by K. Bromberg
It’s the view that pulls me to the kitchen window. Past the fenced-in backyard where the half-built shed is on one side of the yard and a small covered patio with a fireplace is on the other. There are acres and acres of fields with grapevines growing. Their rows line the hills and their stakes make an optical illusion I stare at for some time, lost until the parachutes in the far distance near where I saw the airport on my drive into town catch my attention. Then I notice the space. Wide-open space without high-rises, or neighbors nearby, or the constant sounds of the city.
It’s beautiful. It’s foreign.
I stare as the tears burn my eyes and the emotions I continue to bury try to fight their way to the surface.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I yelp when something wet and warm hits the back of my leg.
What the hell?
When I whip around, I’m met with the ugliest, cutest thing I have ever seen. All fifty-or-so pounds of her.
The pig is whitish-pink with black spots. She has a fine layer of wiry hair coating her skin, and her pink snout is wet and quivering as she sniffs the air.
I know what I’m seeing, but it actually takes me a few seconds to really believe that I’m standing in Grady’s kitchen having a staring contest with a pig.
“And who, may I ask, are you?”
She shifts her feet, but her eyes stay fast on mine.
“Do you have a name?” I look for a collar, but then realize how stupid that sounds to be treating a pig like a dog . . . and yet, there is a pig in front of me. One that is very comfortable in . . . I bend over to check out the pig’s underside just to be sure of her gender . . . her surroundings.
Her tail twitches some, and I laugh. I’ve resorted to speaking to a pig. Maybe I’m going crazy.
“Well, I’m going to eat some breakfast,” I say. “No worries though. It isn’t bacon. Just cereal.”
Yep. Definitely crazy.
It’s when I set the phone on the counter behind me that I see the handwritten note.
Dylan,
Don’t be alarmed by Petunia. I forgot to warn you about her, but the vet dropped her off this morning. She’s perfectly harmless . . . mostly. She has a doggy door so no need to take her out.
Grady
I stare at the note for a few seconds as Petunia grunts from the floor.
“Well, Petunia . . . it’s just you and me today.”
“How are you?” Jett’s voice rasps through the line like a fine whiskey over ice—smooth but with a burn to it.
I fight the threatening tears. I refuse to let his sudden concern for me make me fall back into the black hole being in Sunnyville is trying to pull me out of.
“Do you like the lyrics so far? I think they work well with the track you laid down.” I try to sound all business and wonder if he can see right through it.
“Dylan . . .” His voice is part apology, part concern, and I don’t want to believe either is sincere. “It feels like it’s been forever since—”
“Weeks. Not forever.” Twenty days to be exact.
“Too long.”
“The bridge sits perfect with the riff you have on there—”
“I didn’t call to talk about the songs,” he says.
“Then I guess I’ll be hanging up about now.”
“No. Please, Dylan. Don’t—”
“You’re going to show up for your scheduled session in the studio on Wednesday, right?”
“Of course, I am.”
“And you’re going to be on your best behavior? No tantrums. No—”
“Christ, Dylan, I’m not a kid.”
Then stop acting like one. The thought rushes through my mind. Why did it take me so long to see how immature he is? How his temper tantrums were not artistic frustration but rather him being spoiled rotten?
“Don’t screw this up for me, Jett. I need the label to think everything is good. I don’t need them worrying if the album will be completed in time. From the get-go of this contract they threatened to table it if you weren’t behaving, and I can’t risk that. I need the—”
“Money. I know, I know. And I told you I’d give you the goddamn money to help your mom. It’s not a problem.”
“I don’t need shit from you,” I say through gritted teeth. “All I need is for you to do your job and not screw up.”
The quiet vibrates across the connection.
“And if I don’t? If I miss the studio time, maybe that will force you to come home and actually talk to me face to face.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” My hand fists on my phone, and I hate knowing that I wouldn’t put it past Jett to pull a stunt like that. His threat is real.
“I wouldn’t.” There’s amusement in his voice, and I can all but see the cocky smirk on his face. “I don’t need the money. I’m more than good. Then again, we do need to talk.”
“Actually, we don’t.” Images flit through my mind like the snap of a camera: the light under the closed bedroom doorway, Tara straddling him, their mutual moans, their shocked faces when I gasped. How he shoved her off him and chased after me. The words, the promises, the apologies. Her stalking after us in all her naked glory. And then the nasty words she said that fed every insecurity I feel about myself.
“I made a mistake. I don’t know how many ways I can apologize to you before you believe it.”
“Apologizing doesn’t take the hurt away.” Neither does the photo I saw of them in People Magazine sitting outside at Starbucks where they knew the paparazzi would snap a shot of them.
“Have you seen her again?”
“I miss you, baby. I miss—” I’ll take that as a yes. His change in topic is classic Jett Kroger. If he doesn’t want to admit to something, he shifts gears without a second thought.
“Let’s focus on the song I sent you earlier. I’m still not sold on the opening verse, but—”
“I stopped by our place the other day—”
“You mean my place. It’s my place now. Not ours.”
“You were gone,” he says, completely ignoring my correction.
