Cockney:A Stepbrother Romance(55)

I pull away from her; "Wait, hang on," She's leaning forward to kiss me again and I draw back further; "Reagan, hold on."         

     



 



"What?" She's looking at me like she messed up; like it's her that's doing something wrong, and that look just kills me.



"I-" What, tell her I can't do this? Tell her it is her? Yeah, no, fuck  that; I'm not doing that to her. "I- I just need to go get something for  a sec."



She gives me a strange, nervous look as she bites her lip; "Oh-"



Ah, shit, she thinks-



"Ok, there might be one in my sister's room, in the bedside table." She  looks so shy, so innocent, and so on the verge of breaking, and it's  giving me the fuel I need to walk away. I can't let her get into me;  can't let her touch the wreck I am inside. Reset button? How fucking  delusional am I? I'm broken, and in the way that can't be fixed.



"I'll uh, I'll see you soon."



And then I'm walking away; walking away from the one girl in the world I  can't get out of my head and regretting it and hating every step I take  as I let the terrace and her and the memory of that one perfect moment  in time slip away behind me.



P R E S E N T



There's something dreamlike about being back in the Old Man's house in  Greenwich, and I feel like I'm half-asleep as I wander through it. The  strongest thing is, I've only ever been here a handful of times, but  every single one sticks out like a dog-eared bookmark along the pages of  my past. The kitchen has the lingering memories of swapping stories of  trauma and horror with William over mushroom pizza; like our own fucked  up little PTSD support group. There's the guest-room upstairs, where he  and I sat by day and night with Bryce for seven fucking days in a row  while he detoxed off the junk; screaming his demons out at the ceiling  while we held him down and kept him hydrated. I can remember parking  myself in the library and reading every damn book the Old Man had on  power and management and business when he set me up within Archer.



And then of course, there's the garden out back where I first met  Reagan, and really, that's the weirdest part. It's not just that I  haven't been back here since William died, it's that the last time I was  here was when I kissed her.



"Remind me again why we picked this place for the media Q&A?" I grin  as I hear her walk up behind me where I'm staring off across the back  gardens like a weirdo. It's basically the first time she's spoken to me  since our little stupid blow-up yesterday, and I can tell she's just as  weirded out by being back at her Father's place as I am which gives me a  strange comfort. We both have our own ghosts about this place, but I  can't help but wonder if she's thinking about that last time we were  both here too.



"One guess, but I'll give you a hint; it starts with a ‘D' and ends with ‘onald'."



She snorts, and as I turn to her, I see her look up at me like she's about to say something.



"Reagan! We're live in two damn minutes!"



Goddamnit, Donald.



Reagan rolls her eyes and shakes her head, and with one last flickering  look at me, she's following her campaign manager back through the house  to the front steps where they're holding the press conference.



*****



I'm anxious and restless; subtly shifting my weight from foot to foot,  tensing my muscles, and generally feeling too warm under my dress-shirt.  I start to roll the sleeves up too before Donald gives me the evil eye  and mutters something about "not testing well with target demographics"  as he scowls at my tattoos, so I leave them be with a scowl right back  at him.



My nervousness of course has nothing to with Reagan talking to the  media. No, fuck that, she's flawless up there, looking every bit the  political powerhouse behind the podium. Her answers are effortless,  she's direct and yet light, and she makes them laugh without even trying  to play the comedian. No, what I'm fidgeting about is how I'm going to  apologize to her about yesterday when we're done here. There's a  nervous, rumbling energy inside of me that tumbles under the surface;  the kind I usually only get when I'm strapping on my gloves for what I  know is going to be a long, rough session with the bag, or when I think  too long about the past. I want to tell her everything - all of it - and  that quite honestly scares the shit out of me.



I'm walking towards her with a grin on my face, ready to pull her away  from all of this and just lay it all out, when mother-fucking Chet  swoops out of nowhere with Donald tailing behind him like a puppy dog.  And then it's just a repeat of the previous day, where I'm gritting my  teeth and trying to keep my cool while this asshole cracks stupid jokes  and mugs for the cameras next to Reagan, using every ounce of my  willpower to try and ignore the fact that he keeps touching her on the  arm.



