It was that something hot and wicked that scared me because guys like Ben Lancaster were off limits for me. First off, my brother would kill me if I ever got mixed up with one of his players again, and after everything I'd been through in the last six months, Matt was my anchor. I couldn't screw up. Not again.
And secondly? It would be tragic for me to ruin someone like Ben Lancaster, and that's pretty much what I did. I ruined things. I ruined people.
I was my mother's daughter through and through.
I was the girl no one should bring home to their parents. The hot mess every guy's mom warned them about, and even though I was technically in treatment and on the mend, I knew the fire was still there. The hot fire currently buried beneath layers of medication. Sometimes when the noise got to be too much, I felt it pulling at me desperately, not content to rest.
And it was so hard to push it back down. To bury it beneath the scars under my skin because sometimes it was the only thing that made me feel alive.
But I did. I did it for my brother, Matt. I did it for my therapist, Seamus. And I suppose on some level I even did it for myself.
I was all of that and more.
And Ben Lancaster was off limits.
"Okay," I said again as I set my tools back onto the easel. "I'd better get dressed."
Chapter Two
Georgia
My cell phone buzzed and I glanced down. There was a text from Matt. ‘Shit, I'm sorry I forgot. Home in fifteen.'
He would be at least another half an hour, if not longer. I was betting on the longer, because it was too close to rush hour and everyone and their freaking mother would be heading somewhere with the Fourth of July two days away.
I glanced in the mirror and tucked a long strand of inky black hair behind my ear. Unlike my older brother Matt, who'd inherited our mother's coloring, I was more like my dad. My hair was dark, my eyes a super light greenish-bluish color that some people found freaky, and my skin was pale. I was winter while Matt with his warm blue eyes and blond hair was summer, and go figure, summer was the one thing I always wanted to be.
For a moment the picture of me in the mirror blurred.
I have a vivid memory of my mother brushing out her long, blond hair, the strokes even and precise. It's one I usually keep locked away but sometimes, I open that box, the one loaded down with memories, and I sit back and remember.
In my mind she sits at her vanity, hidden inside the large walk-in closet of our million dollar Cherry Hill home, and stares at herself in the mirror, her delicate hands holding the large brush. She would start at the top of her head near the crown and pull the brush down slowly, once, twice, and then a third time before she would move on to the next piece.
She would sit there for long periods of time and I, as a little girl, would bring my dolls into the closet and watch her until I got bored. I'd play with my dolls, sometimes for hours, while she stared at herself and brushed her hair.
Sometimes she would cry and sometimes she would sing. Sometimes she would say nothing at all, not even when the shadows crept in from her bedroom. Matt never came into our secret room, it was always just me and Mom. On those nights my dad would come home from work, his eyes tired, and his smile sad. He'd pull me from her side and take me downstairs to eat.
Not even then would she say a word.
Funny the things you remember.
With a sigh I tossed my cell back onto the dresser and decided I couldn't hide in my room any longer.
Ben was standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows that ran the length of my brother's loft, gazing down onto the street below. My brother's place was in the heart of Old City and everything we needed was within walking distance. Shops, pubs, parks. It was beautiful and trendy. It was everything a guy like Ben Lancaster would be looking for and I'm sure he would end up buying some swanky bachelor pad. They all did.
I noticed a large duffel bag near the door, along with a knapsack and a soft shell computer case. He turned around, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans.
"Hey," he said softly. "I didn't get your name."
"Georgia," I answered.
"Georgia."
I nodded. It was a summer name ironically.
"Yep. As in the peach. As in the state. As in my mom must have been on drugs when I was born because Georgia is just … "
He arched an eyebrow. "Is just?"
I shrugged. "Not me."
He nodded toward the canvases propped along the wall to his right. Unlike the one on the easel, these ones weren't empty. They were filled with dark images, open mouths and wide eyes. They were good, but they weren't for the faint of heart.
"Those yours?"
I nodded.
"So is that what you do? You're an artist?"
I wasn't about to tell Ben Lancaster that I wasn't much of anything. Art was just something I did to fill in the holes that blanketed my life like shrapnel. Sometimes it worked but other times I was left leaking all over place. An injured soul back from some war that no one would ever understand unless you've been there.
"It's just a hobby."
"A hobby," he repeated, his dark eyes never leaving mine. "It looks like more than a hobby to me. You're really good."
I moved away because the guy was too intense. Too fucking intense.
"Matt sent me a text. He'll be home soon."
"Good." He paused. "So, are you a hockey fan?"
"It's kind of hard not to be." I was a big fan of the game and there had been a time when I had been a big fan of several of the hockey players-they were always around. Again, not information I was willing to share.
Silence fell into the loft and for a few seconds it was an uncomfortable silence, broken by a cleared throat-me-and a shifting of feet-Ben.
A few heartbeats passed and then the door flew open, thank God.
My brother Matt strolled into the loft, a wide grin on his face when he spied Ben across the room. "Lancaster," he said. "Man, I'm sorry. Totally slipped my mind that you'd be hanging here for a few days until you get settled."
I watched as they greeted each other and it was obvious they had more than a passing acquaintance. Not surprising, at thirty-two, Matt was one of the youngest coaches in the league and he knew a lot of players from when he'd started out as a scout.
There was the shaking of hands, the slaps on the back and the general ‘guy-greeting' I'd seen a million times before. It was like they wanted to hug each other silly, but it didn't pass the ‘guy code,' so the shaking and slapping sufficed.
Matt glanced back at me, his smile in place, but I saw the worry in his eyes. I'd been living with him for three months now and I hadn't spent much time with anyone other than him and my therapist, Seamus. I had certainly steered clear of anyone male and hot.
Now, I'm sure if our houseguest was the little old lady on the first floor-the one who hoarded magazines like they were gold-he wouldn't think twice. But this was a guy. This was a hot guy. And this was a hot guy who happened to be one of the brightest hockey players in the league.
I saw the worry in Matt's eyes and he had every right to be. I'd done a lot of stupid things in the last few years but I was better now. He knew I was better. They'd figured things out. I was taking my meds and my life was a bowl of sunshine and roses.
Okay, that was a huge exaggeration. I was a twenty year old orphaned, college dropout, who had spent six months in what everyone liked to call a hospital, but what was in fact, a fancy, expensive mental institution. I'd been poked, prodded, observed and had been analyzed and talked to death. I'd been diagnosed.
I'd done my therapy, I'd taken my meds like a good girl and now I was out.
So, yeah, it wasn't sunshine and roses but I wasn't locked up. I wasn't looking at life through a cloud of confusion and so what if sometimes things felt fuzzy. So what if fuzzy was only marginally better than the dark, chaotic mess I'd been before.
At least the fuzziness wasn't always there, seeping into my brain and stifling anything that was expressive.
For now things were good enough. Though there was always the chance I could derail at any time and take a fuck-ton of people down with me and Matt knew it.