Full House (Stacked Deck Book 4)

by Emilia Finn

  At a little after seven, Brooke steps onto our front porch with Lyss’ hand held tight in hers, Twain on their heels, and the darkness outside slowly taking over the light as bugs fly around the porchlight.

  I had no clue when I woke this morning that today would end with me knowing what Brooke tastes like. What her curves feel like under my hands, what her hair smells like when pressed to my nose, or how she shoots off like a bottle rocket when touched just right. She looks like a faerie again, a fantasy in the waning light as she holds my daughter’s hand, and her trusty steed keeps watch over them both.

  “I had a fun day, Lyss. Thank you for inviting me over.” Brooke crouches down, inadvertently shows off muscular thighs as they fire up to hold her steady. Her long hair falls forward, dangles much like the chain she wears around her throat. “Swimming, a movie and popcorn, and then dinner and reading on the couch.”

  “We used up your whole day,” I murmur when that reality hits me. “Your entire day.”

  “And I loved it.” Her eyes don’t leave Lyss’ as she speaks. “I really had a fun time, and I know Twain did too. He got more pats today than he’s ever gotten in his life.”

  “I wanna keep him,” Lyss murmurs. “I want to keep him forever.”

  “You practically already own him,” Brooke grins. “He lives here on this estate. And you live here on this estate. It’s basically the same thing, except you never have to pick up his poop.”

  Lyss’ giggles make me grin. “Are his poops huge?”

  “Massive!” Brooke lifts her hands, widens them. “Like logs. It’s crazy.”

  “So gross!” Lyss bounces with laughter. “Do you pick up his poops, Miss Brooke? All by yourself?”

  “Well…” she chuckles. “It’s my job, technically. But mostly my daddy and my brother do it. Bryan likes to be mean to me sometimes, but deep down, I know he wants to make me happy, so he sneaks out and cleans up after Twain, he fixes my car if it makes funny noises, and when it’s trash night, he races out and does it before I can. He’s a good brother.”

  “I wish I had a brother.” Lit up with an idea, Lyss’ eyes snap to mine. “Daddy!”

  “Absolutely not.” I grab my girl, and yank her away from Brooke. “We’re done with this discussion. Thanks for coming, Miss Brooke. You have a good evening.”

  Quietly chuckling, she pushes to her feet with a shake of her head. Her lips twitch with playfulness, her chest bouncing with muted laughter. “That was a massive segue that we might need to table for a… decade or so.” She presses a hand to Twain’s head, turns him toward her house, away from mine. “See you next time, Alyssa. Miles…” She dips her chin and turns away. “Maybe call me sometime.”

  “Brooke?”

  She spins when she reaches the bottom step, sends her hair swinging, and smiles so big that my heart gives a painful thump. “Mm?”

  “I didn’t figure out who Bob is.”

  She laughs. “Not who. But what. Maybe you could Google it. Let me know what you find out. Don’t look at the images that might pop up. Or do. Whatever.” She shrugs. “Whatever makes you feel good when you’re all alone.”

  With that, she turns back to her house and kicks rocks as she moves along the narrow road. Her porchlights are on, though Bobby Kincaid isn’t waiting on the front steps today.

  Progress, I suppose.

  I remain where I am, with Lyss’ back pressed to my front, my hand on her shoulder, and we both watch Brooke and Twain move from road to grass. From grass to porch. Then as she stops at her front door, turns back, and waves.

  I press a hand to my chest when it gives a painful tug. “Dammit.”

  “What’s wrong, Daddy?” Always empathetic, Lyss turns to me with concern shining in her eyes. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay, baby.” I pull her in close so she hugs my thigh, then we hobble into the house, accompanied by her giggles as we work hard not to step on each other. “Come on, Lyss. It’s time to shower and go to bed.”

  Through the front door, straight up the stairs, Lyss races into the bathroom and sheds her clothes as she goes, so I have to collect tossed pieces as I follow. She speed-showers, doesn’t wash the chlorine from her hair, and though I should insist, I can’t muster the energy to argue about it. We can do it tomorrow.

