Fuck! Why did he suddenly sound like a grandpa? He was in his twenties. Beau jerked open his dresser, grabbed an old pair of sweats, and tugged them on.
Maybe he should give Odelle a call. As soon as the thought entered his head, Beau rejected it. The woman was in her mid-forties, and while the age gap wasn’t necessarily a turn-off, her hitting on all three of his brothers before him definitely was. Beau shook his head. He wanted no part of that action.
What he did want was a beer. A beer and tacos. That sounded a helluva lot more important than his nonexistent social life at the moment. Beau marched back downstairs, perfectly content to raid his parent’s kitchen and spend the rest of the evening alone, when he discovered he was no longer, in fact, alone. Beau jerked as a messy brown ponytail materialized from behind the open door of the pantry.
“Fuck!”
“’Sup, cuz.”
“Dang it, Lils!”
Lily yawned, not in the least bit sorry to have startled him. Closing the cabinet, she carried a box of Froot Loops over to the long granite-topped island in the center of the room.
Beau watched in amusement as she poured herself a heaping bowl of the stuff. “What? You run out at home?”
“Nah. Magda’s on some anti-sugar kick. Threw out all the good stuff. All we have now is flippin’ Grape-Nuts.”
Magda was the Colonel’s housekeeper. She was probably eighty years old, but it was hard to tell because she was still sharp as a tack and ran the place like a drill sergeant. Beau whistled as he sat down next to his cousin. “Ouch.”
“Tell me about it. That stuff is like gravel in your mouth. Dad’s gonna be so pissed when he gets home from Sacramento.”
“Probably.” Giving up on his tacos, Beau resigned himself to a bowl of high fructose corn syrup and reached for the box on the counter. Truthfully, he preferred the Grape-Nuts, but he wasn’t about to admit it for fear of sounding even older than he’d felt two minutes ago, so he held his tongue as Lily shoveled another bite of cereal like she hadn’t eaten in days. After a few minutes of silent munching, Lily interrupted the quiet with a familiar sigh of frustration.
Beau glanced at her as he swallowed down another bite. Normally, his cousin’s daughter favored skinny jeans and flowing tops. Right now she wore flannel pajamas and coffee stains. At 4:30 in the afternoon. This could only mean one thing. “Trouble with the writing?” Beau asked tentatively.
“Yeesss,” she groaned before shoving her bowl away and splattering the counter with radioactive-looking milk. “I’ve been blocked for days. Days, damn it!” Lily rubbed at her right eyebrow as she often did when agitated. There was a hint of a bald spot forming. Beau didn’t think it wise to inform her of this. “My characters just won’t do what I want them to do,” she cried. “They are being soooo difficult!”
“Sorry,” he said gently. “Want me to tell you about my awesome afternoon to distract you?”
“Yes, please.”
As Beau launched into a detailed account of his son’s tantrum at school, Lily gradually relaxed beside him, her expression bouncing between sympathetic and amused and finally settling on something tearful as he told her about Mrs. Blessing’s “flesh wound,” and Max’s paper Band-Aid, and the boy’s imminent transfer to a new class.
“Well, at least they didn’t kick him out,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she drummed the counter top. “Do you know how much we donated to Leighton Mills last year?”
Beau knew exactly how much his family donated to numerous schools and organizations every year. It was kind of his job to know. Beau sighed. “It doesn’t matter, Lils. He bit a teacher. That’s not okay.”
“Of course it isn’t. But Max is five, he’s a genius, and he has a really good heart.” Lily stood abruptly, collected their bowls, and carried them over to a gleaming farmhouse-style sink. “I’m just saying there would have been hell to pay.” Beau watched his cousin rinse the dishes before shoving them into the washer. She turned around, leaning back against his mother’s cheerful blue cabinets as she crossed her arms over her rumpled top. “Hell, I mighta had to go down there and start a little protest fire of my own.”
“Protest fire?”
“Guess you haven’t heard the news over at Christian Sisters today…”
Beau felt a sudden headache coming on. He should probably get home. He really needed to finish those tax returns.
“… yeah, so Penny told me that Margo told her that PJ tried to burn the place down.”
