Combust

by K. Bromberg

  “I’ll show up, but I’m not staying.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “No, I won’t,” I groan. “Why is he so adamant I be there anyway?”

  “He wants a progress report on what we have so far so they can direct us if they feel we’re off track on the vibe.”

  “They what? Since when do they review the songs before they’re finished?” I’m trying not to get my hackles up here, but in all the time I’ve been writing for Excel, I’ve never had a babysitting meeting.

  “Since you weren’t there and since I’m me.” He chuckles unapologetically like it’s funny when it’s anything but. “I had to promise. You know they have a lot riding on this release. With the state of the industry and singles selling far better than whole albums, they’re trying a new marketing scheme this time around. They want every song to be a hit.”

  I look at him like he’s crazy. “Isn’t that always the goal?”

  “Yeah, but you know what I mean. It’s a big—”

  “You need anything, honey?” Grady asks as he walks onto the porch and presses a kiss to the top of my head. He leaves his lips there for a beat longer than the kiss lasts, and the warmth of his breath heating my scalp only serves to remind me of the heat of his body as he cuddled with me during the night.

  Something neither of us discussed after meeting each other the way we did earlier. With him almost naked and me horny.

  “What are you guys up to today?”

  “Writing songs,” Jett says as if Grady’s a dumb shit. The muscle in Grady’s jaw pulses as he clenches back the smartass remark I can tell is on the tip of his tongue.

  “Great idea. The sooner you get them done, the quicker you can head out. I’m sure you’re dying to get back home to all of your adoring fans. I mean, you’re so very generous to let them in your house and to sleep with you, too.”

  The two men have a silent pissing match through visual warfare while I sit between them.

  “Do you have something to say, Grady?” Jett pops his neck to the side as if he’s prepping for a fight.

  “No, he doesn’t,” I interrupt, not wanting anything to happen between them because of me. The easier this is, the quicker the songs are done, and the sooner Jett leaves. Besides, I have enough bitterness for the lot of us.

  “Yeah,” Grady steps forward, ignoring my comment. “What’s that saying? One man’s fuck-up is another man’s good fortune? Thanks for fucking up, Kroger.”

  “I don’t have to put up with this shit.”

  “You’re right. You don’t.” Grady’s fuck-you smile is in full effect. “There’s a Best Western down the street if you’d prefer to stay there shit-free.”

  Jett shakes his head, starts to walk away then stops, and turns back around with a smarmy look on his face. “Tell me something, Grady,” Jett says as he narrows his eyes. “You two sure seemed to get cozy awfully quick. So much so I’m wondering if you weren’t stealing my girl before she broke things off with me.”

  Oh. Shit.

  Why didn’t I think of this before? Because I didn’t have to. Spending most of my days holed up writing had allowed me to fly under the radar in Sunnyville. No one had connected the dots with who I was and how I was associated with Jett. I’d been free.

  How stupid could I have been?

  I stare at Jett, wide-eyed and flat-footed, and just as I’m about to open my mouth and say something, anything, Grady steps in without skipping a beat.

  “I’m a friend of Damon’s. Dyl and I had met several times before, flirted, kissed.” He shrugs as if it’s a fact. “But we were always in different places, different paths . . . so thanks to your fuck-up, now we’re right where we need to be.”

  Grady completely disregards whatever reaction Jett gives next, lifts my mug from my hands, and takes a sip. He fights the grimace at my blacker than black coffee, which is a far cry from the sugar-and-creamer-loaded mess he normally drinks.

  “What are your plans today?” I ask him.

  “Gotta help my dad with a few things. Then maybe go shoot the shit with my brothers, have a few drinks. You’re welcome to come.” He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my lips, which throws me off guard. I know this is all for show, but damn, it doesn’t seem to matter how Grady kisses—a peck, a brush, tongue, all in—because he makes my stomach flutter each and every time.

  Even though I know it’s fake.

  Because it is fake.

  Someone just needs to tell my body that.

  And my heart.

