Maritza rises from her seat, pouting as she spreads her arms and comes closer. My head tucks right beneath hers when I go in for a hug, reminding me that I’ll forever be jealous of her height. It isn’t fair that God gave it to someone who has no use for it.
Heading back to the house, I squint over my dash when I spot Sutter’s truck parked in the driveway, which is odd because he’s never home in the middle of the day.
When I get inside, I find him sprawled out on the sofa, watching some basketball highlights on ESPN while simultaneously scrolling through his phone.
“What are you doing home?” I ask, hanging my bag on the back of a chair.
“We’re just waiting for inspections. Can’t do anything until the city approves the work we’ve done,” he says, eyes glued to the screen.
I have a few minutes, so I take a seat across from him. “So you’re just going to hang out here all day?”
“Yep.” He stretches his arms behind his head.
“I have an audition in a little bit,” I say. I’m sure my small talk annoys him but I’m testing him, trying to figure out if he’s truly being short with me or if it’s my imagination, if he’s one of those guys who are well versed in pretending nothing happened after he screws you. “I’m going to let Murphy out then I’m going to go to that, so …”
I study him.
“O … kay,” he says, like he’s unsure of why I’m telling him this.
It’s not like I expect us to be best friends because we slept together, but would it kill him to be cordial?
Clearing my throat, I angle my body toward him. “So … about last night.”
His eyes move to mine. “Oh. So we’re not going to pretend it didn’t happen?”
I cock my head, speechless.
“You’re an ass.” I rise, shaking my head. Not at him. At myself. I should’ve known better. I should have gone with my gut.
Sure. His kisses were fire and the way he touched me ignited my body in ways I hadn’t ever expected, but I should’ve stopped before I took it too far.
I’m an idiot.
It’s official.
“I wasn’t going to make a thing out of this but I feel like since we live together, we should probably address what happened. Or at the very least, act like adults and accept that it happened.”
“All right. It happened. What’s there to talk about?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I guess. Or maybe that it’s never going to happen again.”
Sutter smirks.
“I’m being serious,” I say.
“I know you are. That’s why this is so goddamn hilarious.”
“If I’d have known you were going to be such an asshole about it, it never would’ve happened in the first place,” I tell him. I don’t understand men. How they can be so hot and cold and have the audacity to say we are the hot and cold ones.
Pretty sure Sutter takes the cake on cold and heartless assholes.
“I’m done with this conversation.” I head up to my room and get Murphy to let him out. I’m crouched down at his kennel a minute later, working on the latch, when my bedroom door swings open.
I turn around to find Sutter standing in my doorway.
“You can’t just barge in here,” I rise, arms folded and heart hammering. I can’t breathe, the way he looks at me like he’s a lion and I’m a mouse and I have no chance in hell of getting away because he wants me.
“I feel like the only reason you wanted to talk about what happened was because you do want it to happen again,” he says.
“You’re delusional.”
And maybe the tiniest bit right …
“So fine, Melrose. Let's talk about it.” Hands in his pockets, he steps closer to me, shoulders shrugging as his lips toy with a smile. “You had fun, right?”
The word is stuck in my throat for a moment, but I clear it away. “Yes.”
“Me too.”
“You think I’m really fucking hot, right?”
I nod.
“Likewise,” he says. “But you can't stand me.”
“Exactly.”
Somehow I find myself backed up against the wall, Sutter standing so close the woodsy, intoxicating remnants of his aftershave invade my lungs.
“So what should we do about this?” he asks. I swallow the lump in my throat as his fingers slip beneath my chin, positioning my mouth so it aligns perfectly with his.
The heat between my thighs intensifies, and I struggle to breathe, choked with anticipation. Scenes from last night play in my mind, flashes and snippets, his skin against mine, his cock sliding deeper and deeper inside me.
Sutter lowers his mouth to mine, our lips barely grazing.
Tease.
“I need to get ready for my audition," I manage to say in the microseconds leading up to what would've been a mind-blowing kiss.
The space between us widens, but not by much, and the sensation of his fingertips grazing against my hips, sends a spray of goosebumps down my arms.
“That’s too bad,” he says, voice low in his throat.
Our eyes hold.
“Good luck with your audition,” he says.
And then he’s gone.
16
Sutter
The front door opens and slams, and just like that Melrose is off to her audition with flushed cheeks and wild eyes. And here I am, reveling in the lingering taste of her sweetness on my tongue.
She’s going to be my ruin.
Ever since Pandora’s box was opened, it’s like I have zero self-control - a first for me.
Still, her innate, irresistible sexiness aside, we can’t let this continue. She’s fire and I’m gasoline and where there’s sparks there’ll inevitably be a fire, and nothing good ever comes from those kinds of infernos.
We need boundaries and distance before both of us do something stupid, something we’ll regret.
The sound of her car backing out of the driveway is followed by a text alert on my phone. Half of me expects it to be her … maybe a series of question marks or, I don’t know, a thank you for my sexual olive branch?
But it’s my kid brother.