  I sit on the closed toilet with my elbows on my knees, my head drooping low as I study my shoes and avoid the splash of Lyss’ water. Just minutes later, I help her out and toss a towel at her head. “Go get dressed, baby. Then pick a book and get ready. I’ll be in in a second.”

  I head to my room as she bolts into hers. I strip off and have my own speed shower, then I come out five minutes later in plaid pyjama pants that were given to me last Christmas with a tag that read “From Lyssy-Poo.”

  Lorna was – and is – batshit crazy, but she took care of my baby. Because Lyss would have asked, Lorna must’ve given her a few dollars to make her Christmas dreams a reality. No way was Lyss letting me go another Christmas without a gift under the tree. And not even my talks about how only little boys and girls get presents could sway her. She made sure I had something.

  So now I wear these pants with pride, step into the hall, and enter her room to find her in bed with her mountain of stuffed toys surrounding her. She pushes half of them to the floor the second I come into view, and pats the bed to make sure I slide in.

  When I’m comfortable, I glance at the book she reads.

  The Lion and the Sun, by B.K. Robertson.

  We’ve read this one before. It was in the pile of books Bobby gifted us, and though the whole pile was read and loved, Lyss has gravitated toward a couple in particular – The Lion was one of them.

  I know the story. I know that the lion begins his journey in the dark, and through a series of adventures with his best friend as they go in search of something magical and rare, he finds it – the sunlight – amidst a meadow much like those that scatter through the woods right outside this estate.

  It’s a sweet story that plays on friendship and loyalty, and the lesson that if you try, if you truly work hard and try to do your very best, then you’ll succeed.

  Lyss flips the pages without thought, with a soft hum under her breath that tells me she’s just minutes away from passing out, and stops on the dedication page, drawing my eyes to the simple words written in cursive.

  “For Uncle Leo. You deserve your happiness.”

  “Mmm…” Lyss rumbles at the back of her throat. “That’s nice, huh, Daddy?”

  “Uh huh. I wonder if Uncle Leo knows someone wrote a book for him?”

  She shrugs, burrows deeper into her bed, and flips to the title page with a lazy slide. I stop her before she can drag the next page over, because in thick black ink rests a signature that wasn’t there the last time we read.

  Lyss,

  Love you already,

  Love you always,

  B.K.

  “What?” I pry the book from Lyss’ heavy hands.

  She’s so tired, so done with today after a morning of swimming, and an afternoon of entertaining Brooke, she doesn’t even notice the scribbles in her beloved book. She doesn’t notice when I tug it away. And when I climb off the bed and prop all of her toys in my place, she doesn’t stir as I back away from her bed with the book clutched tightly in my hand.

  I flip her light out, leave the door ajar, and sprint downstairs with my heart racing.

  Alyssa and I read this very book only last night, and though I didn’t specifically read the title page, I’m certain I’d have noticed a massive, black fucking autograph taking up most of the page.

  I move through my home, through the living room, and then the kitchen, and I think on today. Lyss brought this book down this morning, and read it while she ate her breakfast. She sat at the counter, chattered at me about the lion and the pretty flowers in the meadow, and then….

  Swimming.

  Lyss raced upstairs to change into her bathing suit, leaving the book right there. I press my
hand to the exact spot I’m certain I saw it last.

  Two feet to the left of my hand sits a sharpie. Black. Thick.

  Wide-eyed, I snatch up the sharpie, tuck the book under my arm and, grabbing my phone, I hit dial on the number Brooke left behind.

  She fucking knew I’d need to call. She made sure I’d be able to.

  “That was quick. Miss me already?”

  “Are you B.K., or did you just graffiti someone else’s work?”

  Blowing out a soft laugh, she lets out a sigh that makes me think of her laying back. My mind conjures images of a girlie bedroom, a mix of Alyssa’s pinks and frills and Brooke’s edgy beauty.

  Obviously, I’ve never been in her room, but fuck if I don’t imagine a mix of delicate beauty and filthy sex melded together in perfect harmony.

  “Boys are so clueless sometimes, ya know that? How many times did I have to hold that book today while we were watching a movie for you to notice?”

