by Annie Kelly
“Meet my girl, Carson,” he says, pulling me closer to him. “Carson, this is Presley. She dates Danny, the bartender.”
“Howdy!” Presley wraps her arms around me in a hug I’m barely able to reciprocate, mostly because I’m still thinking about Wyatt’s introduction.
His girl, huh? Is that what I am?
“Wy-Guy here is, like, a total sweetheart,” Presley says, nodding emphatically and chomping on her gum. “Like, he’s one of the only guys who’s never tried to grab my tits and, trust me, that says something.”
I blink at her, unsure as to exactly how to react to that endorsement.
Turns out, I don’t have to. I open my mouth to respond just when I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”
The voice alone is enough to shoot ice through my veins. I let my eyes fly from Wyatt to the owner of the voice. A face I haven’t seen in months. But it’s not like I could possibly forget it. I’ve known it my whole life.
My brother, Lennon, is standing behind me, both arms crossed over his broad chest and an almost sinister smile spread across his flushed face.
Chapter Eleven
“How’s it going, sis? I never thought I’d see you in this shithole again.”
I swallow hard as I pull myself up to my full height. Even when we were little, Lennon always knew how to intimidate me. I refuse to let him do it tonight. One look at his complexion and eyes and there’s no doubt in my mind that there’s drugs rolling through his veins. Guess there’s no use in asking if he’s clean. The chick next to him with stringy blond hair and sunken eyes is clearly dabbling in the same shit he’s been using. She’s leaning against him and looks like she’s about to pass the fuck out.
“How have you been, Lennon?” I ask, my voice low. The band has taken a break and, as of yet, the DJ isn’t playing a supplemental track. We’re just surrounded by hundreds of voices—including Wyatt’s. I shoot him a glance over my shoulder, but he’s chatting with two guys I don’t recognize. I’m hoping I can get Lennon out of here before either of them notices the other.
“You know how it is. Mom’s still bitching at me about getting a job. Shit at home is getting way too real, yanno?”
I can feel my lip involuntarily curling and I force myself to school my expression. Lennon is almost thirty years old and living in our mother’s basement. I’m not sure when he last held a steady job—certainly not any time recently. Well, it also depends on how you define “job.” For him, selling drugs is job enough, but that only supports his habit and the habit of whatever skank he’s banging at the time.
It looks as though the girl at his side couldn’t be more than nineteen. I feel the bile rising in my throat, but I swallow it down.
“Life would be a shitload easier if you’d just let me crash at your place,” Lennon is saying, giving me a pointed look. “I mean, I’m sure that friend of yours wouldn’t mind. She’s hot as fuck and I could definitely make it worth her while.”
“Rainey isn’t your type.”
He frowns and the haze of drugged happiness falls away from his eyes.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
His voice is slurring a bit and I take a step back.
“All I mean is that she’s super focused on work and she doesn’t go out a lot. She’s got a lot on her plate.”
Lennon narrows his eyes.
“What are you doing here anyway, Carson?”
“Carson?”
I suck in a breath and turn to see Wyatt, his face concerned. I’d been blocking his view of Lennon, but when I shift around, he is staring right up into my brother’s face. Lennon sort of blinks at him.
“Do I know you, dude?” he asks.
I can practically see Wyatt’s hackles rise. He clears his throat, then shakes his head.
“Naw, man. You don’t know me.” Wyatt looks at me. “How about we get out of here?”
I nod quickly. We’d maybe lasted a half hour, but that thirty minutes has proven to be just about enough.
“No, no. I do know you.”
I freeze as Lennon pushes past me to stare down at Wyatt again.
“Or I should say,” my brother says slowly, “that I know your wife.”
The room, loud as all hell and completely rowdy, suddenly feels like a vacuum with the air sucked right out of it. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. I can feel my chest practically caving in with the pounding beat of my heart.