“Shiiiit.” Beau rubbed at his temples. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lily drawled, “probably because PJ actually did get kicked out of school this morning… because she’s crazy! Have you forgotten that time she spiked my Paul Mitchell with fish oil! I mean, who does that?” Lily grimaced as she smoothed at her hair. “All I did was make one tiny suggestion that she might want to give the Britni Howling stuff a rest and read some respectable fiction for a change…”
Beau frowned as his cousin launched into one of her usual PJ rants. He didn’t have the first clue who this Britni Howling person was, nor did he care, but something about the idea of PJ getting tossed from yet another school didn’t sit well with him. Maybe it was because of what he’d just gone through with Max that morning, or maybe it was because of what he’d experienced with PJ in Sacramento, but suddenly he couldn’t help feeling concerned for her and, strangely, a little protective.
“…and then, bam, my hair smelled like rancid trout for weeks. Weeks, damn it—”
Beau cut his cousin off with a wave. “Why?” he asked again.
“Because she’s a lunatic who sabotaged a forty-dollar bottle of shampoo. What the hell—”
“No, I mean, why did she get expelled this time?”
Lily shrugged. “How the hell should I know? I don’t keep up with all the noise.”
“Sure,” Beau said with a snort. “Your best friend’s an even bigger gossip than Odelle Latimoore. Try again.”
“Well, maybe I heard a little…”
Beau crossed his arms as he stared her down.
“Okay, fine. So according to Penny, who got it from Margo, who has PE with Jenny Ratherty, who’s dating Troy Latimoore, who saw the whole thing happen… PJ was suspended for giving Wade Hollis a hand job two weeks ago—”
“What!”
“Damn, cuz. Did I stutter?” Lily raised a brow as she took in the dumbstruck look spreading over his face. “A hand job,” she repeated with a gesture that was highly unnecessary.
“Got it,” Beau barked, collecting himself enough to string two words together.
“Yeah, okay.” Lily side-eyed him as though she wasn’t sure of this before her gaze settled on the cool white tile under her bunny slippers. Then, abruptly, she jerked away from the counter with an excited expression. “No, wait. I got it! A hand job. It’s perfect!”
“What—”
“I’m unblocked now. Thanks!” Lily rushed forward and plopped a noisy kiss on his cheek. “Gotta run.”
“Wait. What? Hand jobs? What the hell are you writing? I thought your books were young adult.”
Lily was halfway past the island when she turned back around and laughed in his face. “Yeah, sugar. They are,” she managed between giggles.
“You’re a brat.”
“Aw. I love you too, Beau Bear.”
Beau rose from his stool and ruffled her mess of hair. “I’ll walk you home.”
Lily tilted her head toward the garden window behind the sink. “First off, that giant white house up the hill is my crib. Second, this whole neighborhood is surrounded by the Great Wall of Privileged Suburbia, so I’m pretty sure we’re safe. And third, I’m twenty years old, not twelve. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can make it on my own, thanks.” Lily sailed from the kitchen, paused in the doorway, did an immediate U-turn, and stalked back to grab the box of Froot Loops on the counter. “Later, gator.”
Beau stood in the kitchen, rubbing his head as the front door slammed. It was no wo
nder his cousin and PJ didn’t get along. Both of them were alphas through and through. Beau didn’t envy the Colonel all the time the man had spent trying to keep the peace between the two.
After cleaning up the mess left on the counter by his cousin, Beau headed back to the study to clean up the mess left by his son. Then he sat down in his dad’s recliner and contemplated the mess that was PJ Bruister.
In a way she kind of reminded him of himself. His old self, that is. The reckless, cocksure teen he’d been once. He still had some of his reckless, cocksure clothes shoved in the bottom drawer of his dresser upstairs, the very same one he’d used to hide his joints in. His mother had long since confiscated the weed, or smoked it — it was sometimes hard to tell with his parents — but she’d left the ripped skinny jeans and skater shirts. She’d left the beanies and the wallet chains. Beau wasn’t sure why.
Because that guy was a mess. That guy was a screwup. That guy was the dumb-ass teen who’d fancied himself some kind of big-shot hacker because he could take down his high school website or blow up someone’s PC with one little virus.
