Bedwrecker(61)

I blink. Shocked by his candidness. Shocked that he’s admitting this to me. Shocked that he feels this way toward Emma Fairchild. “Keen, I don’t know what to say. I just assumed you and Brooklyn both got along with your mother. In fact, I thought she had to be the reason you two were so close, since you were raised so far apart.”

“There’s nothing to say. It’s complete bullshit.” He drops hold of my hand and reaches into his pocket for his wallet, sliding out an American Express card and setting it inside the holder in the black billfold. The waiter is quick to retrieve it.

With the billfold out of the way, I reach over and grab his hand. “What is complete bullshit?”

His laugh is harsh and cold. “My relationship with my mother. She is not the reason my brother and I are close. It’s my father who made certain we saw each other. He’d fly Brooklyn out to see me, make the phone calls every week so we could talk, arrange for him to meet us on vacations. Fuck, I think my father was more of a father to Brooklyn than his own.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Like I said, you work with the cards you’re dealt.”

“But life isn’t one giant poker game, Keen.”

“Isn’t it?”

I sip at my coffee and contemplate this. “You know, in some small way you just might be right.”

“It’s all or nothing, Maggie, all or nothing.”

I study him. His expression is impassive. The mask in place. “Is that how you feel about you and me?”

He whispers without hesitation, “After everything I put you through, and the fact that you’re sitting here with me right now, I have to say that I honestly have no fucking clue.”

I laugh, and say something so not me. “Me either, but I want to find out.”

“Me too,” he answers. Taking his credit card back that the waiter has just returned, he pushes to his feet. Then he walks over to me, pulling my chair out and offering his hand. I take it and suddenly I am pressed against him, his fingers kneading into the skin beneath my top, and his mouth at my ear whispering, “Let’s go.”

There is a slight crackle in the air, a subtle tension that screams to be released. I look into his eyes and see a reflection of exactly what I am feeling.

Need.

Desire.

And hope.

It’s the last one that will either topple both our walls or crumble them.





Maggie

At ten years old, this house isn’t old and isn’t new.

It has its issues, though.

The lock sticks. There is a trick to getting the key to slide in just right.

No pun intended.

I’ve told my mother about it. It doesn’t seem to bother her. Then again, I spend more time here than she does. She hasn’t come home much since moving back to New York City last year.

In fact, lately, I feel like I own two houses—this one and the beach bungalow in Laguna.

I fiddle with the lock but don’t seem to be able to make much progress with Keen’s hands on my hips, his body pressed against mine, and his mouth buried in my neck.

The car ride back to my mother’s house was done with the radio off. Hard to believe. Instead of listening to music we talked about everything light, as opposed to the heavy conversation at the restaurant.

He put the top down and turned the heater on.

I’d say it was romantic, but I don’t usually think in those terms. Besides, I think he probably does that often. I don’t mean with a girl, but whenever he drives at night. He seems to really enjoy it.

With the night stars above us, he took the long way home, and we discussed silly things like how basketball is his favorite sport and if he could be anything in this world, he’d be an NBA star. How Makayla and I despised cheerleaders in high school and used to write our own cheers, about them.

Eventually the conversation turned to more serious things. He told me why he had to shut everyone out of his life when he was fired, about his father dying of a sudden heart attack at sixty, and his need to succeed in life for him. And in turn I told him about Makayla’s mother dying and her moving in with my mother and me as a teenager.

Me fumbling at the door is becoming very familiar. He bites at my earlobe, and bolts of pleasure are spreading electric tingles that start somewhere in the vicinity of my belly and quickly move lower.

I turn. “Stop it, I can’t concentrate.”

“I can’t stop. I want you.”

“What makes you think I’m inviting you in past the front door? Good-night kiss, remember?”

“Screw that, I’m coming in.” His voice is hoarse, raspy, and makes my knees go weak.

“You’re pretty certain of yourself.”