Legacy (14 page)

“Core strength and tricep toning,” he told her. “Twenty-five times.”

At 17, she paused to curse him.

“I hate you,” she growled.

Ouch.

Wes laughed, hoping that she was joking.

“Wait until tomorrow.”

Chapter 17

C
orinne’s arms shook as she tried to peel her sports bra over her head. It felt like her whole body was shredded. With what little energy she had left, she pulled her bag from her locker and dug out her bikini, cover up, and flip-flops.

Once she’d changed, she grabbed her sketchpad and charcoal case, stuffed her bag back into her locker, and went in search of the pool. It was hard to miss. The double-Olympic sized pool was skirted with dozens of mostly empty lounge chairs and dotted with enormous canvas umbrellas.

Corinne chose a chair in the sun, slipped off her cover-up, and stretched herself out. The May breeze was cool, but the sun was almost directly overhead, so she didn’t feel chilly. She pulled on her sunglasses and took in her surroundings.

Aside from the lifeguard some 20 yards away, there was a lone swimmer doing laps several lanes from her, an older woman lounging under one of the umbrellas with a book, and a man and a woman face down on their fully reclined chairs, sunning themselves. The only sound was the rhythmic slap of the swimmer’s strokes as he glided through the water. She watched him for a moment, witnessing how the water and the midday sun came to life over his skin, magnifying each other. The translucence and the motion could both be captured with oils, she knew, but she didn’t think it would translate as well in a sketch.

Not wanting to think about the sunbathing couple and their story, Corinne hid behind her sunglasses and turned her attention to the woman reading. She was a series of curves and shadows. Even under the umbrella, she wore a gorgeous, teal floppy hat, and her swimsuit—one of those baby-doll-dress styles—was scalloped at the hem and shoulders. Her breasts and belly were generous and grandmotherly, but still somehow sensual. Her plump arms tapered into beautiful, well-manicured hands, nails painted a pale pink as though the woman could not wait for summer. Her toes echoed the color.

And while Corinne couldn’t hope to catch any of the pink with her charcoals—the woman begged to be painted in watercolors—her shape made the decision easy. Corinne had doubted whether or not she’d be able to live up to the sketching assignment that Wes had set for her, but she was determined to at least try. She didn’t let herself think about it too much—how long she’d gone without her art, why she had lost it in the first place. She just opened her sketchpad to a clean page, chose a three-inch piece of charcoal, and started with the hat. Corinne’s only hope was that her subject wouldn’t get up to leave anytime soon.

Twenty minutes later, the woman rose, collected her things, and left the pool, but it didn’t matter. By that point, Corinne was filling in shadows, darkening patches of fabric to show texture, smudging the edges of the woman’s toe pads to try to capture the buffed look of her skin.

It was only just after noon when Corinne cocked her head and regarded the effort. It wasn’t her best work, surely, but it was an exercise, a test, and she had passed. She took a deep breath and let out a comfortable sigh. She had proof—both for herself and for Wes—that the day had been a success. The heaviness in her muscles promised that she would sleep, and the poolside sketch had shown Corinne that her art had not totally abandoned her. She remembered, too, the sense of healing love that had come with the yoga lesson.

Corinne flipped to a fresh page in her sketchpad and started drawing from memory. It wasn’t difficult: the wave of his hair, the way that light there was both reflected and absorbed; the arch of his brow and the depth of his eyes. She spent time on the mouth and the interplay of stern cheek muscles behind the bow of his lips, the striking philtrum above them and the strong chin below.

She had been at it at least an hour when a shadow passed over her, but she was so intent on what she was doing that she didn’t look up.

“My God. That’s
me!”

Wes stood over her with his mouth hanging open. The look of confident intensity that stared up at her from the page was far from the one of humbled awe that hovered over her. Somehow sensing the disconnect, Wes closed his mouth and sunk onto the edge of the lounge chair next to her.

Except for giving her quick, disbelieving glances, Wes couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the sketch.

“Corinne,...that’s
amazing!
” he stressed in hushed tones, still lost in the drawing. “I didn’t think...”

He trailed off.

“You didn’t think what?” Corinne asked, curious. Wes’s eyes left the page and found hers, but they were impossible to read.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just really good.”

“You didn’t think I could do it?” she asked, shrinking inside at the thought and hating herself for it. Wes’s eyes rounded in horror, and his hand shot to her elbow.

“No! Of course not,” he insisted, shaking his head. He seemed to wrestle with himself over his next words. “I didn’t think...you saw me.”

