Fleeting (Nash Brothers Book 1)

by Carrie Aarons

  And I’m met with the biggest tapestry of stars I’ve ever seen. It’s like they all got together and knitted a quilt of bursting light in the sky.

  “And if you still don’t feel steady, how about a drink?” I can make out his grin in the dark.

  He unscrews the bottle and holds it to his lips, his head tipping back to invite the liquor. I think he’s going to swallow and hand me the bottle, but he bypasses that completely and goes straight for my mouth.

  This kiss is more insistent, spicy with the liquor burning between our tongues. I’m intoxicated, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol sliding down my throat. Keaton goes to pull back, but I keep a tight hold to his face, the scruff of his well past five-o’clock shadow scraping against my palms. He chuckles into my mouth, a hoarse, manly sound that has me feasting on his lips.

  Arousal sneaks over me slowly, like an all-consuming fog, wrapping its luscious tendrils around my arms, legs, belly, and down to my core. I have to lean against Keaton for support, my legs are threatening to liquefy. The spark that has started inside me, where that hot nub of sensation burns, is begging to be satisfied.

  “I feel like a teenager, sneaking out to meet a boy.” I break off our make-out session and giggle.

  I’m too wound up already … and the humid summer night air is doing nothing to help. If I don’t put the brakes on, we’re going to be doing a lot racier things than I was doing as a seventeen-year-old.

  “Well, I have already seen your underwear, and bra might I add, so I think we’re a little more advanced than teenagers.”

  “I don’t know what you were doing as a teenager, but nowadays, I’m pretty sure second base is akin to being prude. Get with it, old man.”

  Keaton squeezes my hip, tickling me until I squirm away. “I might be thirty, but my old ass just climbed all the way up here and I didn’t even break a sweat. Plus, I was a total prude back then. The typical nerdy, advanced math kind of teenager.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” I roll my eyes. “Look at you. You’ve got popular jock written all over you, even if you did like math.”

  “I was better at science.” He shrugs with a teasing smirk. “But I did play baseball.”

  My finger stabs gently at his firm chest. “See? I knew it.”

  “What were you like in high school?” He takes another sip out of the bottle.

  How do you tell the man you have a huge crush on that you were the loner in high school? The party girl who was more likely to be Ally Sheedy than Molly Ringwald.

  “I had purple hair in high school. Cut class a lot to weave dream catchers and smoke. You think I’m a hippie now, you should have seen me back then. Lord, I thought I was so cool.”

  Even I have to laugh at the moronic way I used to act.

  “Purple hair, huh? I like the red better.” Keaton leans back in, resuming our kiss.

  He’s pressed against me, so I feel it when his phone vibrates.

  “Ah, hold on one second, I’m sorry.” He smiles apologetically and digs his phone out. “Shit …”

  Keaton looks down at his phone and runs a shaky hand through his hair. With his face lit up by the screen, I watch as anger slowly replaces the lust I just put there.

  I wonder what he just read, and if it’s something he is going to try to hide.

  “It’s my brother, the youngest one, Fletcher. He’s … he has some problems. My brother Bowen, the one you met, needs my help. I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

  My heart believes him and stops itself in its tracks from jumping to too many conclusions. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  He doesn’t even look at me as he makes his way over to the ladder. “No, sorry. This family stuff … it’s complicated. I’ll drop you at home, it’s on my way.”

  Welp, guess that’s the end of our night. Responsibility and adulthood call, and Keaton is the first to jump to attention.

  And even though I’m not going to be able to sleep thinking of the kissing, the burn of his refusal to let me into his life stings more than I thought it would.

  18

  Keaton

  A flash of pain radiates down my spine, but I’m semi-conscious and want to turn it off.

  Sleep. I need more sleep.

  Except, a second later, more pain news at my back, and I’m forced to open my eyes and sit up. I look around to find that I passed out on Bowen’s couch, so it’s no wonder my back feels like it’s got about three hundred Charlie horses cramping it up. Thirty-year-old bodies cannot sleep on unsupported sectionals or climb water tower ladders without consequences the next day.

