by K. C. Ale
“No,” I dispute warily, “it isn’t.”
“Come on, Gemma.” An indulgent smile, but there’s an uneasy edge to it. “Name one person who doesn’t like lasagna.”
“Lactose intolerant people.”
“But you’re not one of them.”
I can only stare as he plops the bottle on the island in exchange for the silver server, expertly cutting our late dinner into sizeable portions and never once meeting my questioning gaze.
“You knew that, too, didn’t you?” I press, something like alarm creeping along my spine. “What else do you know about me, Hawkes?”
He let the server drop with a loud clatter on the counter and fixes me with hard, impatient green eyes. “Name’s Brad.”
I meet his glare with a glower. “This isn’t about your name. It’s about the fact you know things about me you shouldn’t.”
“For fuck’s sake, Gemma, those were hardly intimate details about someone.”
But I’m shaking my head, not willing to let him casually dismiss this. “I don’t know you, yet you seem to know things about me, things I’ve never mentioned to you. How is that possible?”
“You do know me,” he insists as he leans in to accentuate his gritty tone. “You know me more than you like to admit.”
“I don’t know anything about you other than what pops up on Google.”
“You know how my mouth fits against yours.” The words are rigid, angry. “Know how it tastes. Know how my body feels wrapped around you.”
He did it on purpose. Designed it with a singlemindedness I can’t possibly resist.
Because of course my gaze dips to that yummy mouth.
Of course my body shivers, remembering his irresistible male warmth and strength surrounding me.
And that scent. God, that delicious whiff of unfussy soap clinging to Brad Hawkes. I can distinctly isolate it from the aroma of saucy meat and baked cheese.
No, the lasagna is not my favorite in this room.
“You’re trying to divert.” He’s too close again, but I meet his gaze unflinchingly. It’s either that or goggle at that inviting mouth. “It won’t work.” There’s amber in his green eyes. Maybe it’s the whimsical lighting. I never noticed it before. Just a trace of it near the pupils. “I’m not that easily distracted.”
What were we talking about?
A knowing smile hints at the tugging of those very male yet surprisingly soft lips. Propping his arms on the counter, he eliminates several more inches between us. I hold my breath while my heart beats an animated tune, anticipating him to rumble something sexy or slant that gorgeous mouth on mine like before.
“Peter talks about you,” he divulges calmly, a faint whisper of secrets against my already tingling lips. “About your schooling. Your likes. Your life.” He pauses, letting his hungry gaze linger on my tongue darting out to moisten my suddenly dry lips. “Just you.”
His hair is untidy, recently washed and negligently towel swiped, very far from the careful style he sported on our first meeting. There’s comfortable scruff on his jaw and because of it, I catch sight of a small, old scar near the left corner of his mouth.
Hidden behind the counter out of my current view, I know a pair of loose navy sweats are clinging low on his hips and nothing else.
I’ve never seen anyone hotter than Brad Hawkes at this very moment.
The way he’s gazing at me, with absolute and utter absorption, those breathtaking eyes honed in on me. Not even an off-the-charts earthquake would shake his penetrating focus.
So I give in to the impulse. Give in to the lure.
And touch.
Featherlike fingers on his bristly jaw. Just a skim. It prickles my skin, a contrast to my stroke. His head angles to delicately graze his lips against my palm, equally undemanding.
“Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you all my life,” I whisper, out of need, out of control, watching his lids lower as he trails his lips to my wrist. The words slipped out without my thinking about it. Maybe thinking isn’t for the now. “Like I’ve missed you. Silly, isn’t it?”
“No.” It was a gush of air against my sensitized flesh. “Because I’ve missed you.”
It didn’t sound silly when he said it to me. It sounded more like a confession.
“And I liked it when you kissed me,” I profess on an exhale. “A lot.”
“Did you kiss her?”
Lee rolled his eyes. “What do you know about kissing? You’re just a kid.”