Corinne felt her eyes widen in surprise. The statement revealed so much and spawned so many questions. She looked at the sketch again. It was Wes, through and through, she realized, but it was the man who sat beside her now, not the one who’d been her beloved’s best friend only months before. If she had to describe the man in the sketch, she would have said that he was vigilant, determined, adept. And handsome.

Had it ever occurred to her to sketch a portrait of Wes Clarkson before Michael’s death, it would have been a very different thing entirely, and she understood now how unfair she had been because the picture she’d carried of him in her mind would have only been a caricature, overemphasizing his flaws and minimizing things she could no longer deny he possessed. Loyalty. Good humor. Vulnerability. Michael had recognized all of these traits in his friend, and had tried to share them with her from the start. Why had it taken the greatest tragedy of her life to see this?

What else in her life was she missing? What was she missing about her sister? Her father? Herself?

And did they—like Wes—feel that she wasn’t
seeing
them?

“Wes, I’m sorry,” she said, lamely, forcing herself to look into his eyes, which in the sun took on the color of a creek bed—only with so much more depth. “I was very wrong. I’ve treated you badly most of the time that I’ve known you.”

Wes chuckled, the bronze of his cheeks blushing slightly.

“I can think of a few times when I deserved it,” he said, shrugging.

Corinne shook her head, wanting him to understand what she was only just now understanding herself.

“No, I never really gave you a chance. I was snobbish and judgmental—stupidly. I thought that because I didn’t recognize your values that you didn’t have any...I couldn’t have been more wrong.” The smile he wore faded, and a frown creased his brow. Shame and regret threatened to choke her. “You’ve been so good to me through all of this, and I don’t deserve it.”

“Ok, now, stop,” Wes said, taking her hands in his and squeezing them. His touch felt like forgiveness. “You absolutely deserve it. I’m just glad you don’t hate me.”

It was her turn to laugh, and she squeezed back at his hands.

“How could I hate you?” Corinne remembered a time when this might have been true, but it seemed foreign to her now. Wes Clarkson was now solidly her friend. He might even be her best friend if she deserved such a thing.

“Um, you told me you hated me just this morning,” he teased, making her laugh again. He hadn’t let go of her hands, and she was aware of the fact that she didn’t want him to. It felt too nice.

“That was just my muscles talking,” she dismissed, lightly. “You were just trying to make me stronger.”

Wes’s eyes warmed at these words, and Corinne was glad that she’d spoken them. He was trying to make her stronger in every way possible, and she had the presence of mind now to be grateful for it. She had to do something in return.

“So, you really want me to go to this thing next Saturday?” she asked, watching him carefully. His eyes widened in hope before he pressed his lips together cautiously.

“Only if you’re up for it,” he said, now watching her closely. But it was clear to her that he wanted her to go with him and that she should. It would be the first time she’d be at a large gathering since the funeral, and it might be really hard, especially if she had to talk about Michael, but knowing that Wes would be with her made it seem doable. The fact that he wanted her to go suddenly mattered more than her fears.

“Okay,” she agreed.

Just as Wes promised, Corinne’s body was exhausted by the end of the day. After a dinner of spaghetti and salad—which Corinne and Wes prepared together—Corinne kept herself awake while Wes channel surfed, but at 9:30, she said goodnight. When she climbed into bed, sleep came immediately.

And so did her dreams.

It was happening again.

Night. The hospital. Fear. Mrs. Betsie, crying. Corinne had seen it all before. She knew what was going to happen. What had already happened.

Michael.

“There’s been a mistake,” Mr. Dan told her. “Michael wasn’t alone in the car.”

“What?” Corinne asked, confused, knowing that Michael was already gone. Had been gone for so long.

“Wes was with him, too,” Mr. Dan said, sadly.

“But...he couldn’t…” she tried to argue.

“He’s gone, too, Corinne. I’m sorry.”

“That’s impossible! I just saw him!” she cried.

“I’m sorry...”

Panic closed in on her like a demon.

“No! Wes! Wes!”

Chapter 18

W
es shot up in bed, his heart racing.

What the fuck?

The house was quiet, but something had woken him.

“No!...No!” Corinne wailed from her room.

Wes got his feet and raced into the hall, ready to beat whoever was hurting her.

“Wes!” she cried just before he burst through the door, spurring a round of barking from Buck.

“Corinne!” he yelled, searching blindly for the light switch. Wes expected to be tackled or shot as Buck barked again, but the light that flooded the room revealed no rapist or serial killer. Just a terrified Corinne blinking now against the glare. A distressed Buck sniffed Wes and whined.

“What wa-was someone in here?” Wes asked, panting and still searching the room, the floor, the closet.

Corinne sat up in bed. She was trembling violently, and she looked stunned, focusing on him in confusion.