TUCKER: Dad’s hammered again. Throwing things. Breaking things. Fighting with Rhonda.
Dragging my hands through my hair, I release a hard breath before replying.
ME: Pack some clothes. I’ll be there in an hour.
I’ve had to witness enough of his rages and outbursts growing up. Maybe I was a smart-mouthed little shit as a kid, but Tucker’s a goddamn saint and he doesn’t deserve that.
July can’t come soon enough.
My lease is up here in June and then I’m going to look for a place for the two of us. Give him the life he deserves.
I’m dedicating my life to Tucker because after all, not only is he my brother and the only person in this world I give two shits about, it’s my fault he’s deaf.
17
Melrose
I have the day off today, but I won’t be relaxing. I have a to-do list a mile long beginning with groceries, laundry, and some new bedding. I’m tired of sleeping on Nick’s faded sheets, and God only knows what kind of fluids are embedded in their worn fibers.
I make my way to the kitchen to make myself a cup of herbal tea. After yesterday’s audition, I met Aerin for dinner and drinks and came home in time to catch a re-airing of the newest Housewives episode. But at some point in the night, I woke up passed out on the couch, and when I stood up to head upstairs, I realized I was covered with a blanket.
It seems Sutter was able to revive his cold, dead heart long enough to feel the need to cover me up … which is actually sweet, but I’m afraid to thank him for it because he might get all weird again.
Passing the living room, I stop when I see someone else covered with a blanket on the couch. Peeking over the back of the sofa, I realize it’s a kid. He must sense me, because he begins to rustle, his eyes peeling awake and then growing wider when he sees me looking over him.
“Hi,” I say.
The kid stares, but the more I look at him, the more I realize he looks exactly like Sutter. Same hazel eyes and dark hair. Same proportional nose and dark lashes.
This must be the 14-year-old brother he mentioned once before.
“Did you sleep well? I ask.
Still no response. Only blinks.
I offer an awkward smile before returning to the next room to make my tea. Maybe he’s nervous around girls? Boys in junior high can be so awkward and weird (unless their name is Nick Camden, of course).
A moment later, Sutter comes out of his room, straightening the hem of his work shirt before heading to the living room. His hands begin to rise and circle, and it takes me a second, but I realize he’s speaking to his brother in sign language.
The two of them exchange a silent conversation, and then I notice Sutter spelling out my name with his hands.
“I can introduce myself,” I sign.
Sutter stops, eyes trained on me, and his brother’s watchful stare passes between the two of us.
“You know ASL?” Sutter asks, head cocked.
“My grandfather on my mother’s side was deaf in his older years. Jeez, I haven’t used it in probably fifteen years. Crazy how it all comes back like that.” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly impressed with myself right now, but I’m more impressed at the way Sutter’s staring at me like he's impressed.
But he snaps out of it, heading into the kitchen and brewing a pot of coffee. When he returns, he signs to his brother that he’ll be home by five and to stay out of trouble.
The instant he’s gone, I wrap my hands around my tea mug and I take a seat beside the messy-haired teenager who hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
“What’s your name?” I ask with my hands.
His eyes widen, the same warm shade of honeyed amber as Sutter’s, and he swallows.
“Tucker,” he spells.
“You’re fourteen?” I ask.
He nods, fidgeting like I make him nervous. I suppose he’s at that age when he starts noticing women, becoming aware of every little movement and detail and staving off intrusive thoughts.
“You want to hang out with me today?” I ask in ASL.
Tucker fights a reluctant half-smile before slowly nodding, and then he signs something. I don’t understand all of it, but I understand enough. I think he’s asking if I can take him to the mall.
“Yes,” I sign, chuckling. “But only if you go to the grocery store with me first.”
Tucker’s face lights, his mouth pulled ear to ear. Thank God he’s a lot easier to win over than his big brother.
“Let’s leave in one hour,” I sign to him before rising and heading back to my room.
I think it’s sweet how Sutter is so protective of his brother.
And here I thought the only person he cared about … was himself.
I may have pegged him all wrong.
18
Sutter
Melrose’s “Gram” hasn’t wiped the smile off her face since I got here twenty minutes ago. In fact, after a round of mindless getting-to-know-you small talk, I keep catching her cupping a hand over her cheek, staring at her granddaughter then me and back.
Despite the fact that she volunteered me for this job, I kind of don’t mind as much anymore. She spent most of the other day keeping Tucker entertained out of the kindness of her heart. When I took him back home later that night after making sure Dad had sobered up, he wouldn’t shut up about how cool she was and how much fun he had when she took him to the mall and let him go into each and every store he wanted.
“This shouldn’t take too long.” I fasten my work belt around my hips.
“Melrose, why don’t you help him?” her grandmother says, all but herding us toward the garage pass through door.
Melrose’s nose wrinkles. “He doesn't need my help. I’d just be in the way.”
“Yeah. It’s all right. I appreciate it though.” I adjust my belt and head out to the breaker box. I’m hoping it’s nothing more than a few fuses that need replacing and not the entire panel. I’m not doing that shit for free. Not for people with more money than God and Bill Gates combined.