That guy was the idiot who’d slept with his lab partner at a house party in college, had gotten her pregnant, and barely remembered a thing about it beyond clothes in a fish tank.
Beau wasn’t that guy anymore. He’d stopped being him the second Janelle had told him she’d decided to keep their baby. And despite the fact that he really hadn’t loved her, he’d proposed before the first ultrasound, which he hadn’t missed due to safety checks or any such business. He’d proposed because if there was one thing that his father had always drilled into him, it was that Browning men took care of their own.
The marriage hadn’t worked out, of course. Janelle had told him several months into her pregnancy that she was still hung up on her old boyfriend, and she couldn’t in good conscience stay married to Beau, even for the sake of their baby. One year later she’d reconciled with Aaron, and Beau had been left having to reconcile himself to the fact that every other week he’d have to let another man take care of his own. It had been a strange pill to swallow at the time, but swallow it he had.
And the truth of the matter now was that he was entirely grateful to have the extra help. Aaron did have the annoying verbal habit of calling him “bro” every five seconds, but other than that he was a decent guy who genuinely seemed to love his kid. Beau considered himself pretty lucky to be on good terms with both his ex and the man she’d finally tied the knot with last summer.
He knew it didn’t always work out this way. His brother, Jackson, a divorce attorney, was forever telling him the horror stories. Beau couldn’t imagine try to raise Max with someone he hated. He also couldn’t imagine trying to raise Max alone. He was fortunate to have the wealth and resources he did. He was fortunate to have the family he did because when he’d told them he was going to be a father at twenty-one, every one of them had had his back.
But PJ was only seventeen. And she didn’t have all that. She had a notoriously forgetful mom who’d cheated on Beau’s cousin. She had a dad who didn’t seem to be in the picture much. And she was a hot-headed teenager with a penchant for biting and for getting kicked out of schools. She also had horrible taste in guys if this “hand job” deal was to be believed.
Jesus!
Wade Hollis?
The dude was every bit as much of a weasel as his father. And he damn sure wasn’t the type to stick around if he got a girl pregnant.
Beau rocked forward in his chair and grabbed his phone from the table. Someone needed to talk some sense into this girl. She was headed for trouble. She was on the wrong path. She needed someone to give her a little guidance. PJ needed him.
Beau threw the phone back down like it had scalded him. Where the hell had that thought come from? It hadn’t been that long ago he’d contemplated parachuting from an airplane just to get away from her. Now he wanted to help her?
Good God Almighty! It made no sense.
Beau raked a hand over his face. This was stupid. He needed to take care of his own. Beau reached for his phone again, this time intent on putting it to good use.
For the next couple hours, Beau did just that, researching the benefits of a center-based program for ASD kids versus private treatment. He studied the differences in the various therapy approaches, from ABA to CBT to RDI and a host of other foreign acronyms until his head swam and his eyes burned with fatigue. And in the end, he kept coming back to that card he’d pitched on the ottoman with his keys. In the end, he simply called the Journeys clinic and set up something called an intake assessment. In the end, all he could do was hope that maybe they could help his son piece together success one day at a time.
When he’d finished with that, he did a different sort of research because he still couldn’t get PJ out of his head, and Lord knows he wasn’t getting to the tax returns. Suddenly, an update the Colonel had just sent him from Sacramento gave him an idea. The Colonel’s brother George had homeschooled three boys. The eldest of these, Grayson Browning V, was set to take the GED next week.
Beau quickly looked up the necessary information for taking the high school equivalency exam in Baton Rouge. Then, after scrolling through his contacts, Beau tapped out a brief text and sent PJ the link because, in the end, it felt like the right thing to do.
Beau had had all sorts of help growing up. Max had all sorts of help now.
Who did PJ have?
Chapter 7
PJ had a fat, cross-eyed cat named Dinah.
Technically, Dinah belonged to Francine, but already, less than a week after moving back in with her mom, PJ had grown seriously attached to the chubby black kitten. Dinah’s weight problem was largely due to overfeeding. Francine had always sucked at keeping to a schedule, and PJ could tell she’d fallen into the habit of letting the feline graze at mealtimes.