  Christ, last night was a clusterfuck. After making out with Presley on the town water tower, which was definitely the highlight of the night, I’d rushed off to help Bowen drag Fletcher out of a shady-ass house on the outskirts of town. The guys he’d been with … they were dangerous. How my youngest brother even got involved with them, I have no idea. But it had taken brute force and a ton of paper towels to Bowen’s truck after Fletcher passed out on his floor and we’d had to scrub the puke from the floor mats of the cab.

  “What time is it?” When I talk, it feels like my voice is treading over broken glass.

  “Six a.m.,” Bowen says as he pours himself a mug of steaming hot coffee.

  “Can I get a cup of that? Or an IV, preferably.” I rub the sleep dirt out of my eyes and shake my head as if that will solve the conundrum of my family.

  Bowen walks across his open-concept first floor, past his kitchen island and into the living room I slept in. Where my house looks like it’s just missing the wife, two point five kids, and white picket fence, Bowen’s is all bachelor pad. Male furniture, simple design, little personal effects adorning the walls.

  I take the mug with a nod of gratitude. The hot, magic power of the brown liquid sliding down my throat somehow brings me half back to life. To the point where I can finally come to terms with what this day will bring.

  “Where is he?”

  Bowen stares straight ahead. “In the shower. I told him to wash the vomit off.”

  My head drops into my hands as soon as I place my coffee on the end table. “How the fuck did we get here, Bow?”

  He just keeps looking at the wall. “I don’t know, man. He needs help. We’ve tried before … but this time, it’s worse. These people, Keat, I know some of them from … before. They’re dangerous.”

  I don’t need to ask what he means. Upstairs, the pipes shut off, and whether or not we’re ready to confront Fletcher, here he comes.

  “Gentlemen.” He has the balls to smirk at us as he comes downstairs dewy-eyed as a schoolgirl.

  Bowen is up and across the room, pinning him to the wall in three seconds flat. “That’s how you’re going to approach this, dickwad? You’re a piece of shit, you know that? Not only did you almost get us killed last night, but you also ruined my fucking truck! And you have the nerve to come down here smiling?”

  I can tell that Fletcher is having trouble breathing, and he’s scratching at Bowen’s hands where they pin his neck. Rushing over, I smack at Bow’s arms.

  “Bowen, let him down!”

  He releases Fletcher, and my youngest brother drops to the floor in a heap.

  “You don’t know what it’s like! Neither of you do. I don’t just get loaded, drink two handles of liquor and vomit or piss on myself, for the fun of it. I can’t stop this … this urge. It’s part of me. Booze is like air to me, I need it to function. I can’t just stop.”

  Fletcher buries his face in his hands. A moment later, Bowen looks at me with the most pained look I’ve ever seen on his face. Our youngest brother is sobbing.

  I go to him, kneel down. “Fletch, I know you can’t help it. You’re an addict, you’re sick. I’ll never know what that feels like, but I do know that there are ways you can get help.”

  He throws his hands up, distraught. “I’ve tried before. All of that AA shit, rehab, all of it … it doesn’t work on me. I don’t need Bowen to ch
oke me out to know that I’m killing myself.”

  Bowen joins us on the floor, a move that surprises me. “Fletch, you might not remember what I did, but I’ve been close to where you are. I know it feels like nothing can stop this, that you’re in too deep. But you’re not. As long as you’re breathing, there is a chance for you to turn it around. Come on, brother, do this for us. Do this for Mom.”

  I almost add that he should do this for Dad, but I think that would be laying it on too thick.

  Fletch shrugs and mumbles, “I can try.”

  I’m not convinced, not in the least, and I know we’ll have to stay on him for a long time to come. But right now, I have to get to my office and sort out a few things before I head to my mother’s house to help her with projects.

  After consulting with Bowen on next steps—calling a friend who suggested a rehab center near Lancaster and keeping an eye on Fletcher for the next twenty-four hours—I get my work done by noon and then head for my childhood home.