“Yep. Sure was.” I hate that my heart aches. I hate that I miss him. And I hate that I even wanted to see him.
“You packed up and left in such a hurry that—”
“I think once we’re in the studio and hear the whole thing put together, I’ll be able to pinpoint what needs to be changed.”
“You could be in the studio with me on Wednesday . . .”
“No, I can’t.” I won’t. For so many more reasons than just the physical distance between us.
Needing to abate the emotion rioting within me, I walk to the open window and look out at the darkness beyond. The warm night breeze blows gently against my skin, and it smells so clean. I’m so used to being able to watch the city come alive as the day fades to night that it’s unnerving to look outside and see silhouettes of trees against the moonlit sky.
“You’re not going to budge, are you?” I don’t respond. I can’t. There’s always been something about Jett that has made me melt, and I can’t melt this time. Yes, he cheated on me. Yes, I swore if anyone ever cheated on me I’d turn my back on him and never look back, which is exactly what I’ve done here. I called Damon, told him I needed help, packed my shit as fast as I could, and came to Sunnyville where he had helped me find a place. Just because it was easy to hold up to my own promise, doesn’t mean I can turn off the emotions or tell my heart not to hurt. That part is a lot harder than it seems.
But I’m here. I’m here because I knew it would be much easier to cave—to be weak—if I was in my place where his things surrounded me. Where he and his charm could wear me down.
“Dylan?”
“No, I’m not going to budge, Jett.” I clear my throat.
“Well, if you’re not going to come here, then I’ll come to you. Where are you?”
“I’ve already moved on. Found someone new.” The words come off my tongue without thought, and I hate the need to lie just to get him to stop.
“I don’t buy that for a goddamn minute.”
“You should.”
“You want to tell me where you’re staying?”
“No. It’s none of your business.”
“Are you staying with him?” As much as I’m not trying to play games here—and lied just to end the topic of conversation—a part of me enjoys hearing the shock in his voice.
“It doesn’t matter who I’m staying with. Get to the studio on Wednesday. Don’t be an asshole to Kai and the rest of the guys,” I say, referring to the audio engineer. “And listen to the lyrics I put over the track. Let me know what you think. I’ll move on to the next song until I hear from you.”
“I love you, Dylan.”
I close my eyes and let my head fall forward as I hear words from him I know he doesn’t often say. “If you loved me you wouldn’t have fucked someone else.”
And with that, I end the call and sink onto the edge of my bed. My phone is clutched to my chest as the reel of me walking in on him and Tara plays over and over again in my mind.
I glance at the clock to see that it’s two in the morning. We always worked best when it was late and our brains were fuzzy and that kind of delirious state kicked in . . . I guess not even distance can change that.
Picking up my guitar, I hum the lyrics and play the chords, my mind trying to pinpoint where the song is off.
A sound breaks through my process. At first, I assume it’s the scanner, my telltale sign that Grady is home from his shift, but just as I strum the guitar, I hear it again.
“Help. Please. Oh. God.”
Grady’s voice is filled with anguish and need. I drop my guitar and am out of my room within seconds, heading down the hall to where I can hear him waging a verbal struggle. His bedroom door is open, and when I enter, he’s sprawled across his bed, asleep.
He’s dreaming. Not in trouble.
My heart slows a beat, but the deep mewl of agony he emits as he bucks his body on the bed has me moving to him without a second thought.
“Grady! Grady! Wake up!”
He flings his arm back as I try to shake his shoulders and jar him awake. He struggles against me while that horrible keening sound continues in the back of his throat. I climb onto the bed, uncertain of what to do but positive I can’t let him continue with this nightmare.
“No. Please. No,” he murmurs as he writhes from side to side and I struggle to calm him. He’s too strong and shifts suddenly so I fall somewhat on top of him. I can sense the minute he wakes and comes to. His body tenses. There’s a quick intake of breath. His hand holding my wrist relaxes.
“Dylan?” It’s a question, as if he needs to understand why I’m sitting here, straddling him in his bed.
The light from the hallway casts light over his face and makes the sheen of sweat covering his chest noticeable. Our eyes meet, his glassy and curious. “You were having a nightmare. I tried to . . .”
He clears his throat, and I can see him try to shake off whatever ghosts of the dream still cling to him. “I . . .” He brings his hand up to scrub over his face. “It was just a bad dream. Sorry to wake you.” The unbothered tone in his voice contrasts with the struggle of emotion in his expression.
When he lowers his hand and meets my eyes, there is more in the depths of them—vulnerability, fear, shame, confusion—but he blinks it away as quickly as it flashes.
“Are you okay? Can I do anything to help you?”
“No. It’s . . . I get them often.”
And it’s in this moment—the one where his eyes try to avert from mine so I don’t see too much and slowly run their way down my torso—that I’m more than aware of what pajamas I have on. A tank top and flimsy shorts that could double as panties.
His breath stutters again, but it has nothing to do with his nightmare. His dick stirs to life beneath me. There is a moment of suspended disbelief that passes in slow motion as we realize what is happening and neither of us is sure if we should stop it.