The eye condition, however, was not on her. According to Francine, right after moving into the Sherwood Oaks apartment complex last summer, she’d found Dinah tumbling about in a dryer unit at a nearby laundromat. No one knew how she’d come to be in there. No one had claimed responsibility for the incident. But Francine had taken one look at the tiny traumatized fur ball and had claimed her on sight. Currently, said fur ball sat on the foot of PJ’s bed, batting at the wadded up job application she’d just tossed her way.
“Well, at least someone’s getting some use out of it,” PJ said wryly. As it turned out, the Journeys center was hiring. They’d stopped by the place after leaving the gym earlier, and according to the chatty receptionist running the lobby, the clinic was in desperate need of therapists to meet its growing number of clients. Unfortunately, according to the fine print at the top of Dinah’s new toy, there were only two requirements for the job, and PJ didn’t meet either of them. She wasn’t eighteen, and she hadn’t graduated from high school.
PJ fell back on her bed, feeling thoroughly deflated. “I might as well apply at the Eataburger down the street,” she said morosely. “Journeys would never hire someone like me. I’m officially a high-school dropout.”
Dinah immediately abandoned her game, scampered up to PJ’s pillow, and started licking her head. Dinah wasn’t doing this to calm her. The cat had a weird obsession with her hair… and a tendency to drool.
PJ swiped absently at a bead of saliva that had dripped onto her freshly washed face. She’d stripped off both her makeup and the fugly skirt as soon as she’d gotten home. “Who am I kidding, Di? Eataburger probably wouldn’t hire me either. They only hire nice teenagers who are willing to say things like ‘it’s a pleasure to serve you’ when it soooo totally isn’t. I wouldn’t survive a week at that place.”
Dinah shook her jowls as she worked at a chunk of long blond hair. Another spray of spit hit PJ’s forehead.
“You’re right. I should just get a job at Fit Bods. Remember that time I helped Francine lead that women’s self-defense class? I crushed it. And none of those ladies complained about me screaming at them either. That�
�s a pro.” PJ wiped at her face and frowned. “But I’d probably sweat off all my makeup. That’s a definite con—”
The sudden chiming from PJ’s nightstand put an abrupt end to Dinah’s grooming. The skittish feline raced from the room, her chubby frame widening the crack in PJ’s door so PJ could just make out a low throaty giggle coming from the kitchen down the hall.
Francine was probably sexting while cooking again. This was never a good thing and generally resulted in either burnt food or late-night takeout, but PJ supposed she ought to be grateful to her mom for keeping the actual make-out sessions confined to Johnny’s place.
Francine’s boyfriend owned a pool company servicing most of Maison Hills. Johnny used to work for Grayson Browning IV, but that arrangement had come to a quick end last June when he’d been caught locking lips with Francine in the Colonel’s pool house.
PJ sighed as her phone chirped again. Sometimes she wondered if her mother really did have a legitimate impulse control problem. Like, maybe one look at Johnny’s eight pack had just been too much for her. Maybe the woman needed medication. Some sort of pill that could help her to focus and remember important shit like expulsion meetings, feeding schedules, and wedding vows. Or maybe Francine really wasn’t that different from Cleo’s mama. Maybe she’d just been another bored rich housewife looking for a hookup when she’d torpedoed her marriage to the Colonel nine months ago. Maybe the truth was a bit of both.
PJ frowned as her thoughts veered to the woman who’d been hitting on Beau that morning. Cleo’s mother was significantly older than Beau, but he hadn’t seemed to mind that too much. PJ hadn’t missed that cocky wink he’d shot her at the gym. Was the guy actually interested in Odelle? Despite her advanced age and overly processed appearance, she was still a reasonably attractive woman. Would Beau have called her?
Nah. No one actually called anybody anymore. But maybe he would have texted. And that was some bad business because Odelle was an absolute bitch. It was a good thing he’d lost her number. It was also a good thing PJ had chucked that shit in a puddle of mud on the drive home from the clinic. Because if Beau really was into the likes of Odelle Latimoore, then the guy had horrible taste in women, and someone needed to watch out for his stupid sexy ass—
Pretty Jane (The Browning Series Book 3) Page 5