“Last time I saw you, though, I think you punched my fucking lights out,” Lennon continues. He’s smirking down at Wyatt now and he cocks his head. “You and your buddy. Guess he’s not around anymore to back you up. And you’re not in any shape to kick my ass again, either, I see.”
My heart’s still beating too fast, but that’s too far. I whip around and glare at my brother.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” I hiss at him. I turn to Wyatt, grabbing the handles of his wheelchair, intent on getting him out of there as quickly as possible.
But Wyatt has other ideas.
With a mixture of amazement and horror, I watch Wyatt shift the handbrakes into the park position, then kick the footrests out of the way. Slowly, but methodically, Wyatt rises to standing. All around us, people are watching as Wyatt pulls himself to his full height, and I can’t help but be struck by how tall he actually is—at least six feet, like Lennon. Behind Wyatt, Moses suddenly pushes through the crowd.
“Wy—dude, let me get this fucking dick outta here,” he mutters. But Wyatt holds up his hand.
I move to grab Wyatt’s hand to steady him, but he refuses to take it. Instead, I stand there dumbly. All I know is that Wyatt is furious and standing up, braced only by his stance within the wheelchair itself.
“You’re trash, Tucker,” Wyatt says under his breath to Lennon. “And, yeah, last time I saw you, Zeb and I beat your smug face into the pavement. Clearly, I’m in no position to do it again—but I don’t think I need to. You’re a bottom-feeder and you’re scum and I hope you enjoyed my sloppy fucking seconds.”
Damn.
I let my eyelids drop a bit and I swallow hard. I wait for Lennon to deck Wyatt or to lunge at him, but instead he just shrugs.
“Man, beat down or no, fucking your wife was worth every second. That tight pussy was some of the best I’d had in years.” He leans closer to look Wyatt in the face. “And if you think you’re getting back at me by fucking my sister? Trust me, she’s been around this place a time or ten. She was trash long before you touched her.”
My heart stutters and I almost choke on my own breath. Wyatt moves to lunge then, but Moses beats him to it. He grabs Lennon by the collar and yanks him in the opposite direction.
Wyatt, on the other hand, loses his balance and sort of grapples at the air before falling forward. He catches the majority of his weight on his hands as he hits the bar floor.
“Fuck,” I say, rushing to his side. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” But Wyatt’s voice is icy—almost as cold as his gaze when he looks at me. “Can you scoot the chair forward so I can pull myself up?”
“Of course.” In my sudden need for action, the anxiety I’m feeling is replaced by something else—something like responsibility. I hurry to grab the wheelchair and release the brakes. I notice then that the people around us—friends of Wyatt’s, acquaintances, even strangers—are all doing the pity-watch. It’s a look where someone pretends not to be paying any attention at all, but are actually looking from the corner of their eye at the scene. That’s what a good fifty or sixty bar-goers are doing at this very moment. And Wyatt knows it.
“Let’s get out of here, please.”
He says it calmly, almost serenely, but the expression on his face is like a tightly clenched fist—there’s something about him that proves a tenseness that he has to release. Stat.
I don’t even look at the other patrons. I don’t say a word—instead, I push through the crowd towar
d one of the back exits. I pass the hall to the bathrooms and Wyatt glances over at them. I wonder if he’s remembering the same moments I am.
We push out into the parking lot. Wyatt sees another bouncer—this one I don’t recognize—and I leave him to chat while I go grab the car. The entire walk to my parking spot I’m berating myself and wishing I’d never come back here. I couldn’t have foreseen this particular clusterfuck, but I’ve known for months that me plus The Factory equals bad news. And now I’ve managed to drag Wyatt into it. He’s probably fucking furious. I don’t even blame him for it.
But when I pick him up at the back parking lot, he seems in better spirits—at least compared to how he seemed when we were still inside the bar. He exchanges numbers with the bouncer and they talk about jamming together. By the time I’ve stowed his wheelchair and we pull away, I think that the night might actually be salvageable.