And then, just as quickly, his hands are on my torso pushing me as I’m scrambling off him. Standing beside the bed, I cross my arms over my chest to hide my nipples, which are hard and needy and reflect exactly where my thoughts went.
“I’m sorry.” We both say in unison and then laugh, nerves tingeing the edges.
“I didn’t mean . . . I hope you’re okay.” There is a long, awkward pause before I stammer out, “I’m just going to go now.”
I make my way to the door, embarrassment staining my cheeks and modesty having me wish I had my robe to cover up.
“Dylan. Wait.”
When I pause and turn to face him, Grady is sitting up in bed, a sheet draped over his waist, his hair a total mess. My first coherent thought is: I was right. He looks every bit as mouth-wateringly perfect as that eight-pack of abs beneath his shirt hinted at the other day. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry . . . for waking you up . . . for, you know.” He motions his hand at the space between him and me as a sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth that has me wanting to bolt when my feet want to stay.
“It’s, uh, natural.”
Oh my God. Did I actually just say that?
He chuckles. “Something like that. You wanna turn around for a sec?” He motions his finger in a circle.
“For what?”
“Because I’m naked beneath the sheet, and since I’m planning on grabbing a drink of water from the kitchen, you might get an eyeful when I do.” He bites the side of his cheek, trying to fight the arrogance in his smirk. “I couldn’t care less . . . but, uh, you might.”
“Oh, yes. Sure.”
Feeling like an idiot, I walk from his room and down the hall to mine. My mind keeps reliving the thought of him naked with his dick hardening beneath me. My body does too.
“Christ,” I murmur as I grab my robe and pull it tight around me.
It’s normal to have that simmering ache in my lower belly after straddling a man, an extremely good-looking man, right?
He’s already in the kitchen when I make my way out, T-shirt and shorts on, and a glass of amber liquid in his hands. The lines of his face etched with the unknown.
“I needed something stiffer than water. Want some?” He holds his glass out to me, and I take a sip, fighting the urge to swear when the burn hits my throat.
“That’s good for me, thanks.”
He chuckles, but it sounds absent of humor as he moves to the window and stares at the darkness I found solace in earlier. His shoulders are broad, his hair is a mess, and his bicep tenses as he brings the glass to his lips.
I debate leaving him be, giving him the peace he’s most likely used to living on his own. Yet, there is something about him that has me sinking onto the couch and watching him from afar. Maybe it’s that he looks as lost as I feel right now.
The scanner sparks to life and holds both of our attention as codes are given and 10-4s are responded.
I try to push away the riot of memories the sound brings up. The muffled sound of the dispatcher I’d hear as my mother would sit and listen to the scanner long after my brother and I had gone to bed. That and the clink of the neck of her vodka bottle as it hit the rim of her glass.
“Car accident on the outskirts of town with a passenger trapped,” he deciphers the codes for me when the radio falls silent, almost as if he’s not sure what else to say.
I close my eyes and say a silent prayer for the person trapped. When I open them, he’s standing in front of me, head angled to the side, staring. “What are you doing?”
“Saying a little prayer for the person in the car to make sure they are all right.”
He smiles softly and sits on the edge of the coffee table that faces me. “My mom used to do that when she’d hear a call on the scanner. She’d also say one for my dad’s safety. I forgot that until right now.”
“Was your dad a firefighter too?”
“A cop. Then the chief of police.”
“You didn’
t want to follow in his footsteps?”
“For a while, but my oldest brother ended up going that route, and I ended up falling in love with fire.” His eyes darken some, and I’m reminded of the nightmare he’s just woken from and wonder if it has anything to do with his work.
“Your nightmare . . .”
“Nothing big really. Just a reminder to keep me on my toes when I’m at work.”
“You said you have it often,” I say, curious if he’ll tell me more.
“It’s late.” He shoves up from his seat and moves around the back of the couch toward the hallway. “Thank you for trying to help, but I need to get some sleep.” I freeze when he places a kiss to the top of my head. It’s unexpected. It’s sweet. It makes me want to snuggle into the couch and stay right here with him.
“Good night,” I murmur, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Sleep sweet.”
I remain seated, listening to dispatch for who knows how long, wondering if my dad is on the other end of that code somewhere.
And if maybe my mom does the same thing even after all these years.
“What gives, man?” Grayson asks as he tips the neck of his beer toward the house.
“What do you mean?” I swing the hammer and pound the nail into the two-by-four.
“Hottie songwriter,” Grant fills in the blanks for him.
“How do you know she’s a hottie?” I ask.
“I have my sources,” Grant says with a lift of his brow.
“So, that means Emerson must have seen her somewhere and given him the rundown,” Grayson says about Grant’s wife. “So, is she?”
I think back to the other night. The heat of her pussy with nothing separating us but a thin sheet. The way her nipples pressed against her tank top. She was warm and real and inviting when everything about my dream was cold and dark and debilitating.
I line up another nail on the two-by-four I’m holding over my head and pound it into place. “Aren’t you assholes supposed to be helping me?”
My older brother chuckles as he takes a sip of his beer before rising to help. “He isn’t answering, Gray. You know what that means.”