  “Why are you in such a sour-ass mood?”

  My middle finger is up to Grayson and his comment before I turn to look his way.

  “Because her ex is in town,” Grant fills in.

  “Jett fucking Kroger is in Sunnyville?” Grayson asks, voice rising in pitch with each word while simultaneously grating on my every last nerve.

  “Don’t remind me,” I groan as I look into my beer and wish for another before this one is even finished. I’m going to need it. “And no, Gray, you’re not going to the house to get an autograph. Don’t give the fucker the satisfaction of thinking he matters, you got that?”

  Grayson narrows his eyes at me, and I realize I just proved his point that I am in fact in a shitty mood. “So what gives?”

  I’m not even sure who says it, and I’m too busy thinking of Jett’s phone conversation I overheard this morning while Dylan was in the shower to care. How he wasn’t done winning her over. How he could tell she was caving and was planning to set up a romantic dinner to win her back.

  The fucker.

  “He isn’t answering,” Grant says with a chuckle. “That means he now has the hots for the woman he didn’t have the hots for last time we asked him.”

  I don’t even argue. “Playing house for a day or two does that to you.” I sigh and look up to meet their puzzled looks. When I finish explaining our pretend couple-dom, I lift my finger to the waitress, silently ordering another round. “Do you know how hard it is to sleep in a bed with a woman and not be sleeping with her.”

  “Hard would be the operative word,” Grant says and laughs.

  “I don’t find that amusing at all.”

  “Grumpy Grady,” Grayson chimes in, using the nickname the two of them would call me when we were little and they wanted to push my buttons.

  “The woman can kiss.” It’s the only input I give as I thank the waitress when she slides fresh drinks in front of us.

  “And that’s all you’ve done? Just kiss?” Grayson pries. “Nah, my bet is your dick’s been in your hand more than once.”

  “You’ve seen her, Grant. Can you blame me if it has?”

  Grant lifts his shoulder as if he’s in agreement. “Then tell her you’re interested.”

  “Easier said than done,” I murmur.

  “Why’s that? Telling her you’re interested doesn’t mean you’re gonna ball and chain it like this fucker,” Grayson says as he hooks a thumb toward Grant.

  “Yeah, but she isn’t a Mallory,” I explain and realize I haven’t thought once about Mal since Dylan showed up. I haven’t really thought about any woman but one.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Grant asks.

  “It means . . . nothing,” I say but my thoughts keep running. About Shelby, now a widow, and how neither she nor Brody deserve that. About my promise to myself to never get attached to someone beyond the physical good time because I refuse to leave someone hollow and alone like Drew’s death left them.

  “Look, Grady,” Grant says in his older-brother voice, which means a lecture is coming when I don’t want a lecture. All I want to do is sit and drink my beer without interference or someone giving me advice. “I get you’ve sworn off meaningful relationships . . . so, for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you’re hesitating here. You have a gorgeous woman sleeping at your house—or rather, in your bed. She’s staying here temporarily. She’s on the rebound and probably isn’t looking for anything permanent.”

>   “She hates firefighters,” I mumble and then shake my head when they both stare at me with confused looks on their faces. “Don’t ask.”

  “She’s on the rebound and you’re not the type she likes . . . Not sure why you’re balking taking the next step? Isn’t this the perfect setup for you? There’s attraction but no want for more? Have some fun and then be done. I mean, she’s probably confused as fuck. You’re the king of flirting, but you aren’t acting on any of it. How is she supposed to take that? You’re treating her no better than Kroger has.”

  I hate that he’s right. I hate that I’ve hesitated about this when the old me would have already been all over the opportunity living with her has presented. I hate that she has to be confused by how I can kiss her, distract her from delving too deep on me with my flirting, and not take another step to upgrade our roommate status.

  “Are you naked when you and Mallory screw?”

  I choke on my beer as I look over to Grayson and his stupid question.

  “Of course he is,” Grant says, but it dawns on me where Grayson is going with this. Always Mr. Intuitive, even when I’ve never broached the subject with anyone other than my own mind.