“So,” I begin. I rapidly lick my lips and glance over at Wyatt’s dark profile. He’s staring straight ahead out of windshield.
“So,” he says back. And then nothing.
Silence.
I blink rapidly, glancing up at the bar disappearing behind us in the rearview. I try to use the metaphor as a sign.
“Listen,” I begin, “I’m really sorry about my brother and the—”
“Stop, Carson.”
I open my mouth then close it. In my peripheral vision, I can see Wyatt shaking his head.
“You shouldn’t apologize for your brother’s behavior. You shouldn’t have to.”
“I know that,” I say quietly. “I just want to.”
“Well, don’t.” Wyatt’s tone is cold and I feel that temperature coast over my skin and settle deep into my body.
“Look,” he continues, “we gave this a shot—we went out, just like we said we would. Clearly The Factory wasn’t the best choice.”
I snort a little laugh. “Yeah. Clearly.”
Wyatt turns and gives me a wan smile. “That isn’t your fault. I got to see some friends—that was pretty kick-ass.”
“Yeah, but Lennon wasn’t part of the deal,” I mutter. Wyatt shrugs.
“Maybe not. But it’s a small scene around this town. I was going to run into him eventually.”
We go quiet as I pull off the main road onto a back route to Holly Fields.
“So,” I say again, clearing my throat, “you—uh—you stood up.”
He doesn’t speak for a second. When he does, he’s quiet.
“Yeah. That wasn’t planned.”
“Maybe not, but you did it,” I say. “And without assistance—no parallel bars or anything.”
“Which is why I fell flat on my face,” Wyatt says quietly.
“No,” I protest, “you did not fall on your face—not even close.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. I bite down hard on my bottom lip, trying to think of something else to say. Instead, the silence fills the Jeep like some kind of dark force. Nothing I can imagine saying seems even remotely appropriate or helpful or insightful.
It isn’t until we pull into Holly Fields and park that Wyatt speaks again.
“I’m sorry I dragged you out,” he says quietly. I turn to look at him, then reach out and grab his hand.
“Wyatt, it’s fine. Seriously.”
He looks at me for a long moment.
“How did you do?” he asks then, his eyes concerned. “How was your anxiety?”
I shrug. “I mean, fine mostly. Until we ran into my asshole of a brother.”
“Yeah.” Wyatt shoots me a self-deprecating grin. “It wasn’t just you, though. My anxiety popped off a little, too, doll.”
I smile back at him and, for a long moment, we just sit there, looking at each other. I watch the way his brown eyes move over my face, how he seems to absorb every part of me. To take me in as one deep inhale.
“Come here,” he says, his voice husky.
I lean closer and he slides his hand behind my head, anchoring his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck. Wyatt angles my head with both hands, his grip both firm and gentle. He presses his mouth against mine and, before I know it, the kiss turns into something intoxicating. His tongue slicks over mine without anything close to pretense. He moves his mouth to my cheek, then flicks that magical tongue out along the sensitive skin just under my jaw. That slight bite of pain from him pulling my hair is a delicious contrast to the wet and wonderful sensation of his mouth sucking and licking my neck.
“How about we take this upstairs?” I ask as his lips brush against my earlobe. I shiver as he grazes it with the slightest bit of teeth, but when he pulls back, his eyes look less than eager. They look almost regretful.
“As much as I would love that—and I really, really would—I’ve got physical therapy really early in the morning.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I try not to sound disappointed. Instead, I busy myself by getting out and removing the wheelchair from the back, then bringing it around the passenger’s side of the car.
Once Wyatt is settled in the wheelchair, he pulls his gloves on and winks up at me.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I nod and force a winning smile. “Sounds good. We’ll talk then.”
Wyatt gives me a salute as he wheels himself across the lot and back into the Holly Fields main building. For several minutes, I sit in the driver’s seat and stare out the windshield, trying to steady my breathing and trying not to panic about the results of tonight. My anxiety has a mind of its own, however, and it’s screaming in my ear that Wyatt doesn’t want me around anymore. That he’s done with the drama.
