand as if he were in a business meeting.
Felix regarded this unusual gesture. A handshake? The bookie took Dylan’s outstretched hand and said, “Nice to meet you. I’m the guy your brother took for five hundred G’s in Vegas.”
Dylan said, “I heard.”
Felix was wearing a gold crucifix around his neck. The figure of Christ was done in pave diamonds.
Wyatt had sat up on the gravel and was trying to pick something out of his eye, but he managed to throw in his two cents. “I told you, I’d get you your money, you peasant!” he spat.
Two of the men reacted quickly. They walked toward Wyatt with their baseball bats poised to strike. Felix held up his hand. “Wait.”
Dylan mustered a smile. “Look, my brother is in over his head. He can’t play the sports book to save his life, and he knows this, but for some reason, he keeps going back as if his luck’s going to change.” Dylan turned and glared at his brother. “I told you the Hoyas had no shot at the championship.”
“They choked in the last five minutes of the game,” Wyatt growled.
“I want my money,” Felix said, as if he was reading a line in a movie.
“How about I make you a deal?” Dylan offered.
“No deals,” Felix said, flashing a solid gold tooth with a single diamond in the center. “Deals are bad for business, my friend. You give one guy a deal, and soon everyone finds out. Your brother owes me five hundred G’s. Me and my boys are here to collect.”
Dylan wiped blood off his lip. He considered the small sum of money he had left in his savings account. He’d planned on using it to pay the rent and some of his and Kathleen’s expenses until he got his feet back under him, but now Wyatt’s welfare was at stake. It seemed as though he’d spent his entire life bailing people out. First his father, now Wyatt.
“How about a down payment?” Dylan asked.
A trickle of sweat rolled down Felix’s dark cheek. “How much?” the bookie asked.
Dylan jogged back to the truck and grabbed a checkbook from inside the glove compartment. He scrawled out a check for fifty thousand dollars and held it out for Felix to examine.
God, I hope this works, Dylan prayed.
“My company doesn’t accept personal checks,” Felix said, causing all the men around him to snicker.
“Look, I’ll pay you fifty now in interest, and then another twenty-five when I pay you back the principal,” Dylan said. “That’s an extra seventy-five thousand in your pocket…in exchange for your time.”
“I don’t like to chase my money,” Felix sneered, his gold and diamond tooth glinting in the sun.
“Five hundred and seventy-five thousand,” Dylan said. “And we can put this baby to rest.” Dylan held out the check toward Felix.
Please take it. Please just take the check.
Felix stared at the check as if it were a knife.
Dylan flashed a winning smile. “Do we have a gentlemen’s agreement?”
Felix paused. He seemed to consider that Dylan referred to him as a “gentleman.”
“Don’t make me come back here,” he said, crushing his finger into Dylan’s chest. “I hate Texas.”
Dylan allowed himself to exhale. He pointed down the dirt road. “About five miles north, when you reach the freeway, you’ll find the best taco cantina in Texas. Mamacita’s. You can’t miss it. Her hot sauce will make a believer out of you.”
Felix’s wet tongue flicked against the gold tooth. He waved the check in the air: “If this bounces…” he began.
“It won’t,” Dylan said quickly.
Felix stared at Dylan, a hard stare.
“Look. I’m not stupid,” Dylan said.
“I have a good feeling about you.” Felix tapped the check against his hand. He motioned to his men, and they all climbed into the sedan and drove off.
Dylan grabbed Wyatt’s outstretched hand and helped his younger brother stand up off the gravel.
“You okay, little brother?”
“You knocked the crap out of my eye,” Wyatt grumbled. “But it was better coming from you than from them.”
“Not a bad plan, right?”
“Nope.”
Dylan and Wyatt trudged back to the truck. Dylan felt tired, suddenly. As if his body couldn’t move. It had been a long day—what with burying Butch Grant, getting into an ugly fistfight with Wyatt, and then promising to pay a bookie five hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in cash that he didn’t have.
With great difficulty, Wyatt climbed into the truck and plopped down onto the passenger seat. “How are we gonna get the money?” he asked, as if he’d read Dylan’s mind.
Dylan turned the key in the ignition and flicked on the radio.
I have an idea, he thought.
Twenty-one
Kathleen was in one of those moods. The mood for sex. She always lost herself with Dylan. It was so natural between them. But instead of sex, she was being probed in a different way altogether.
Dylan and Wyatt arrived back at the apartment late after midnight looking flush, bloody, and bruised.
Oh my God! Kathleen thought, when they trudged through the door.
“What on earth happened to you two?” She jumped from the couch in shock. Her canvas was laid out on the coffee table. She’d been painting a yellow crocodile in a purple swamp.
Dylan pointed to his busted lip. “You think this is bad, hon. You should see the other guy.”
“What other guy?”
Dylan pointed at Wyatt, and they both broke up laughing.