“If I’m a kid, then so are you!”
“I’m not a kid anymore, Gemmy. I’m fifteen, and I don’t need a dumb kid hanging around me all the time.”
Lee could be such a bully sometimes. Like now. Pushing me away. Not wanting to play with me anymore. He wanted to play with girls his age.
He changed. Getting bigger and meaner every day.
Always fighting with his dad. Slamming out of the house and taking off to who knew where, at times disappearing for days.
Ice race down my spine and I jerk back in defense. My heart gallops a wild staccato. My entire body is racking with burning chills straight shooting to the bones.
I gape at Lee’s startling green eyes… no, not Lee.
Brad Hawkes.
Lee’s eyes were green too.
There’s an ache deep in my center. Poignant and shattering, mercilessly severing.
I hold it in, hold it tight, and force feed my lungs with air, shoving it way down to where no one and nothing can touch it.
For years. Except they’ve become more frequent. More glaring and agonizing, fighting to emerge. This man who claimed to know me, confessed to have missed me, he’s not Lee. He can’t be.
Lee’s dead.
Dead men can’t talk. The one in front of me is definitely blathering.
“… wrong.”
I shake my head. Shake out the fog. “Wh…what?”
It’s he who’s gaping now. “You just disappeared, Gemma.” Large hands cup my shoulders, his brows pulling in alarm and apprehension. “One minute you were talking about my mouth on yours, the next you were just… gone.” His assessing gaze darts over my features. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I’m trying to be. I will be.
The painful flashes, aching memories I refuse to allow. I don’t share them with anyone. Including me. My gaze wavers and lands on the untouched meal. “Hungry,” I say, though the thought of food suddenly makes me nauseous. “I think… I think I just need to eat.” Gag.
We eat at the kitchen island in relative silence, the dim lighting and informal setting lending a cozy ambience. Simple, sturdy paper plates paired with sparkling goblets. It’s clear where his priorities are.
Well, Brad is eating. I’m too busy building a pasta noodle bridge on my plate, complete with clumps of ground meat as cars.
“You don’t like it.”
I glance up to find Hawkes watching me in the midst of scooping sauce to form a puree river. “It’s great.” The lie was automatic. I haven’t even tasted it. “Like you said, my favorite. There’s nothing better than cooked cow.”
He makes a face. “It’s turkey.”
Oops. “Oh.” To appease him, I take a test bite and make a show of chewing but end up wincing when I feel the tender scraping down my throat. “I think you’re right, CEO, this is indeed turkey.”
Wineglass in hand, he takes a sip, studying me over the length all the while. The glass wasn’t even a quarter filled. “CEO. You didn’t even attempt to hide the disdain when you said that,” he observes plainly. “Is that why you refuse to call me Brad? You see me as a role rather than a person?”
“That’s what you are, isn’t it? You’re a CEO.”
“How should I address you, then?” he quips, calm yet ready. “Student? Server? Or do you prefer Library Assistant?”
I won’t take the bait. He might want to obsess over his own name, but I’m not interested. “You can call me whatever you want. I’m sure I’ve heard it all
.”
Steadily, he lifts the glass for seconds, taking his sweet time, before returning it within easy reach. Light spring eyes fix on me, unexpectedly contemplative. “How about procurement specialist?”
It was a good thing I wasn’t chomping on my dinner, because it might have gone down an unplanned route. Much like this conversation.
“What are you talking about?”
He lifts a shoulder. Let it drop. “For HC. We need the position filled. You’re already somewhat familiar with the company, and you’re weeks from completing your studies.”
I gape at him incredulously. “That was my dad’s job.”
“Not quite. He managed the department. There is currently one other procurement specialist and a part-time intern, if I’m not mistaken. The manager position has yet to be replaced.”
The carbs must have caused him to lose his mind. “I know nothing about procurement. As for HC, familiarity by association isn’t exactly fluency.”