“Oh, thank God,” she whimpered and buried her face in her hands. Every nerve in his body was on high alert, set to commit justifiable homicide.

“What happened?” Wes asked. His pulse pounded in his throat; he’d never been so scared in his life.

Corinne drew her knees up and seemed to hide behind them.

“Wes...oh shit...I’m so sorry,” she groaned. “It was a dream...a nightmare.”

“What?” he asked, relief coursing through him in a rush so that he let himself stumble to the foot of her bed to catch his breath.

“Holy shit,” he panted. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She looked up at him, finally, agony written all over her face.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, clearly mortified. “I feel so stupid!”

Wes closed the distance between them, sat on the edge of her bed, and took her in his arms.

“No, it’s okay,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought someone was hurting you.”

He pulled her tighter against him, and it was then that he realized how tightly she clung to
him
. She was still shaking uncontrollably.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, softly, drawing back to look at her.

She nodded against his chest, but she still gripped him fiercely.

Now that he could see that she was safe, his heartbeat leveled off, and he let himself draw a deep breath. But it was clear to see that the crisis wasn’t over for Corinne. The dream still had its claws in her.

“Was it about Michael?” he asked, softly.

Corinne went still against him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, finally.

Wes just nodded. Corinne never showed weakness if she could help it, and she must have thought talking about a bad dream made her look weak. She was too tough for that. It was something he had to admit he admired about her.

Still,
he thought, rubbing a hand up and down her back,
she doesn’t have to be tough all the time. I can do it now and then.

Holding her like this made him feel...capable. Like he could protect her against anything. He sure as hell
wanted
to protect her against anything.

And he wanted to keep holding her.

Corinne must have read his mind because the instant that thought filled his head, she sat up straight and pulled away, clutching at herself instead of clutching him.

“I’m so sorry,” she stammered, frowning. “You’ve had a shitty night’s sleep three nights in a row, and it’s all my fault.”

Wes looked at the clock by her bedside. It was 1:43 a.m. He was wide awake now, but he wanted to tell her that she was wrong. Sleeping with her on the couch the night before had been pretty great.

He stood up instead.

“You’ll be ok?” he asked, gently.

Corinne nodded, but she couldn’t seem to meet his eyes for more than a second. It bugged him that she was embarrassed. The episode had scared him because he thought someone was attacking her, but whatever haunted Corinne in that nightmare had made her call his name, and he wished he could tell her that he’d always come running.

Always.

He stepped back into her doorway and put a finger on the light switch.

“Corinne,...like I told you last night, we’re friends now. If you need something, just tell me,” he said, willing her to understand that he’d do anything for her. That he wanted to. “That’s why I’m here.”

He flipped the light off.

“Goodnight, Wes,” she whispered from the dark.

“Goodnight, C.”

Wes returned to his room and climbed back into bed, but he’d left the doors open between them in case she fell back into her nightmare.

He stared at the shadowed ceiling above him, listening to the darkness. Sleep was a long way off, and between him and oblivion was a riot of feelings. The fear had been unprecedented. Even now, the memory of it made him shiver. The thought of someone in Corinne’s room, forcing—

Never!

Wes jerked away from the thoughts. The images. But there was one thing he knew for sure; he would kill anyone who tried. In the moments when she’d cried out, he could have broken down the door—broken it to splinters—to get to her.

And then she was in his arms, safe, and he’d never known such relief! All he’d wanted was to hold on.

It had felt
so
good. Wes realized that it was the second time in 24 hours that he’d been allowed to take her in his arms. He drew in a slow breath through his nose and felt the sensation in his chest like a clenched fist. This was more than a crush. Even now, the urge to go back to her took everything he had to master.

She’s not yours,
he told himself.
You can never have her.

He shut his eyes and stifled a groan in the darkness.

“Wes?”

Wes’s eyes shot open. The whisper came from his open doorway.

“Corinne?” he whispered back.

Silence.

Wes propped up on his elbows and squinted. He could just make out her shape in the entrance.

“What is it?” he asked, this time more loudly.

“Did I wake you again?” Corinne’s voice sounded small and frightened. He sat up fully in bed.

“No, you didn’t wake me,” he promised. “What do you need?”

He heard her step into the room.

“Would it be...Can I...” she struggled. Wes heard her take a deep breath and let it go. “Can I sleep in here tonight?”

Wes swallowed and forced his voice to come out even.

“Yes,...of course,” he managed, throwing back the covers and wondering if he were dreaming.

Don’t touch her, you asshole.

“Thank you,” she said, crossing the room and finding his bed. “I’m sorry, Wes. I’m just still freaked out.”