And really, it's not even Chet; it's the thought of any guy putting  their hands on her that makes me rage inside. The thought makes my fists  clench up and brings me right back to where I was, drunk and fucked up  in whatever shit-hole third world slum we were in at the time back then.  I can't help but think of my hands on her; my hands running down her  sides, feeling the curve of her hips and the heat between her legs.



Fuck, I mean I was so close to everything one time, and not just the  prospect of fucking her, but I mean everything. That last time we were  both here, I know it was something more and something deeper than just  the idea of banging a chick. It was fucking way more than that, which is  why five Goddamn years later I still can't get it out of my head and  still can't get her out from under my skin. I think I even knew back  then that when I kissed her for that first time, I was just done. With  her, there was light, and peace, and finally a fucking silence to the  blaring of my memories that scream through my head. I was so fucking  close to knowing her, and letting her in before I ruined it.



I realize I've been zoning out again as I hear Chet's horrible little weasel laugh.



"So I say, that's how you putt a par-three, baby!" Donald erupts in  laughter right along with him, and even Reagan is humoring him with a  smile; the kind of smile I've barely seen tossed my way in days.



"Am I right, Hudson?" Chet winks at me; "Yeah this guy knows what I'm talking about!"



I have no fucking idea in the world what he's talking about.



"Hey so Hudson, remind me what it is you do over at Archer Holdings? You  were a fighter pilot or something, right? Currahee!" Chet pumps his  fist in the air like he's at a football game or something.



Seriously, punching this asshole in the face right here and right now would be an act of mercy.



"I was a Marine, actually. And Currahee is the 101st Airborne; Army."



Reagan gives me a look, and I begrudgingly plaster a nicer, totally  disingenuous look on my face; "I make sure the money flows in the right  direction at Archer and just pretty much fix problems."



Chet grins and elbow's me in the arm like we're buddies; "Fix things,  huh? So, you think you can fix this girl's phone so she can call me back  sometime?" Chet laughs hysterically at his own joke, with Donald right  there with him clapping him on the back.



No, but I can fix how fucking straight your teeth are in about five seconds, dickwad.



But Reagan is laughing too, even though I know she can't stand this  clown either. She's touching his arm and leaning into him, and I wince  as a photographer flashes a quick shot of the two of them like that  which I'm sure will end up on some stupid blog somewhere involving  "romance on the campaign trail" or some other bullshit that Donald and  Erika cook up.



I want to hate all of this; all the fucking pageantry and the concocted  narratives, and I definitely want to hate Reagan having her picture  taken with this fucking guy. But deep down, I get it. I look around at  the college volunteers clearing chairs from the front lawn; I see the  campaign posters with her face on them, and the boxes of buttons and  t-shirts with her name emblazoned across them, and I get it. Chet's  obnoxious, and vanilla, and a total talking head, but he fits the part.  This is who she should be with, I think darkly to myself; not some  fucked up broken toy soldier like me, with all the shit I'm still  carrying around on my shoulders. This girl is fucking incredible, but  her being with a guy like this just makes sense, and I'm fucking  delusional to think otherwise.



She laughs again at something stupid he says - the sound so perfect and so pure and good - and I can't; I'm just done.



I'm barely aware of Donald asking me where I'm going as I just walk  away; away from the lights and the camera and Reagan and Chet.





P A S T



I'm still trying to breath; still trying to get my racing heart to calm  down enough for it to drop out of my throat and back into my chest where  it belongs, even five minutes after he went back inside. I just kissed  Hudson; I mean, holy shit. And not just any old "kiss" either; not some  chaste princess-movie kiss, but a searing-hot, gravity-defying kiss that  still has me grinning like an idiot and trying to feel the floor  beneath my feet. Or did he kiss me? Does it matter? Does anything else  in the world matter right now after that?