by Penny Reid
Granted, it was the world’s smallest smile. It was probably in The Guinness Book of World Records for smallest curve of the mouth possible. But it was there, behind his eyes mostly, and it surprised me.
“Hey Beau.” His tone wasn’t deadpan and it wasn’t aloof, which meant it was damn near friendly.
“Hey Quinn.” I stared at him with wide eyes.
“Can I cut in?”
I nodded on instinct. “Sure.” And almost regretted my thoughtlessness when I felt Shelly stiffen. But quick thinking had me reaching for Quinn’s hand and placing it in his sister’s.
She might not be ready to tell him the truth about her disorder, but I figured there was nothing wrong with me smoothing the road in small ways.
“I’ll be back.” Stepping away, I gave Shelly a quick, clandestine smile of encouragement.
She looked anxious, but not fearful. She also looked grateful. Then her gaze moved to her brother’s and she gave him the world’s second smallest smile. Which only made his grow.
I didn’t know if they were going to stand there smiling at each other or dance. It didn’t matter which, just as long as they were together.
Turning, I strolled off the dance floor, good feelings carrying me across the room to the open bar. As soon as I stepped into the line for a drink, Duane appeared at my elbow, pulling at the bowtie around his neck.
“Is that the Rolex Hank gave you?” He tapped my wrist, frowning at it.
I glanced at the watch face, solid gold set with diamonds. I hadn’t worn the thing since receiving it for my birthday two years ago. I figured if I couldn’t wear it to a wedding, then when could I wear it? What good was owning things you never used?
But now I was having fancy-watch regret.
“Yeah. I have to admit, it’s heavier than I remembered. I feel like I’m lifting weights every time I bend my elbow.” I wished I’d replaced the band with a leather one.
He grunted noncommittally. “You should melt it down, the band I mean, and make it into something for Shelly. It’s got to be six ounces or more. With that much gold you could make it into a lot of things for her.”
I stared at my brother. I stared at him for several seconds. Because his suggestion gave me an idea. And he was a genius.
Genius.
“Duane.” I brought my hand to his shoulder. “You’re a genius.”
“So everyone says,” he grumbled distractedly, searching the reception tent.
“What’s wrong?”
“Did you text Drill?” He shot me a stern look.
“I did. I messaged him last night. I told him I wanted a meeting with Christine on Monday.”
“He respond yet?”
“Yep. It’s all set. Monday night, Cooper’s Field.”
I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Christine again, and I hated that Duane was going to spend any of his remaining time dealing with the woman, but it would be good to set her straight. Whatever she wanted, she was barking up the wrong tree.
“Good.” Duane nodded once, turning his attention back to the reception. “Where is she?” He didn’t sound upset. Anxious and excited, but not upset.
He didn’t need to tell me he was referring to Claire.
“I saw her earlier talking to Sienna.” I lifted my chin toward Jethro and my new sister-in-law. “She couldn’t have gone far.”
We both took a minute to scan the reception, and as I did so, I indulged in a few seconds of watching Shelly and Quinn. They weren’t smiling anymore, but they were talking—like they were discussing something of intense fascination to them both—and that made me smile.
“There she is.” Duane hit my shoulder. “She’s talking to Cletus.”
“Let’s get her.” I rubbed my hands together.
“Don’t be a dummy. I don’t want to freak her out.”
I grinned, hitting Duane on his shoulder. “Freak her out? Are you kidding? This will make her year. Look as us. She’s getting two brothers out of this deal, both handsome devils. Except . . .” I faked a thoughtful frown, my fingers coming to my nose.
“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Do you think she’ll still love me even though my face is crooked?”
Duane lifted an eyebrow, like he was not amused. “Shut up, dummy. Let’s go—hey, it looks like she’s leaving.”
My twin darted forward, weaving deftly through the crowd toward Claire as she wove deftly through the crowd toward the exit. I followed at an equally hurried pace, a knot of concern forming in my throat that we might not reach her in time. I hadn’t expected her to leave so early.
But then Duane called, “Claire! Wait!”
And she turned, her eyes searching the tent like she wasn’t sure she’d heard her name. When she spotted us approaching, the side of her mouth curved in a way that reminded me of myself when I was preparing to turn on the charm.
“Well, hello boys. What’s up?” She folded her arms across her chest.
“We need to talk to you.” Duane’s tone was severe, as usual.
I took it upon myself to step forward and return her half smile, trying to soften the message. “We’d like a few moments of your time, before you go.”
“Uh,” Claire’s attention affixed to a spot over my shoulder, and then returned to Duane. “Sure. That’s fine.” She looked and sounded like she was forcing cheerfulness.
I glanced behind me, searching for the source of her distraction, and saw Billy several feet away talking to Daisy Payton’s oldest daughter, Daniella.
Huh. I forgot they knew each other.
“Can we talk privately?” Duane’s voice was still gruffer than it needed to be. “I think we can use the house, as no one should be inside. Or we could use the carriage house?”
“Carriage house sounds fine.” She seemed to shake herself, rebooting her smile so it was more genuine. “Is this about Jessica?”
“No.” Duane reached for her hand and I think that startled her a little, but she let him bring it to his arm just the same. “This is about us. All of us.”