  The minute I walk in the door, I smell home. That distinct scent my parent’s house always has, that just settles in my bones. But this isn’t home anymore. There aren’t baseball cleats by the door or water guns hidden in between the books on the living room shelves.

  “Why was there a message on the answering machine from Jerica Tenny?”

  Christ. I knew she’d corner me at some point during this visit, but I didn’t think I’d be in a shit storm this soon.

  Mom was the only person I knew who had a landline answering machine that actually voiced the messages aloud.

  And shit, I should have given Jerica my number. She’s the town’s premier realtor, and I’ve been in contact with her for two months now about possibly listing my parent’s home. Except … I’d never told Mom about it. My brothers and I agreed that she needed to move and that we all couldn’t keep up the maintenance with a house most of us didn’t live in, and none of us wanted to care of.

  “Well … I’ve been talking to her about possibly listing the house.” Why does it feel like I just shot myself in the foot?

  And why the hell do I always have to be the one having the hard conversations? Where is Forrest, who was unreachable last night? Why can’t Bowen give a shit enough to do this? When will Fletcher grow the hell up and help out around here? I’m so damn sick of taking care of everyone … and yet I’ll keep on doing it. Because that’s what I do.

  “Keaton William Nash. How dare you?” Mom looks like I’ve sliced her in two, that’s how much pain shines in her eyes.

  “Mom, please don’t fight me on this. Not today. I already have enough shit going on with Fletcher. Please, just let a realtor come take a look at the house and tell us what it might be worth, or if it needs any fixing.”

  She frowns. “What’s wrong with Fletcher?”

  I roll my eyes, reaching my breaking point. “We’re really going to pretend we don’t know that he’s a major alcoholic and needs to go into rehab? Come on, Mom, like I said, not today.”

  I’m never this harsh with her, but maybe I need to stop treating her with kid gloves. Nothing ever gets done around here in the time it should because I’m always being cautious not to step on any toes.

  “Keaton William, don’t speak to me that way. I … I know your brother has a problem. But ever since your father passed …”

  She dissolves into a puddle of tears, and guilt instantly swamps me. I gather her in a hug, her head hitting just below my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I am. I know it’s been hard for you.” I pat her back the way she always did when we were sick as little kids.

  Straightening, she wipes her eyes and walks around the living room. “I know I have to sell it soon, it’s foolish to keep such a big house now that there is no family in it. But … this is my home, Keaton. Your father built this place for me. How am I supposed to leave it?”

  Right then, it dawns on me that I’ve finally become an equal to my parent. She’s coming to me for advice.

  I take her by the shoulders and decide to give her the truth. “You’re going to leave it. Because I know this is going to hurt … but that chapter of your life is over. You’re only sixty, Mom, you have so many years and adventures left ahead of you. You are way too wonderful of a person to sit in this house and mourn the ghosts in it. It’s time for all of us to move on … it’s what he would have wanted. Dad would be so disappointed if we kept his memory alive by sitting in this house, feeling sorry for ourselves. He’d want you to go out and live.”

  She nods, squeezing my arms in what I know she thinks is a gesture of thanks, but to me feels like she’s holding on for dear life.

  “Tell Jerica that I’d like to meet with her. But I’m not selling this house to just anyone, my boy. It’s raised a good family for a long time. Someone is going to honor that memory.”

  19

  Presley

  It’s Monday, which means one thing.

  The shop is a goddamn madhouse.

  Townspeople of Fawn Hill sure do love their mail and packages just as much as they love their books. If it isn’t someone who wants to send three packages overnight through FedEx, it’s the old woman who comes in for a stack of new release hardcovers each week and tries to haggle down the price. I wouldn’t complain if I didn’t like it, though. The residents are quirky; the work is fast-paced, and spending time with Grandma in the shop is a nice perk.

  The line has been almost out the door all morning, and I’ve had three people get mouthy with me. Grandma just argues right back at them, like it’s a sport she enjoys, but I’m not as comfortable yet. My adrenaline is at its peak for hours, because I know people are watching as I race around the store trying to check customers out as accurately and quickly as possible.