“I’m offering you a job, Gemma. One where you’re not hustling on your feet for hours on end for mere pocket change. One with career advancement.”
That gets my back up. “There’s nothing wrong with being a server.”
“I didn’t say there was, but I’m going to guess you’re not putting years into obtaining a business degree so you can one day be server of the year. You’ll have room to grow at HC. Plenty to learn. You’ll eventually be exposed to other aspects of the business. Not to mention the solid income and benefits.”
“You’d be surprised how much I take home in tips,” I smirk.
His lips twitch. “I’m sure I would.”
Buying time, I fork up another bite of sauce, hoping that wouldn’t irritate my throat as much. It’s gone cold, but I’m not really tasting it anyway.
My dad wasn’t really the type to share the mundane day-to-day with me. The only thing I really knew about his job at HC was that he worked in procurement and his office was on the fifty-seventh floor of the imposing high rise.
Being at HC where my dad was for all those years, I’m not sure if it’s a betrayal or more like following in his footsteps. Working with Brad Hawkes? Seeing him every day? My treacherous hormones are certainly not worth my already slipping sanity.
That might be fanciful thinking on my part. He’s the CEO. There’s no reason for him to visit the lower floors. I’m sure when he needs something from others, they’re summoned to the cushy executive suites.
Yet, it is a good opportunity. I haven’t even begun to think about a job after graduation, but I know I can’t wait tables at Conyer’s indefinitely. Once I’m no longer a student, the university would cross my name off the work-study program and my post at the library would go to the next eager student on the waitlist.
“Can I discuss this with my dad first?” The last thing I want to do is inadvertently hurt him. Especially now, when his recovery is such a precarious state. “I can call him in the morning.”
“It’s best not to disturb Peter. Besides, he’s not allowed calls or visitors the first couple of weeks. Gemma.” A loud exhale. “We need someone as soon as possible. The department has been understaffed for weeks, and I know you can do the job and do it well. You’re dedicated, hardworking, and a fast learner. We need someone like you.”
It does sound tempting. I can definitely use the money. Uncertain, I gnaw on my lip. “But I wouldn’t be able to work full time until June.”
Sensing my weakening, he presses, “You can start with as many hours as you’re able to for now. There’ll be a training period, and I can even have someone work with you on weekends, if that’s what you want.”
“I guess it’s worth considering. Let me think about it.”
Fourteen
Brad
The castoff trampoline was ancient, neglected by time and technology, the strained blue pad worn and faded. Even after years of abuse it held remarkably strong, the rusted springs screeching under the bright sun with every eager shift.
Gemmy loved that hideous thing.
And I loved watching her giggle with each zealous soar, wild hair leaping in the mild autumn breeze.
“Look at me! I’m flying!”
Her skinny arms winged up like she was some sky-gliding superhero.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
“Slow down, Gemmy,” I warned, only I couldn’t help but grin at her unrestrained thrill as her messy snickers enlivened the littered junk in my tiny backyard. “You’re going to be on the other side of that brick wall.”
“There are people over there, Lee. I’m going to jump over this wall and see them. You just watch.”
Her short legs bent and shoved off, vaulting as hard as her little body could, her neck straining for a sneak peek of the other side.
Gemma had a restless heart. Wanting more of what she couldn’t reach.
“What’s over there?”
“The promise land!”
A charmed chuckle burst out of me. I knew what was there. Endless lines of cars as old as the trampoline skimming up and down a potholed street. Delipidated storefronts with boarded up windows and packed bus stops with overspilling waste. Kids in tattered and too small clothes racing over broken sidewalks. Rows of torn and filthy tents housing the homeless.
That wasn’t what Gemmy saw. Instead of desperation and despair, she saw an opportunity to experience life. To live, really live, and somehow make things better for everyone she cared about.
“What ya gonna do on the other side, Gemmy? You won’t know anyone,” I tease. “You’re gonna get lost.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t mind getting lost?”