  “I didn’t notice! But I sure as hell noticed the graffiti. B.K. Robertson. B and K…” I shake my head. “Okay, fuck. Brooklyn Kincaid. Shit.”

  “And you passed judgment on my writing today. You assumed I was a wannabe writer.”

  “I thought… I thought…” I plop down onto the stool and drop my face into my hand. “Shit. Yeah, okay. I thought you were bumming around a little, living your best life at twenty, writing a vampire book in your spare time.”

  “There are no vampires in my book, Miles. Geez, way to stereotype a girl.”

  “What’s the Robertson?” I look around my kitchen, like that might somehow help me. “I don’t get it.”

  “My grandmother’s maiden name was Robertson. Then, because my grandpa knew that names were important, even if shared with shitty people, they named their firstborn son Robert so the name would carry through.”

  “Robert…” I frown. “Bobby.”

  “Bingo. You should probably fangirl a little now. I’ll need it to get through another grueling day of bumming around.”

  “Why not just use your name?” I push. “That’s a built-in audience right there. Folks would buy simply because you’re Bobby’s—”

  And then something else hits me. “Oh god, the lion is Jon? Your Uncle Jon is the lion, and your Aunt Tink is the sunshine. Shit, Brooke.”

  She snickers. “You’ve heard him call her Sunshine, huh? He’s so sweet on her, I swear. Even after all these years, he’s still a sucker to her shenanigans. And why not use Kincaid?” she adds. “For the very reasons you figure I should. I didn’t want a built-in audience. I didn’t want pity support or buys from the wrong people because of brand recognition. I wanted to build this on my own. My own brand.”

  She sighs, though it’s a happy sound. “I did build it on my own. I sent queries to a hundred agents on my own. I accepted the knocks on the chin every time they came back and said no. I wrote dozens of stories, all of them infused with my heart and soul, with my family, the people I love, and when no one wanted them – there was no audience, they said – I did it on my own. I published, I marketed, I hustled hard and had my hand in every single step of the process, from covers, to formatting, to editing and beyond. A perk, I might mention, that would have been taken from me had someone accepted my applications and published me.”

  She pauses a moment before continuing. “I learned how to take rejection at a young age – I wrote the first when I was fourteen, queried it and all of the others in the same series when I was sixteen. I had a lawyer, I had a fierce mom reading everything before I signed it, and I had the confidence that while what I wrote might be different, it was still good. It was wanted and filled an audience’s need somewhere. That audience just hadn’t been formed yet.”

  “You created it.” I let my head drop, my shoulders fall, but my eyes remain on the cover of Jon’s book. “Jesus, there was no audience for you, so you created one. And then you went on to become B-fucking-K Robertson.”

  “Heard of me, have ya?”

  She’s arrogant. So fucking casual and arrogant as she becomes the female embodiment of her father – the peacock.

  “Fuck, Brooke.” I press a hand to my stomach. “The peacock book. The fucking peacock is Bobby.”

  She laughs in lieu of verbal confirmation. “I enjoyed the stories I wrote; I believe they belong in most nurseries and schools to teach children how to be brave and strong, and that even brave, strong people are allowed to ask for help. But now I’ve had this other story playing through my mind. Something new and different.”

  “It’s scary trying something new,” she admits on a whisper, “but if I don’t believe in myself, then how can I expect someone else to?”

  “You’re right,” I concede on a quiet murmur. “You need to believe. And then you need to follow whatever your brain is telling you. Jesus, Brooke. I don’t know what to say about– B.K. Robertson?”

  “Are you a little starstruck? It’s okay if you are. I’ll sign your forehead next time I come over.”

  “No one said anything.” I glance to the ceiling, to Lyss’ room, and imagine her reaction when she finds out about this. It makes me smile, because she’s going to lose her damn mind. “I’ve eaten with your family a dozen times, talked about everyone, learned about the family relationships and shit during small talk; but no one mentioned they have a published author in the house.”

  “Because it’s my own business, I suppose. It’s not a secret, so much as it’s just not necessarily something to be shouted about. They know who she is—”

  “She?” I frown. “Huh?”