  By the time I get a minute to catch my breath, there is one more person in line, and I turn to help them.

  “Hi, there, how can I help you?”

  It’s not until I push my hair behind my ear that I see who it is.

  Keaton stands there in his usual work polo and khaki shorts, and he’s even added a stethoscope to the mix that shouldn’t be sexy but it so is. His hair looks like he’s been running his fingers through it all morning, and I didn’t realize the weight of anxiety sitting on my chest until right now, when he made it disappear.

  How strange was it that I’d never really thought twice about a guy before, and now I couldn’t stop thinking about this one? Maybe there was some truth to that stupid little … something … at first sight.

  “I was wondering if I could take you to Kip’s for lunch?” His hands splay wide on the counter, and damn if I haven’t been dreaming about what those might do to me once we’re alone again.

  And with the way those chocolate eyes are scanning me like a barcode, I’d say he’s been dreaming about things, too.

  Grandma walks out of the back, shooing me away. “Get out of here. A handsome man asks you to lunch, you go to lunch.”

  “Are you sure? If you need help restocking after the madness, I can stay to help.”

  Over the last couple of weeks, I’d seen just how bad my grandmother’s eyesight had gotten. She could barely read now and had mistaken two people for someone else last week when they walked into the store. Grandma has lived in this town for over sixty years … there was no way she forgot a face. Unless she couldn’t see it. It worried me more than I could say, and I knew that a decision was going to have to be made about the future of the store. And since I was the one here, it terrified me that I was going to have to make it.

  “I’m not blind yet, Presley. Get out of here.” Grandma’s tone is clipped.

  I know she doesn’t want sympathy, but I can’t help it. “All right. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  As soon as we’re out on the street, Keaton takes my hand in his. It’s warm and strong, and the touch sends goose bumps running up my arms.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  Even though Kip’s is only two blocks from my family’s booksh
op, and even though we’re in the middle of the sidewalk where anyone could see, Keaton stops mid-stride to pull me into a hug. My breasts collide with his solid chest, and I’m enveloped by strong arms wrapping around my waist.

  It isn’t until right now that I realize I’ve been waiting to be back in his arms. That, all too quickly, Keaton is becoming the person I want to talk to when anything happens during my day.

  My arms lace around his neck, and I inhale the clean, male scent of him. Pressing up on my toes, I place a quiet, gentle kiss on his cheek as I nuzzle my nose into his jaw and hear him sigh.

  We’re embracing in the middle of the street, and I’m sure someone is staring, when my stomach rumbles. He pulls back, smirking.

  “Hungry?”

  “Very.” I laugh.

  He takes ahold of my hand again as we walk to the diner, and once inside, he grabs menus from the booth and waves to the waitresses and cooks. I wave too because most of them know me now. We walk back through the narrow restaurant and he chooses a booth in the back.

  “This was my dad’s booth.” Keaton says it simply, sliding into one side like we’ve talked about his father before.

  I swallow and try to retain my composure because I know this subject is heavier than the weight he’s giving it.

  “It’s the perfect spot, corner booth with the best angle on Main Street. I can see why he chose it.”

  A small smile plays on his lips. “Yeah, I guess Dad always did command the best.”

  “What was he like?” I ask as we sit across from each other.

  Keaton reaches for my hand and I give it to him, our arms crossing the table. Before he can answer, Jaime, one of the waitresses, comes over to ask what we’d like for lunch. I order a BLT and an iced tea while Keaton opts for a buffalo chicken wrap and plain old water.

  Once she leaves, he looks out the window, concentrating on Main Street.

  “My dad was the ultimate family and community man. Loved my mom, raised four boys with a strong but gentle hand. Attended church every Sunday. Did pro bono work for a lot of the farms around here. Started his own business and built it from the ground up. He was healthy, never complained, and had this sense about him … it was like he could see right through every answer you gave him. I swear I used to think he was psychic or something.”