Flashlight in hand, I kill the power and get to work. Five minutes later, the door opens and Melrose’s outline fills the dark space. From here I realize there’s something in her hand.
“Sorry,” she says. “Gram wanted me to bring you some lemonade before the ice melts in the freezer."
“Power won’t be out long enough for the ice to melt,” I say, accepting the glass when she gets closer. “Thanks.”
I take a swig and sit it off to the side. The glass is heavy, feels expensive. I’d hate to knock it over in the dark. For all I know, it was a hand-me-down from Ingrid Bergman.
“So … everything good here?" she asks. “I hope it’s a quick fix.”
I nod, using my flashlight to find a fuse. “Yep. Almost done.”
“It’s so nice of you to do this,” she says. I get the sense that she’s lingering, that she wants to be out here, the two of us alone. But I don't know why. I thought we've been doing a good job of keeping our distance lately, as hard as it’s been. “If I’m bothering you, I can head in.”
“Nah.” I grab the next fuse. “You’re good.”
Her gaze is intense, heavy.
“This is fun for you?” I ask. “Watching me do this?”
Melrose rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “Honestly, if I go back inside, Gram’s just going to keep going on about how cute we’d be together, and I don’t know how much more of that I can take.”
“She’s not wrong.”
She's quiet for a second, as if she doesn't know how to interpret my comment. But it’s true. We would be fucking adorable together.
But that’s not going to happen. We’re never going to be together in the traditional sense.
It’s dark in here, but I’d be willing to bet she’s blushing.
“Plus my cousin just got here and there’s this whole peanut gallery thing going on. I’d rather be here.”
I chuckle under my breath. She’s completely ignoring what I said, which means she’s pretending she doesn't care.
“Can you hand me that amp meter over there? By your foot?” I ask, pointing.
A second later, she steps closer, the meter in her hand, only when I go to take it from her, I underestimate how far away she’s standing and she overestimates my intentions because without warning, her mouth presses hard against mine.
I let her kiss me and I let myself enjoy it. And when it’s over, I lift my hand to her cheek and take a step back.
“I wasn’t trying to kiss you.” I calmly take the tool from her hand and turn back to the breaker box.
“How was I supposed to know?” she asks, voice high and squeaky, equally defensive and embarrassed, but it's cute. “I mean, the other night you barged into my room like a feral animal and ...”
Her voice tapers into nothing, and I wonder if she’s hoping to God her family can’t hear this conversation.
“What was that about anyway?” she asks, whispering.
I shake my head, focusing on breaker number six. “It was just something I wanted to do.”
“Really?”
“What, was it supposed to mean something to me?”
Her arms fold against her chest. “No. I … it was out of the blue.”
“Yeah. It was.” I laugh, grabbing my flashlight.
"That's all you're going to say about it?”
I turn to her, our eyes holding in the dim light. “What else is there to say?”
Her arms fall to her sides with a clap, hanging limp as she studies me.
Is she hurt? Angry? Offended? Hell if I know and hell if I care. Caring is dangerous. Caring is what gets a man in trouble.
She lingers a few seconds more, her expression impossible to read, and then she turns to leave.
“Melrose," I call out to her before she reaches the door.
<
br /> She doesn't answer right away, but she stops.
“What?” Her back is toward me.
“Thanks for the kiss … I liked it.”
She hesitates, and a moment later, she reaches for the doorknob. “We should head back as soon as you’re finished. I’ve got an acting class tonight.”
And then she's gone.
19
Melrose
Thanks for the kiss? Who the hell says that?
“All right, everyone. Please pair up. Boy-girl if possible,” my acting coach, Paula Perdue, flits around the front of the classroom, her beaded bracelets prattling as she moves her arms and her gauzy dress swishing with each step. Her silky white hair is tied into a low bun, shiny and tight, and her lips are slicked in the reddest of reds.
This woman lives and breathes drama, and I guess she should seeing how it’s her job. Many of the greats have studied under her. Brad Pitt. Selma Hayek. George Clooney. Charlize Theron. Jennifer Lawrence. Robert Pattinson.
I try to focus on Sutter’s words, letting them replay in my head over and over. Stewing helps me forget the hordes of manic butterflies that swarmed my insides when we kissed.
“Hey.” There’s a tap on my shoulder. When I turn around, I find a guy, not much older than me, wearing a smile and a faded blue button down. “You need a partner?”
I nod.
He smiles bigger, his teeth straight and white and his blond hair parted on the side. He reminds me of one of those guys who own yachts and wear sweaters draped over their shoulders when they have dinner at the country club, and he sounds like he’s from New England. I imagine he came out here with a dream and a trust fund.
The guy moves to the empty seat beside me. “Michael.”
“Melrose.”
“Real name or stage name?”
I roll my eyes, but in a self-deprecating way. “Real.”
“That’s awesome. I was thinking of changing my name to something more memorable. Maybe Baz or Stone or Storm or something,” he says. “You're never going to believe what my last name is.”
The Complete P.S. Series Page 31