Sweet Distraction: Stag Brothers Book 1

by Lainey Davis

  "I hope you don't mind, I borrowed some clothes," she says, gesturing to my gear. As if I can ever wear them again and not think about her white skin inside them. Outwardly, I just shake my head. "I crashed in your guest room," she says. For the first time, I'm glad my realtor convinced me to get a two bedroom. And for the millionth time, I'm relieved my housekeeper keeps everything magazine-spread-ready at all times. Alice starts to walk down the hall, saying something about how she will strip the sheets and get them started in the washer, but I move, as quickly as I'm able with my aching head, to stop her.

  "Alice, don't even think about it." Her eyes meet mine, questioning. "Thank you. Thank you for taking care of me." I pause. "This isn't…usual for me. I don't ever…" I give up and run my hands through my hair again. "Can I buy you breakfast? It's the least I can do."

  She shakes her head, looks at her watch. "I really should get back home before my family wakes up," she says. "It's only 7 now, so I might make it if my nephews don't come crashing downstairs." She laughs, and I decide that's the only sound in the world that doesn't hurt my head.

  She agrees to let Joe drive her home, at least. I don't think I am sober enough to drive yet. Jesus. I can't be doing shit like this, letting myself lose control. After I call the car for Alice, I crawl back in bed and don't emerge until it's nearly dark.

  ~~

  The next day, my brothers and I all meet to go for a jog in Highland Park before brunch with our grandmother. The three of us don't say much, but it's nice to run together with them. We strip our shirts after the first lap around the path and Ty picks up the pace. He knows we can't fully keep up with him, but the rest of us aren't too shabby considering he's a pro athlete. He throws a grin over his shoulder and tears off, and we scramble to chase after him as he shouts "I thought you fuckers were out for a run today? This is like mall walking!" Before long, we are sprinting through the park, trading obscenity-laced digs at each other depending on who's able to pull ahead. After five miles or so, we stop for a drink at the fountain by the reservoir. Our chests are heaving, but my brothers are ok. I like us like this, together, and I like seeing our family tattoo--we all have a stag etched onto our chest, leaping over a field of laurel. That was our mother. Laurel. Thatcher designed the tattoo and we all went together on Ty's eighteenth birthday. Of course, Thatcher now has about a hundred more tattoos since he's an artist and all.

  Ty spits a mouth-full of water at me, and that tips off a three-way wrestling match. Suddenly, we are all kids again, just rolling in the grass until we don't feel like fighting anymore. I give my younger brother's shoulder a final punch, saying, "It's good to have you back, baby brother."

  "Wasn't such a baby when I was kicking your ass a few minutes ago, was I, big brother?"

  Thatcher's stomach rumbles and reminds us all that we're starving after that workout. Arm in arm, we walk down the hill toward our childhood home. My thoughts drift, as usual, to Alice. The way she took care of me like that, without being asked, like it was no big deal. She's always taking care of her family. She works her ass off and then goes home and takes care of her dad and nephews. I never met anyone as caring and kind as her. It all just comes to her naturally, not an act or with an ulterior motive. What would it be like, I wonder, to have her waiting for me with breakfast. I try to stop myself from imagining her in my kitchen again, cooking for me and only me. Naked. God, I've never even seen her fully naked.

  Gran has pancakes and bacon ready for us when we finally walk in the door. Ty opens the fridge and begins chugging orange juice right from the carton, and the rest of us berate him as my Gran smacks him with her spatula. I grab my youngest brother in a headlock and pull him down, rubbing a knuckle playfully into his hair. Again, though, my mind shifts to Alice Peterson and her pink, plump lips. What I wouldn't give to twist my fingers through her hair again.

  We sit down to eat, and nobody speaks for the first few bites while we inhale Gran's perfect pancakes. Thatcher pauses, though, and says, "These taste a little different, Gran. Did you do something new?"

  She nods, smiling wide at his observation. "I knew you would be the one to notice," she says, pinching his cheek like he's still ten years old. "I added almond extract and a dash of cinnamon." We all moan appreciatively, shoving more of the pancakes in our mouths. "Alice was giving me pointers."