“Oh?” Now we had her full attention.
Following Duane’s lead, I took her other hand and brought it to my arm, the three of us strolling out of the tent. “Claire, we have some good news and some bad news.”
“Good Lord, tell me the bad news first.”
“I like the bad news first, too.” Duane gave her a smile, or his version of one. “We have that in common.”
Claire wrinkled her nose at Duane. “Why’re you acting so funny? You fellas want to borrow money? I didn’t bring my purse, but I have a few dollars in my pocket.”
We made it a few feet from the tent, far enough away to be free of the crowd, but not so far that the music had completely faded. “The Way You Look Tonight,” had just started up and I made a note of it. I also made a note of the color of the sky, and the dot on Claire’s cheek that was too dark to be a freckle.
This is my sister.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “We don’t want to borrow any money.”
She glanced at me, giving me the side-eye. “You can’t have my car.”
I opened my mouth to tell her we didn’t want her car, but then wondered aloud, “I thought you had a truck?”
“I did, but I sold it. I needed better gas mileage.”
Duane and I shared a look.
“What do you drive now?”
I needed to talk to Duane about his questioning technique. The man seriously could not ask a question without making it sound like an interrogation.
“A Hyundai.”
“What’s the year?” Another demand.
“Calm your shit, Duane.” I sent my brother a look.
She glanced between us like she was equal parts amused and confused. “It’s a 1999.”
“Oh no,” we both said in unison.
But I cut off my brother before he could launch into a tirade about early model Hyundais. “We’ll take care of that. What you need is a Toy
ota.”
“A Toyota?” Duane sneered. “No. She’ll take the Mustang.”
He meant Jessica’s car, the one he’d rebuilt from scratch and loved almost as much as his Road Runner.
“What are y’all talking about?” She pulled us to a stop, splitting her glare between us. “I do not need a new car, and I certainly do not need a Winston telling me what to do. So why don’t y’all come out with whatever it is you need to say? I have a long drive back home and my feet hurt in these shoes.”
Duane and I shared a third look over her head and our silent conversation went something like this:
Duane: You want to tell her, or should I?
Me: I should do it.
Duane: You’re probably right, you’re much better with this kind of stuff.
Me: Thanks, Duane.
Duane: No problem, Beau.
Turning my attention back to Claire, I gave her a warm smile.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re scaring me, Beau.”
“Don’t be scared.” My grin widened, and I chuckled at her expression.
“It’s not scary,” Duane confirmed. “It’s good.”
“Okay.” Her lips twisted to the side. “What is it?”
“Claire, here is the bad news first. We’ve lost out on years. Ain’t nothing we can do about that.”
“Uh . . . okay?”
“Now here is the good news.” I gathered a deep breath, allowing my gaze to move over her face so I could remember this moment. “Your momma—Christine—had an affair with Darrell.”
“That’s the good news?” She was sorta looking at me sideways now, like she didn’t know what to make of me.
I gentled my tone, keeping hold of her eyes. “It’s good news because it means you’re our sister.”
She flinched, and all the color drained from her face. “What?”
“You are our sister.”
Instead of happy, she looked incredibly distressed. “Is this a joke?”
Duane and I shared a glance of alarm over her head, then Duane placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a lot to take in.”
“Darrell is my father?” The question sounded strangled, high-pitched with intense grief and a shade of terror.
“No. No, no, no,” I rushed to explain. “Darrell is our father. Christine is our biological mother. Your daddy is—uh—Razor.”
Her wide stare moved between us, her mouth gaping, until finally she closed her eyes and said on an exhale, “Oh thank God.”
She looked close to fainting, so I put my arm around her waist and brought her forward for a hug. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. This is good news, right?”
Claire nodded, her fingers gripping my sleeves at my biceps. “Just—just give me a minute. I’m sorry, I thought you were saying Darrell was my—that I’m related to all y’all and I—” She shook her head, like she wasn’t able to finish the thought.
“Nope. Just us two.” Duane shoved his hands in his pants pockets, sending me a grim glare. “And we hope that you’ll see this as good news in time.”
She leaned away from me, again her gaze bouncing between us. But instead of worry and grief, this time her eyes were filled with dawning comprehension and wonder.
“Oh, oh yes!” Her grin was huge and she laughed, releasing me and pulling Duane into a hug. “I can’t believe this. I just—it’s a lot to absorb.”
The strain in Duane’s features melted away as they hugged, and when she pulled back he gave her a rare smile. “We wanted to tell you, before Jess and I left.”
She nodded, her expression still hazy, like she was trying to keep up. “Thank you, yes. Thank you. I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“We were, too.” I reached for her hand again, bringing it back to my arm, leading her once again to the carriage house. “Can you stay for a bit? Do you have time to talk?”
“Of course. Of course I do.” She was staring forward, allowing herself to be guided, a small frown on her features. “I can’t believe this. Are you sure?”
“We haven’t had the DNA test done yet, but we do have the adoption paperwork listing your momma as our biological parent. I know it’s a lot to think over. I just found out yesterday.” Duane resumed his position, bringing her other hand to his arm, so the three of us were linked again.