  “How many people have you slept with since the accident,” Grayson carries on.

  I take a sip of my beer and glare at him. “Why? You need to live vicariously because you’re going through a dry spell?”

  “What? Five? Six? None?” he taunts as my jaw clenches. “And what? You keep your clothes on? You keep the room pitch-black?”

  “Lay off, Gray,” Grant warns when he realizes my temper is firing.

  “No. He needs to hear this. We’ve been tiptoeing around this for months, and it isn’t doing him any good.” Grayson takes my beer out of my hand so I’m forced to pay attention to him. “Annie was a bitch. She didn’t leave you because of the scars on your back or because she couldn’t handle dating a firefighter. She left because she was a selfish wench who couldn’t handle the limelight being focused on someone other than her. That’s it. The twisted part is she was jealous of the attention you were getting when all you wanted was for Drew to still be here.”

  “That isn’t—”

  “I bet any of the other women you’ve slept with since her haven’t given two fucks about your scars. Whether you fuck them in the dark, with a shirt on, without a shirt on . . . it isn’t your back they’re thinking of. And if it is, you’re not doing it right.”

  “That’s enough, Gray,” Grant warns again, shifting in his seat as if he’s worried I’ll swing. I won’t, but I do continue to glare at him, not wanting to hear what he’s saying but unable to keep the words from echoing in my head.

  “This Dylan chick,” Grayson carries on as if Grant never spoke. “She’s seen your scars. She hasn’t run. She still lives with your ugly ass for some godawful reason when she’s more than welcome to rent a room in my place if you get my drift. So get over it. What happened was horrible. To Shelby and Brody. To you. But Christ, Grady, to go through something like that and not want to live life to the fullest is a shame. Sleep with Dylan. Don’t sleep with her. But for fuck’s sake, don’t use the excuse of your burns as your way out. You’re a bigger man than that.”

  I shove back from the table, my stool scraping against the concrete floor of Hooligan’s, and glare at my brother before I grab my beer and head toward the bar.

  Fucking Grayson. He’s the quiet one of all of us, so when he says shit like that, I know he means it. And I hate that my head’s so fucked up I can’t even screw a good-looking woman without overthinking all this bullshit.

  I grab an open stool at the bar and take a seat. I don’t want to deal with Grant and his fairy-tale wife or Grayson and his I-only-want-the-best-for-you bullshit. They mean well, but I still don’t want to hear it.

  But every goddamn word he spoke is the truth.

  Fuck me.

  “Another one, Dan,” I say as I keep my head down and my eyes focused on the stack of cardboard coasters in front of me. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, especially since I’m on a first name basis with half the people in here.

  A fresh beer slides in front of me while I feel the weight of my brothers’ stares on my back. I’m sure they’re chattering on like a bunch of cackling hens. I push the thought away. I try to shove all thoughts away actually, yet Dylan stays front and fucking center, preventing me from enjoying my beer.

  I don’t know how long I nurse my bottle—and the whiskey chaser Dan puts beside it, compliments of the house—before the chatter of the bar around me slowly fades to a white noise so I can relax.

  It’s Wes Winters’ distinct laugh that breaks through my thoughts. He’s the last person I want to see right now, considering he’s slept with Dylan while I’m sitting here trying to figure out why I haven’t.

  Ignore him.

  I do at first, but every time he laughs, the sound of it grates over my nerves and irritates me further.

  “C’mon. It doesn’t even count,” Wes says.

  “You’ve gotten more action than the rest of us,” another voice says. I slip a glance over to see it’s Mikey Peckham, a kid I used to play baseball with back in little league.

  “Action? That doesn’t count in the least.” There is something about the tone in Wes’s voice that has me listening more intently.

  “That? How about she, you chauvinist bastard.” There’s a round of laughter that I don’t find amusing at all.