  I nearly choke on my food and Thatcher starts pounding on my back. "Who the hell is Alice?"

  Gran rolls her eyes and he apologizes for swearing. "She's the chef I told Timber to hire," Gran says.

  Ty just nods knowingly. "The muffin girl. Right on." I don't like the way he grins at me. He knows something.

  Feeling worried they can read my thoughts, I take a deep breath and remind myself there's just been the one indiscretion. Well…and the fact that she took me home blackout drunk Friday night. Which they would have no way of knowing. I take a long drink of OJ and ask my grandmother when she was trading cooking secrets with Alice. Gran starts cleaning up, and I rise to help her as she talks. "Well, I thought she looked awfully familiar when I saw her at your office the other day, and then I remembered! The Peterson family lives over on St. Clair. Timber, don't you remember? You mowed their lawn for awhile when her mother was sick, the poor dear." My grandmother hands me plates as I silently load the dishwasher. "Well wasn't I out for a walk the other evening and saw her playing with her nephews in the park? She recognized me right away and we got to talking. That's all."

  Thatcher catches me staring slack-jawed as Gran walks out of the room, muttering about what a nice girl Alice is and how good neighbors make the best friends. He furrows his brow and says, "Your face right now leads me to believe that this Alice chick might be the 'distraction' you mentioned." He looks at me, expectantly.

  I choose not to say anything to my brother, but I toss on my t-shirt and walk out the back door, heading through the alley toward St. Clair Street.

  Fifteen

  ALICE

  "W hose birthday is it again, Aunt Alice," my nephew Eli asks, his mouth full of cake batter.

  I wipe a stray drop of the chocolate batter from his cheek and tell him, "June 30 is Linda Day. My mom--your mom's mom, too--was Linda, and we celebrate her birthday every year to remember her and talk about how much we love her, even though she's not here with us." It's hard for a five year old to grasp, but today is a big day for my family.

  My brothers are both here, wearing nice pants and clean shirts for a change. We all get takeout from Mom's favorite barbecue place and every year, I bake her favorite cake. Rich, flourless chocolate cake pairs nicely with fresh raspberries this time of year. My sister took the boys out wandering to pick some in the wild along the trails in Highland Park yesterday.

  I'm about to slide the cake into the oven when I hear a knock at the front door. "Ry!" I shout to my brother. "Can you get the door? I think that's the food."

  He walks to the front door with my nephew Ethan slung over one shoulder and I hear him fling the door open. As I shut the oven, I look up to see the dour face of my boss standing on the front mat.

  I freeze, and Ryan crumples his face. "You're not the guy from Showcase." He pauses a beat, assessing Tim, who looks like he's just come from an intense sweat session. "Can I help you?"

  Eli runs over to his brother and uncle and points at Tim. "That's the angry man from Aunt Alice's work! The one who yells!" Tim's cheeks flush and I walk over to try to salvage the situation.

  "Ry, this is my boss. Do you remember Tim Stag? Aim said he went to school with you all. Grew up in the neighborhood."

  Ryan nods as he lowers my nephew to the ground. "Stag. I think so. What's up, man? You need something?"

  I've never seen Tim at a loss for words. At work he's always so confident. In total control. Except when he was yelling at my nephews I guess. And when he dragged me off into the conference room for sex…at the memory, my own face flushes. "Tim," I say, "Come inside for a drink of water?"

  He seems mortified and lingers in the
doorway. "I don't know what I was thinking," he says, quietly. "I was at my grandmother's house for pancakes and she said she saw you and…"

  He drifts off, looking around at my extended family. Dad, Dan, and Doug are watching the baseball game on TV and my sister is flitting around setting out plates and napkins. The actual delivery guy starts climbing the porch steps, and Ryan sort of shoves Tim into the house as he squeezes past to pay for the food. Tim looks into my eyes. "I'm interrupting something here. I'll just see you tomorrow, Alice."

  "Wait!" I shout, before thinking twice. "Please stay."

  He looks as if I've asked him to lend me a kidney, but he enters the house. "Everyone," I shout above the normal family chaos. "This is Tim and he's here for ribs."