And as I drive away, I can’t help but hearing a voice other than Wyatt’s in my head. It’s Lennon’s sneering words, his suggestion that hooking up with me is a shot at my brother rather than something Wyatt would want to do because of any kind of attraction to me. I don’t know what it is about those words, but they echo and shout in the recesses of my mind. Despite my best intentions, my brother is still able to rattle me far more than I’d ever let him know.
Chapter Twelve
It’s been a while since I’ve been to my mom’s house. For a long time, since Lennon was living here I avoided it to avoid the temptation to use. Now it’s more about avoiding Lennon in general.
My mom is an ER nurse—she’s been working twelve-hour shifts for most of our lives, even growing up. We never saw much of her once we were old enough to become latchkey kids. Afternoons were filled with homework and evenings with frozen meals, at least for me. Lennon, on the other hand, ditched school at sixteen and never went back at all.
Still, I can’t blame Mom for that. I know she did the best she could. Being a single mother who worked in Baltimore sort of opened her up for a family riddled with problems.
Now, though, standing outside her row home at nine a.m., I’m reminded of the girl I used to be when I lived here. There’s nothing like coming back to my mother’s house to make me feel sixteen again. Frankly, I feel like a teenager most of the time anyway, but visiting mom for a weekend breakfast definitely clinches it.
I decided to come early today, mainly because I’m sure that Lennon is either not home at all or completely passed the fuck out. The only chance I ever get to chat with my mother openly is when my brother is nowhere to be found.
I pull open the storm door and squint through the main door window.
“Hey Mom? You home?”
I knock and ring the bell for good measure, but I see her turn the corner from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. When she recognizes it’s me standing there, her face lights up.
“Carson, baby!”
She swings the door open and pulls me into the kind of hug that only Mom can give me—all-encompassing and incredibly warm. Tears involuntarily spring to my eyes and I blink them away.
“Hey Mom. How are you?”
“I’m great, honey, just great. Come on in—I was about to make banana bread.”
I follow my mothe
r inside, taking in the scenery like I’m watching a movie. The same sofa and chairs, the same crocheted doily on the end table that my grandmother made before she died. In some ways, nothing ever changes around here. In other ways, I feel like I’ve never been more different.
“How’s everything going with school, Cars? You still gonna finish by the end of the year?”
I shrug and sit down on the peeling vinyl seat of one of the kitchen chairs.
“I don’t know. All I have left is my student teaching and then, technically, my master’s degree is done. I just need to set stuff up for the fall.”
“Hmm.” Mom pulls a metal bowl out of a cabinet and starts dumping ingredients inside of it. I watch as she spoons flour directly from the bag without even measuring. Some recipes, like this one, she just knows by heart. By feel.
“Well, honey, don’t wait too long,” she says, wiping her hands on her jeans. “I don’t want you to miss out on another chance to finish your graduate degree and begin your life.”
I inhale sharply, forcing myself to keep my cool.
“Actually, Mom, I’m here to talk about lives beginning—just not mine.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Honey, if this is about me meeting someone again . . .”
“No,” I shake my head, “it’s not that. It’s about Lennon.”
Almost immediately, it’s like a curtain drops over my mother’s gaze. She turns back to her bowl and continues to add ingredients.
“Oh, really? And what, pray tell, has your brother done now?”
I clear my throat and focus on the ceramic salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table. They’re in the shape of birds—swallows, I think. I touch the orange beak of one as I try to gather my thoughts.
“Mom, I just think it’s time that Lennon gets out and does some of his own living—I mean, he’s been crashing in your basement for, what? Five years?”
“Not quite that long,” she murmurs, stirring the bowl’s contents with a wooden spoon.
I spread my hands wide.
“Well, close enough. Don’t you think it’s about time for him to get his shit together?”