  “Oh, I consider B.K. a separate entity from Brooke. So when I speak of my work, I speak of the author in third person.” I can almost hear her shrug. “I dunno. It helps me maintain objectivity, helps keep my private world and public world separate. When I write each day, I’m just me, just Brooke, doing what I love. And when I have to speak about my work, though that doesn’t happen so much anymore, I’m B.K.”

  “I enjoy being me, Miles.” She sighs. “I enjoy writing. I enjoy creating this world and smoothing out the bumps that my family have already had to live through. I’m especially enjoying writing my current book, so that’s gotta mean something, right? It’s a good sign.”

  “Can I read it?”

  She pauses. Hesitates. “Read what? Leo?”

  “No, the one you’re scared about.”

  “No way! It’s not done. Maybe after a few rounds of editing and stuff, when it’s cleaned up, you can take a look. It won’t be suitable for Lyss, by the way. This one has kissing in it.”

  I blow out a choking laugh and shake my head. “Kissing, like Sleeping Beauty, or kissing like what we did in the laundry today?”

  “Godddd, that was good.”

  And just like that, her nerves about me reading an unedited book, her arrogance about having a bunch of bestsellers, it all washes away to become something a lot more potent.

  “I swear, no man has ever kissed me the way you did. And did you realize the dryer was vibrating?” She lets out a breathy laugh. “It felt so nice.”

  “I didn’t notice, no.” But now I imagine the vibrations beneath her ass. The rhythmic tumble, the warmth, and I’m tempted to head to the laundry room. “And I should hope not.”

  “Hope not what?”

  “That no man has ever kissed you like that. It pisses me off that it pisses me off thinking about it.”

  She bursts out laughing. “That was a convoluted way of asking me to go steady with you.”

  “Go steady.” My chest bounces with soft laughter. “Jesus Christ, Brooke. I don’t even know what to say half the time we’re together. I especially don’t know what to say tonight, because we kissed, we touched, and now you’re B.K. Robertson. It’s wiggin’ me out.”

  “Pretend B.K. doesn’t exist for now. When it’s me and you talking, she doesn’t exist.”

  “If you and I end up hooking up… ya know… the kind with sweaty chests and pleasure and all that…”

  “
Mmm?” Her rumble makes my dick hard. “When. Not if.”

  “Okay, sure,” I exhale. “When we fuck…” I lean back to make sure Lyss isn’t at the doorway. “If I called you B.K. right as I come, would you be offended?”

  “You jerk!” she explodes on a laugh. “You’re a freak.”

  Laughing, I reach out for the sharpie and spin it on the marble countertop. “You’re easy to goad sometimes. By the way, there’s no way in hell I would speak about us that way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “When I said ‘when we fuck’… I wouldn’t… it’s not…”

  “You’re stuttering.”

  He grunts with frustration. “I wouldn’t speak so crassly about it. If you and I ever decide to spend time together, it’ll be respectful.”

  “Geez, hopefully not too respectful. A girl wants a man that can spank, Miles. Not do a thousand-piece puzzle while we discuss the stock market and Susan from church.”

  “I don’t know any Susans…” I lift a brow. “Nor do I go to church.” And yet, my hand slides over the outside of my pants, over my hardened cock that refuses to stand down.

  “Such a naughty boy,” she laughs. “Did you figure out what B.O.B. stands for yet? I’ve been waiting.”

  “No, you literally left my house twenty minutes ago! Lyss showered, I showered, we tried to read the fucking Leo book, and now here we are. I haven’t had time to think about whatever it is you’re trying to taunt me with.”

  “Is she asleep?” Her voice changes. Goes softer. “Lyss; she conked out?”

  “Yeah. We didn’t get past the dedication page before she was out.”

  “I should be a little offended,” she murmurs. “My books aren’t supposed to be that boring.”

  I snort. “She spent all morning in the sun and pool. All afternoon with you and Twain. She was switched on the entire day, when we normally live much quieter lives. She was still hyped when you left, but a hot shower fixed it. I knew it would finish her off.”

  “So she’s out? Which means you and I are all alone…”

  “Well… sure. If by all alone, you mean you’re there, alone, and I’m here, alone. Then yeah, you’re totally correct.”