  My brother and brother-in-law don't turn from the TV, but my dad glances up. "Stag!" he says, waving. "Good to see you again, son. You still over there on Euclid Ave?"

  Tim nods. "Yes, sir. My grandmother lives there, although I own it now." He pauses and looks at me. "I'm not sure why I said that last bit."

  I pat his arm and tell him to have a seat on one of the bar stools. I slide him a glass of water, saying, "There's just a few minutes left until the cake comes out of the oven, then we'll eat while it cools." I smile at him. It's good to see him, to be near him, no matter what the circumstances.

  He waves around at my family as my nephews start firing Nerf darts at him. "What is all this?"

  As I explain Linda Day to Tim, I see his face shifting. His emotions are all over the place as he listens to me explain. I know that his mother is gone, too. I lean closer to ask him, "How does your family remember your mom?"

  His face is ashen and stiff. He shakes his head and his mouth moves a bit, but no sound comes out. Finally, he whispers, "we don't speak of her. Ever." Suddenly I'm overcome with sadness for him. For all the pent up grief he must carry. I know his brothers are gregarious and friendly. I'm so sad for them that they don't share their feelings about their lost mother, even to remember what they loved about her. I walk around the counter and wrap my arms around Tim. He melts into my chest and I see my sister Amy looking at me strangely, but I don't feel like worrying about her right now.

  Tim is breathing fast and heavy, and I rub his back until the timer beeps on the oven. Reluctantly, I break our embrace to pull out the cake. He props his elbows on the counter, head in his hands. My sister calls everyone to the table to eat and I touch Tim's shoulder. "Come join us," I say. And he does.

  Sixteen

  TIM

  T he Peterson family goes around the table sharing remembrances of their lost mother. Even the little boys, who never met her, have something to say about things they've learned about Linda. By the time we're done with cake, I feel like I knew her, too, even though all I did was mow their grass as a teenager. When it came to be my turn, I was stunned when Alice's father reached for my hand and thanked me for helping around the yard so they could get more time with Linda in the hospital. I almost lost my shit and wept right there with them.

  This family is certainly different from mine. I vacillate between sorrow and rage when I think about how my mother's death is the great taboo at our house, and my father's drunken absence is the elephant in the room. Why don't we ever just sit and talk about it like this?

  I think Alice can tell that I need to escape, because she dabs her mouth with a napkin and tells the table at large, "I'm going for a walk with Tim. Don't any of you dare use a scouring pad in my springform cake pan when you're washing the dishes." There are groans and laughter and one of her brothers throws a napkin at her as she tugs on my hand and leads me toward the front door.

  My dick twitches in my pants as a reminder that no matter what is going on in my world, my lust for Alice Peterson trumps all. We walk in silence for a few blocks until she says, "I'm really glad you came by today."

  I clear my throat. Why does she make me so nervous? "I wanted to thank you again for your discretion and your assistance the other night."

  She smiles. "You know," she says, playfully tugging on my shirtsleeve. "You talk in your sleep a bit. At least when you're drunk."

  "Not true," I counter, playing it cool while I inwardly panic.

  She nods. "You said, and I'm not paraphrasing, 'pretty Alice, hairy curls. Just want to touch them all the time.'" And she laughs. The sound is so warm and delightful I can't help but feel at ease with her.

  "Well," I say, "all of that is true." And she flushes. I grab her hand and pull her toward a bench in a nearby bus shelter. We sit, a bit stiffly. My voice is a harsh whisper as I confess, "I'm wild about you, Alice, and I can't seem to stop thinking unprofessional thoughts."

  She looks up at me, her violet eyes liquid and warm, and says, "I think terribly unprofessional thoughts about you, too." And I bury my fingers in her curls as she rests her head on my shoulder. We sit in silence for a long time until she asks me about my mother.

  Nobody ever asks about my mother. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat when I think about her death, but I remember how much lighter Alice's family seemed in talking about their own worst moments. I choke out, "I missed the bus. I got distracted at the library and missed the bus. I called from the payphone and she dashed out in the rain to come get me." Alice grabs my hand and starts gently rubbing my palm. "We were supposed to have my grandmother over for dinner that night, so she was in a rush to get me and get back to her pot roast."