Squeak. Squeak.
She shook her head, sending the chaos of dark tresses into a jovial whirlwind. “I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”
“You want me to jump over the wall with you?”
“Duh! I won’t…”
… go if you won’t go.
Gemmy.
I loved her. The little girl who always wanted to brightened the world though she had nothing herself, made opening my eyes in the morning worth it even when the sky was gloomy and my despicable father couldn’t be bothered with a son. Gemmy was radiance itself. I just didn’t know it. Didn’t appreciate her.
No wonder she doesn’t remember me. I wouldn’t want that living at the back of my mind either.
Bull burrows contently beneath the cover, his small head sticking out of the edge next to a slumbering Gemma. As if to make sure the pathetic loser at the corner is still here, his curious face turns over to peer at me in the shadowed room.
Yup, still here, buddy.
Slouched in the not too comfortable chair in the guest bedroom, watching the subtle rise and fall of my guest’s chest as she sleeps peacefully.
For the third night.
Better you than me, the smirking black eyes seem to say.
I’d rather be in that bed, too.
Instead, I’m plastered on this ridiculous excuse for a cushion – who picked this girly lounger anyway? – because I know Gemma is scared of being alone after the attack a few days ago. Never mind that she never asked me to keep watch, doesn’t know I’m staking out in her room.
When my father was on his drunken rampages, Gemma used to sneak me into her house. I hid in her room for hours right under Peter and Paige Warton’s oblivious noses. She slipped bread and crackers and whatever else she could get her little hands on under her shirt to bring to me, doing whatever she could to make sure I didn’t go hungry. One time, when her parents were too busy arguing to realize she was still in the room, she even managed to conceal a part of her favorite meal in a small container. To this day, it was the best lasagna I ever had.
I didn’t know it, but yeah, I loved her with all that I knew, all that I was capable of, all that I was at the time. She was my family, more so than my own blood, a part of me. The best part.
It wasn’t until I was callously hauled away in handcuffs, Gemma screaming hyster
ically by her front door, Peter’s tremulous arms tight around his little girl to keep her from charging after the cops, that I knew just how much.
That was when my childhood finally died.
In the rear of the suffocating cruiser and amidst the sneering and disgusted cops who didn’t bother to spare the terrified juvenile delinquent a glance, I made a wish. A pledge to myself.
Whatever happened to me, however my life turned out, Gemma would be taken care of.
And starting next week, she works for me.
Oh, she didn’t agree right away. Gemma being Gemma, she took her time weighing the pros and cons, had two solid hours of discussion with her roommates when they visited again. Carlson is really getting quite proficient at minding other people’s business. He’s had plenty of practice these last few days with Gemma mostly resting in her room.
I will do everything in my power to ensure she succeeds. Every tentative step on her corporate ladder will be securely reinforced by me.
A soft feminine murmur is the only alert before Gemma abruptly shifts and sends Bull yelping and flying off the bed. He lands with a plop on the rug, disoriented and shaking his fur out in agitation. My dog tosses an accusing glare my way like it was my fault he got kicked out of bed. With a quick circle around, he nimbly leaps back on the base of the mattress to curl up on top of the cover and nowhere near Gemma’s legs.
Restless, a pale bare foot breaks out from under the cover, halfway hanging off the side of the bed. Gemma is sprawled on her stomach with the sheet shoved down her back, one slender arm thrown out and facing away from me. In the dim room, I can just make out the delicate arch, the adorable toes with the chipped paint. Without giving myself time to consider, I push off from the stiff chair and manage not to chaff my ass in the process.
Since she was a wee thing, Gemma always tossed and turned in her sleep as though her abundance of energy couldn’t be contained. One time when she crept me in to crash on her floor for the night, she actually flipped right off the bed and collapsed on top of me, knocking the wind out of me. Groggily, she mumbled something and crawled back under her blankets, conking out within minutes.