“I get it. It’s okay,” he said, holding his breath as he felt the mattress dip beneath her. Wes tucked his hands behind his head to keep from reaching for her, but she pressed in next to him, the signature of her heat meeting his skin, and she laid a hand on his chest before quickly drawing it away.

Did she want to touch him? For comfort? Wes rolled on his side to face her and found her hand. Was she still shaking?

“Corinne? Talk to me,” he urged, squeezing her hand. He wished he knew how to help her. “Tell me about the dream.”

He felt her shake her head.

“I can’t,” she gasped. He knew her well enough to hear that she was fighting a sob. “I know it’s wrong...but I really wish you hadn’t poured that bottle down the drain.”

The closed fist in his chest punched him in the heart.

“Oh, C, you don’t mean that. Come here.” Wes opened his arms, and despite his ache to pull her into them, he wanted it to be her choice to move into his embrace. And she did. She crashed into him.

He knew that she was panicked, tortured by something that she couldn’t even talk about, and that she needed to be held, to be soothed. He knew that this was the only reason she was in his arms, in his bed. But for a moment—just for a moment—he let himself imagine that she felt what he did.

It was a cruel trick to play on himself because she didn’t, and she wouldn’t, and this feeling like he’d finally found out what he was supposed to do with his life wasn’t really his to keep.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Wes,” she whispered against his chest. She didn’t sound quite as upset now. Lying with him was helping. But Wes didn’t fool himself. He knew the physiology. Humans were social animals who could be soothed with an embrace. Chest to chest, oxytocin increased, cortisol decreased, blood pressure dropped.

As clinical as it sounded, it still felt pretty damn good, and he was lucky to be the one comforting her.

Wes allowed himself to press his lips against her forehead in a chaste kiss.

“Try to get some sleep, C.”

She nodded, already seeming to be on the edge of slumber. And even after she did drift off, her breathing deep and unhurried, Wes held her, drank her in, and cursed his stupid heart.

“Is this alright?”

Corinne stepped into the living room in a jade green dress that nearly made Wes swallow his tongue. He saw the dress—with its sheer layers floating over solid fabric—but mostly, he saw skin. The inches above her knees before the hem flared around them. The bare back and shoulders that only the spill of her hair covered. And most maddeningly, the vertical cutaway between her breasts where pale skin announced the absence of a bra.

“How does it stay on?” he asked, stupidly.

Corinne rolled her eyes, turned her back to him, and swept up her hair.

“It’s a halter top, silly,” she said, showing him the band of fabric that clasped behind her neck. Her movement stirred the air with her honeysuckle scent, and Wes cleared his throat and clenched his fists to resist touching the plane of her back. They’d slept in his bed ten nights in a row—just slept—and Wes thought that his sanity might be at risk. But it meant that he got to hold her and Corinne got to sleep without drugs, so what was a little insanity?

“So? Will it work?” she asked again.

Oh, it’ll work,
Wes thought.
On killing me.

“You look great,” he managed.

She turned toward him, smiling. She looked better than great. She was stunning.

“So do you,” she said, appreciatively, taking in his new gray suit. “Two buttons. A sharp lapel. Very
GQ
.”

He’d bought the suit the day after she’d accepted his invitation because he didn’t want to take her out in the one he’d worn to Michael’s funeral. Wes was glad now that he had. He’d have to look his best if he was going to stand by her side all night.

“It feels good to dress up, but I’m nervous,” she said, turning back toward her room. “I’ll just be a sec.”

Wes watched her go with a pang. He wanted her to have a good time, but he also knew that there were so many factors about the evening that would be out of his control. Especially his parents. The night could turn out to be great—a way for Corinne to return to society without too much attention on her—or it could twist into disaster.

Wes tried to unknot his shoulders at the thought. He stepped into the kitchen and eyed what remained of Michael’s makeshift bar on top of the fridge. Besides simple syrup, a couple of shot glasses, and a shaker, there was a bottle of Crown, some Cuervo Gold, Triple Sec, and a bottle of Kettle One.

Michael’s shot of choice was tequila, so instead Wes pulled down the Kettle One and the Triple Sec. He grabbed a lime from the fridge and washed it.

“C, I’m making a kamikaze,” he called across the house. “You want one?”

“God, yes!”

Wes took down the shaker and the shot glasses and got to work. Moments later, Corinne entered carrying a gold clutch that matched her shoes, and Wes handed her the shot.

She took it with shaking hands, and they eyed each other.

“You look just as nervous as I feel,” she said, frowning. “Why are
you
nervous?”

“Why are you nervous?” he countered.

“I asked you first,” she said, raising a brow at him. Wes debated what he should say and decided to be honest.