  I pause, and Alice looks up to my eyes. I've never told this to anyone before. She kisses my forehead and I close my eyes. "You can tell me, Tim. I know how it feels."

  I shake my head. "Not this. You don't know how this feels. She was t-boned on 5th Ave. Two blocks from the library. Someone was driving the wrong way in the bus lane and she went to turn left as whoever it was kept plowing ahead straight into her." My words catch in my throat, but I keep talking. "After an hour or so passed, I decided just to walk home. Two miles in the rain, I stewed and steamed that she would do this to me. I thought she was teaching me a lesson about missing the bus. I slammed the front door, ready to scream at her. My family sat around the living room in the dark, just staring. My brother Thatcher whispered to me that she'd died instantly in the crash."

  I haven't cried for my mother in probably 15 years, but I just begin to release a torrent of years of grief. I'm not sure how long I cry onto Alice's shoulder, but I know she holds me and strokes my back, whispers into my ear to let it out.

  "You were a kid, Tim," she soothes. "Kids miss the bus. Adults miss the bus." I'm shaking my head against her shoulder. Alice says, "Tim. The only person at fault here is the jerk driving the wrong way in the bus lane. Not you. Not you, Tim."

  I don't know how long she repeats this phrase. When I finally become aware of my surroundings, Alice is gazing into my eyes. Her hands are everywhere on my shoulders and arms and, no matter what I try, I can concentrate on nothing apart from the scent of her. I can tell that she senses the shift in my mood because she gently rubs my jaw with her thumb.

  "I like it when you look scruffy like this," she says as the tip of her digit rasps against my two-day stubble. I turn my cheek so it brushes against her palm and when I hear a breathy sigh escape her throat, my dick jumps to attention.

  I can't bear to not be kissing her, and I dive into her mouth, tasting the chocolate sweetness of cake as my tongue delves into Alice's warm depths. I move both hands into her wild hair--has it been down and free this entire day?--knotting my fingers into the blonde tendrils. I feel her come alive in my arms, returning the intensity and desperation of my kiss. My mind races--how can I get her to my apartment? Where can I take her to peel her out of those clothes?

  Someone clears their throat and Alice leaps from my arms. An old man with a cane is standing near the bus shelter, gesturing. "Mind taking that elsewhere so I can wait for my bus in peace?" he asks, his mood somewhere between amused and irritated.

  Alice mumbles an apology and starts down the street back toward her house. I follow, cursin
g the old man who stole my moment with Alice. When we get to her porch, she moves to enter the house and I reach for her hand. “Wait,” I say, and she looks at me expectantly. I am so lost around this woman, unraveled. She’s opening up pieces of me I don’t understand. “Let me take you out to dinner. To thank you for taking care of me the other night.”

  Suddenly I feel nervous, like a teenager asking his first crush to the dance, I suppose. For the first time, it matters to me that a woman agrees to my plea. “I’d love to take you somewhere and let someone else do the cooking for you.”

  Alice breaks into a smile, and I feel my whole body relax. “Thank you, Tim. That sounds really nice.” She reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze before releasing it. My skin vibrates with anticipation and nerves. I run a hand through my sweaty hair, remembering that I’m a mess. An actual mess. God, I walked over to her house and interrupted her family, caked in sweat.

  “Saturday night, then, Alice? Where should we go?”

  Alice begins babbling in that delightful way she has about her, unfiltered. This was probably the best question I could have asked. “Ooh! Morcilla is supposed to be amazing,” she says, “Do you like Spanish food? But Legume is so nice...oh, or could we eat at Spoon? Or Cure! Do we have to wait until 8 to eat? I don't understand why people do that. I get hungry early. Wait.” She puts a hand on my arm again as I laugh, enjoying her excitement. “How will you get a reservation any of those places for Saturday?”

  Now I can return to my sense of confidence and control. “Alice,” I tell her. “I work with sports stars. When a Stag calls a restaurant, we get a table.”

  “Well look at you,” she says, teasing. “In that case, I pick Cure.”