  Wes says something I can’t hear, and I think the conversation is over until Mikey pipes up again. “So, you’re telling me that you went to her place—”

  “Malone’s place,” Wes corrects, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He’s talking about Dylan. I grip the beer tighter in my hand and fight the urge to walk over there.

  “Right. Malone’s place. That ought to have been interesting.”

  “He wasn’t there,” Wes corrects.

  Like hell I wasn’t.

  “That’s beside the point. You’re telling me you went to her place and got busy, but you aren’t counting it as sex? Am I missing something?”

  There’s more laughter as I stand from my seat, head still down, anger firing anew.

  “You’re not missing shit. Nothing happened. We fooled around. We started to get to it and, dude, I couldn’t get fucking hard.”

  “Good ol’ whiskey dick,” Mikey says through his laugh.

  “It wasn’t that. It was . . . Christ, I feel like an ass for saying it.”

  “Just say it.”

  “She had a pretty face but when the clothes came off . . .” Wes says something else I can’t hear over the scrape of the stool beside me, and Mikey’s laugh rings out again. “I’ve never been into the chubby-chasing thing before and . . . shit, that was all I could focus on when we got down to brass tacks.”

  “That’s fucking cruel,” Mikey says but continues to laugh. Still making fun of Dylan.

  Every part of me riots. Chubby chasing? Is he fucking kidding? Dylan McCoy is a roadmap of curves and sexiness any man would be lucky to take for a ride, and he’s calling her fat?

  Walk to your brothers, Malone.

  Walk.

  Back.

  Now.

  I take one step toward Grant and Grayson, and the next thing I know, I hear myself calling Wes’s name. It’s followed by the bite of pain when my fist connects with his cheek as he turns to face me.

  After that, everything moves in fast forward. The two of us falling and crashing against a row of barstools. The clatter of one of them hitting the ground—metal to concrete. The grunt as my fist connects again. The shuffle of patrons scattering, and the sudden stop as we land on the hard floor.

  “You son of a bitch,” I manage to get out right before his fist connects with my solar plexus. I grunt again.

  Rage owns me.

  Every part of me.

  Each punch I land.

  Every curse I spew.

  Each thought of Dylan and the fucke
d-up shit he said about her.

  I buck off the hands grabbing at my shoulders but come right back.

  “Grady.” It’s Grayson.

  “Grady, bro. Enough!” Grant.

  Well, fuck.

  Seconds clip by in still frames, and then Grant is pushing me out of the bar. The cold air outside clears the remaining fog of anger the fight didn’t.

  My fist throbs.

  “Your ass should be in jail, Grady,” he mutters as Grayson opens the car door for Grant to shove me in.

  My cheek hurts like a bitch.

  “The fucker deserved it.”

  The silence is golden.

  Jett left for the night on a jaunt a few hours north to Napa. He said something about meeting up with an old friend from his days pushing his demo tapes to record labels. I would put money on Sunnyville being too tame for him and he needed to go cause some trouble to keep his rock-star street cred.

  But he said he’d be back in the morning when all I wish he’d do is head back home. Not home. To Los Angeles. To his home.

  Then there is Grady, who is God only knows where.

  I’ve checked on my mom, checked in with my brother, and even replied to an email from Ava despite still being mad at her for telling Jett where I am among other things.

  That leaves Petunia and me to enjoy a nice glass of wine in the silence around us. Well, the quiet less her grunts.

  And just as I lift my Kindle and start the first paragraph on the page, the back door slams open.

  “He’s all yours,” Grant says with a chuckle as Grady comes in after him with Malone sandwich number three, Grayson, right behind him.

  Just when I’m about to laugh and ask what he did, Grady looks my way, and the angry red mark on his right cheek says it all. “What happened? Are you okay?” I’m up and rounding the couch before the words finish passing over my lips.

  “Just a little fight,” Grayson says and shakes his head.

  I reach up to touch Grady’s face in reflex and then pull back. “That looks like it hurts like a bitch.”

  “You should see the other guy,” Grady mutters and locks his eyes to mine. There’s an intensity to them I can’t decipher, making it hard to look away.