Kathleen crossed her arms over her chest and began to tap her foot. The death march tap. Dylan and Wyatt stopped laughing.
“Did you get in a fight?”
Dylan motioned to his brother. “Bottom line, hon. Paul Newman over here owes this guy Felix five hundred thousand bucks,” Dylan said. “And Felix wanted his money today.”
Kathleen rushed over to Dylan and threw her arms around his neck. “Dylan Charles Grant! Thank God you’re okay!” She shot a disappointed look at Wyatt. “This is your fault, you know. But I love you anyway.”
Wyatt scraped his boot along the floor. Kathleen knew that Dylan’s younger brother was a softie when it came down to it. Below that big, gorgeous hunk of an exterior.
“So these guys attacked you?” she asked, looking from Wyatt’s face to Dylan’s. Checking the dried blood under their noses and the bruises on their arms.
Dylan and Wyatt shot each other a quick glance. Kathleen knew that look. It meant they’d decided in advance to tell her a certain “version” of events.
“Yes,” they both said in unison.
They’re lying to me, she thought.
Kathleen took two steps backward and gave them a hard stare. She began to tap her foot again, but this time she did something even scarier. She gave Dylan and Wyatt the silent treatment. That is, she stopped talking altogether, and turned away from both of them. She knew they wouldn’t be able to withstand the shame for long.
“Anybody want a Dr Pepper?” Wyatt asked. He walked over to the fridge, and Kathleen heard a can popping.
“Kathleen, you want a Dr Pepper?”
Kathleen didn’t make a peep. This would really scare the crap out of them, she knew. It was only a matter of seconds before Wyatt came to his senses. She heard him sputter.
“All right, Kathleen. You win. Dylan and I had some words and it got out of hand.”
Kathleen whirled around. “Figures,” she said. “So you did this to each other?”
Wyatt held up his can of Dr Pepper. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Kathleen stared at Dylan. He was scratching at the bloodied bruise on his arm.
“So why did you lie?”
“Hey now, wild Kat,” Dylan said, looking pointedly at her. “I’m not the only one hiding things. Eddie told me you paid the rent today. How’d you get that kind of money?”
Kathleen tossed her hair over her shoulder and wandered toward the bedroom. “Good night, Wyatt,” she called out.
“Night, Kat.”
Dylan was in hot pursuit, and as soon as they reached the bedroom, Kathleen shut the door behind them.
“You didn’t tell me you had money tucked away,” Dylan said, searching Kat’s eyes.
“My mother once told me that every woman should have her own savings account…for rainy days.” She gave Dylan a meaningful look. Even with his busted lip and bruises all over, her man was killer handsome.
“Listen here. I can take care of my woman. I don’t need my woman paying the rent,” Dylan huffed, all high and mighty. He began to pace in front of the bed.
Kathleen stifled a giggle. Her mother had taught her long ago that men needed to feel superior in order to maintain their confidence. It was all about ego.
Never go Dutch, her mama had instructed her. They’ll end up despising you for it.
And so Kathleen used all her effort. She lifted up her shirt, flashed Dylan her breasts, and said, most bluntly, “Honey, I’d love to talk this money stuff all day long but we’ve got some fucking to do.”
Kathleen jumped on top of the bed and spread her legs apart. She was wearing a short little denim skirt and white lace panties.
“I don’t know if I can.” Dylan winced as he unzipped his jeans and let them pool around his ankles. Kathleen helped him lift his shirt over his head and saw the black and blue bruises blooming across his ribs.
“You’re a mess,” she whispered.
“Tell me about it.” Dylan tumbled down on to the bed next to her with his boxer shorts and socks on, and closed his eyes.
Kathleen pulled out a small bottle of baby oil from the bedside table and rubbed some in her palm. She snuck her hand inside his boxer shorts and began stroking up and down until she felt him become aroused. She shimmied off her white panties and flung them on the floor. Then she climbed on top of Dylan and glided him inside her.
“Oh, honey,” he moaned, as Kathleen began sliding her hips around in a slow circle. Dylan gripped her waist and began to thrust himself in and out, hard and fast. They both moved together, with Kathleen bouncing faster on top of him. She grabbed the top of the bed frame for support, and threw her head back.
“Oh yeah. Just like that,” Dylan moaned. Kat thrust herself down on top of him until his face contorted in pleasure and he stifled a cry.
“Oh, honey. I’m going to finish,” he choked. Kat plunged down on top of him.
Afterward, Kat rested her body inside the crook of Dylan’s warm embrace. She watched her big wounded bear’s eyes droop close and he began to snore soundly.
I want to marry you, she thought.
Twenty-two
The next morning, Dylan woke with a renewed vigor. He knew that he’d failed to pleasure Kathleen last night. So he wanted to make it up to her.