“This is nuts. I can’t—I mean—how did you find out? And—gosh—who else knows?”
I patted her hand, bringing her attention back to me. “We’ll get to all that, but before we do, can we talk about your car situation again?” Looking to Duane, he gave me a nod of agreement. “What kind of car would you like? Let’s start there.”
Her gaze sharpened. “I know how you boys operate. You’re not giving me a car.”
“Let’s not be too hasty,” Duane cautioned, his tone thoughtful, and sent me a furtive grin. “Really, you’d be doing us a favor by taking one off our hands.”
* * *
Shelly and I didn’t make it home until late.
The three of us—Duane, Claire, and I—talked in the carriage house for about an hour. She’d agreed to stick around until after the wedding was over, so we could spend time discussing what it meant, being related to each other.
We knew Claire, she’d been a presence in our lives since we could remember. So it wasn’t as if we needed to play one hundred questions to learn who she was, and who we were. But we made sure we had each other’s cell numbers, and that she could contact us anytime she needed anything.
She knew we had Ashley, who loved to mother us, but it was incredible how easily she stepped into the same role of big sister. In some respects, it surprised the hell out of me. In others, given how close she was to two of our brothers, it made perfect sense.
She . . . she fits.
Once Jethro and Sienna left and the crowd began to thin, Claire, Duane, Jess, Shelly, and I left for Hank’s McMansion on Bandit Lake. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go that wouldn’t be either awkward or too small.
No one, not even Duane, seemed surprised I had keys. Which made sense. Hank and I were best friends, after all. I decided to keep the news of Hank’s recklessness—signing the place over to me—to myself for the time being.
The house was fully equipped. Claire agreed to stay the night and spend Sunday with us. Jess and Duane took another of the rooms after I assured them that Hank wouldn’t mind, nor would he notice.
But I decided to take Shelly home. I knew she liked her own space—free of clutter, and her books with their blue spines. And we had Oliver, Laika, and Ivan to consider. She’d been quiet during most of the evening, but didn’t hesitate adding her thoughts to the discussion when Jess brought up art installations in Chicago and New York.
I’d been grateful to Jess, for picking topics she knew Shelly would be interested in. It really was too bad Jess and Duane were leaving so soon.
We pulled into Shelly’s drive well after midnight. The short trip home had been a quiet one, and I’d felt her eyes off and on, like she was debating something, or trying to work up the nerve to ask me a question.
When I turned off the engine, and our only company was the quiet night and each other, I turned to her and asked softly, “What’s going on?”
She shook her head, studying me. I couldn’t have been more than a shadow to her, maybe a silhouette, but I saw her. Not the color of her eyes, or her lips, or her dress, but I saw what mattered.
“What is it?” I reached out, cupping her face, tracing the pad of my thumb along her cheekbone and lips.
“Don’t let go,” she whispered, unbuckling her seatbelt and turning toward me. She leaned forward, searching for my mouth, her aim slightly off. Keeping my hand on her cheek, I guided her and she let me, a burst of heat radiating through my body as our lips met and mated. Hers soft—so soft—and hot as they teased mine.
Shelly trailed her fingers down the front of my shirt, untucking it when she came to my pants. As we kissed I felt her hands unbuckle my belt, unbutton my fly, unzip my pants.
> I leaned my mouth away, searching her face in question. “Do you want to go inside?”
She shook her head, retaking my mouth, pushing her hand into my boxers and giving me a confident stroke. I released a ragged breath against her lips. She stroked me again.
“Lift your hips.”
I did. She pushed my pants and boxers down to my thighs, circling me again with her fingers.
“Shelly.” I was out of breath.
“Keep touching me.” She turned her head, sucking my thumb into her mouth and swirling the tip with her tongue while pumping me slowly.
Then she let go and I felt the loss of her touch everywhere. Yet, she didn’t withdraw. She shifted her weight, bringing her knees to the seat and hiking up her dress. In the next moment, she’d straddled my lap, rubbed her body against mine and guided me inside.
Holyfuckingshit. This will never get old.
We both breathed out on a rush, her forehead coming to mine.
“Fuck, Shelly. So good.”
“Mmm,” was her mumbled reply, which made me smile.
My hand slid to her neck, curling around her shoulder. I needed purchase, something to hold. Then Shelly tilted her hips just so, a gentle torment, a cruel indulgence.
I couldn’t move, not how I wanted. She was in control of our pace and apparently she wanted to go slow. Her rolling back . . . and forth was a special kind of torture. I needed more, more of her skin. Trailing the back of my fingers to her chest, I brushed my knuckles against the fabric over her tight nipple.
Her fingers shifted from my shoulders to the buttons of her dress, their movements jerky and urgent even as she maintained her agonizingly deliberate rhythm.
I grabbed her hands, bringing them to the headrest behind me. Setting to work on her buttons, I slipped them open at the same unhurried pace she employed.
“Faster,” she demanded.
My jaw was clenched against the effort of keeping still, of letting her ride me.
The strain of not taking over, rolling her onto her back and driving into her like I wanted—like I needed—was akin to walking a tightrope between heaven and hell. My legs burned. The base of my spine ached.