He raced over to the bed and fumbled with the condom in his hand. He bit the edge of the square foil packaging, and ripped it open.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff,” he announced, staring at Kat’s naked body lying across his king-sized Tempur-Pedic mattress. She was too much sometimes, Dylan thought. Lying on her back with her legs spread apart, revealing her private business through red crotchless panties trimmed in black lace. Kat had an array of fun panties at her disposal, and she wasn’t shy in the least.
Kathleen scowled at the sight of the condom. Dylan glanced down and began to unroll it quickly before his mind got the best of him.
“We don’t need those anymore,” Kat said, shooting him a sad, puppy dog look. As if she were a woman bereaved, instead of a woman about to get good and laid.
Dylan stopped unrolling the condom and let it dangle. “C’mon, Kat. This isn’t the best time to be thinking of children. Not with our cash flow predicament.”
Kat propped her elbow up on the bed and stared at him. A hard stare.
“I have something to say…” she started.
Dylan shook his head.
Oh God, not this.
He snapped the condom off, threw it on the floor, and sat down next to her. Plunging his head into his hands, he let the unthinkable escape his lips, “You’re already pregnant.”
“Well, don’t sound too happy,” Kat shot back.
They never fought. Dylan considered how he never argued with this woman. This woman who filled his core with everything he’d ever lacked. No matter what had happened in their respective pasts, and a lot had happened, he and Kat had always been, like, teammates.
Dylan didn’t have it in him to fight with her now.
“I’m thrilled, sweetheart,” he said softly. He leaned over and kissed Kat on the forehead, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender in her freshly washed hair.
“You smell good,” he said absently. A pit was beginning to form in his stomach as the news sank in.
“I’m not pregnant, dodo head,” Kat said, bolstering her hand against her naked hip.
Dylan searched her eyes, noticing how her entire face had taken on an ashen expression. She wasn’t smiling. Kat always smiled.
Something’s wrong.
He took Kat’s delicate hand in his. “Tell me,” he said.
“I’m an empty vessel,” Kat said.
Empty vessel?
Dylan knew Kat was artistic and everything. But sometimes he wished for plain English.
“Come again?”
“Empty. Like Hannah in the Bible.”
Okay, this was pushing it. Was Dylan supposed to know who this Hannah person was? He scratched his chest and lay down naked next to Kat, so he could stare up at the ceiling.
“I’m not familiar—”
“Hannah couldn’t have children.”
Kat took a deep breath and sighed one of those weight-of-the-world sighs. “I can’t have children, Dylan.”
Dylan lay still on the bed. He never saw the rain cloud coming. But apparently the shit storm had arrived. Why, oh why, had everything gone south?
“You…can’t…have…children,” he repeated, in a low voice. He heard sniffling next to him, turned, and saw that Kat was trying to hold back the tears. This woman, for whom children meant the world, was barren?
What kind of cruel joke is this?
Kat wouldn’t cry, Dylan knew. She’d been raised since birth to think crying was something of a sin in itself. An admission of weakness. A last resort.
A true Texas blue blood would let hell freeze over before shedding a
single tear.
“How?” Dylan asked.
“My ovaries,” Kat shrugged. “That cyst I had last year caused serious scar damage.”
The sniffling had stopped. She’d regained the legendary King family facial expression—blasé.
She scooted toward him and rested her head on the crook of his shoulder. She felt warm and fragile all of a sudden, cuddling up to him like that.
“You’re relieved from duty, Dylan. You don’t have to marry me,” she said, in a rather blasé, emotionless tone.
Dylan sat up abruptly and grabbed Kat by her elbows.
“Jesus, Kathleen! Are you breaking up with me? Yes, I’m broke. And yes, you know for a fact you can have any man around. But I’ll take care of you better than anyone else, I swear. Give me time.”
A glimmer of a smile streaked past Kat’s lips. “You’re pretty cute when you’re all riled up,” she said.
Kat began to stroke Dylan down below until he relaxed. She knew her way around him, that was for sure. He couldn’t imagine lying in bed with anyone else. The thought disgusted him, actually.
Dylan took a deep breath and felt himself become aroused as Kat worked her usual magic. Rubbing him just the right way.
She was a daring little thing, all right.
“I’m not breaking up with you,” she whispered. “But I can’t have children, and I thought you’d like to know.”
“I don’t believe this,” Dylan said. “When did you find out?”
“Tuesday.”
Dylan nodded. The day he’d gone to the funeral home. Figures, he thought.
You’ve had a quite a week, champ.
In the past seven days, Dylan had found out that his father had been killed in a car accident; that he and his brother were broke and in debt; and that the woman he’d loved since the fourth grade couldn’t bear children.
Dylan took a deep breath.
He only had one thought: Make her laugh.
“Don’t worry about it, babe,” he breathed into Kat’s ear. “We can get one of those surrogate ladies, and I’ll close my eyes and have sex with her,” he teased.
Kat pinched him hard on his bare bottom. “I was thinking we’d adopt one of those African babies like Madonna did.”