Never Been Kissed (19 page)

Brody didn’t.

And they’d been friends.

And last night, that look in his eyes, that kiss against fingers that still pulsed in her memory, those things told a truth.

They were friends—and he wanted her.

And he was cooking bacon.

Honestly, things are kind of going my way here.

So she walked into the main room, feeling pretty confident.

“You’re awake,” he said, turning away from the stove.

“Hard to sleep with bacon cooking.”

“I have coffee, too.”

“Full service again?”

The futon was set up with her pillow table and a glass of juice sat on the coffee table. Two small pills beside it.

“I don’t think I want the pain meds anymore,” she said.

“Really?”

“I hurt, but I’d rather feel it than keep sleeping days away.”

He nodded and there was no ignoring the pride in his eyes.

As she sat, she pushed her hair away from her face, flipped it so it lay down her back in one long twist. A plate with scrambled eggs and two pieces of bacon was slid on the coffee table in front of her.

“This looks great.”

“I’m no Cora, but I can scramble an egg.”

It was obvious he was working hard now, trying to
make things smooth. How novel. She’d never seen him like this.

Brody didn’t sit on the other edge of the futon, he took his cup of coffee and leaned against the fridge.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She fought the blush rising up her chest. Not ashamed, but not totally worldly either.

“If it’s about last night—”

“It’s not.” He was decisive and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Your parents released a statement saying you were resting at your family home in Georgia. It was all over the news last night.”

“Great,” she said and picked up a piece of bacon. “The heat is off.”

He shook his head. “Not so great. The camera guys we saw at Cora’s are in town filming a reality show,
What Simone Wants.
And the guy in the Red Sox hat?”

Ashley nodded, remembering him.

“His name is Gary. After the news story last night, he knew it was you in the café.”

“How do you know he knew?”

“Ashley, it’s my job.”

“Did he say something?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know.”

“Ashley, I know.” He had a whole bodyguard-vibe thing going, so she didn’t roll her eyes. “I also had to tell Sean and Cora.”

“Why?”

“Because you told Cora about the pirates.”

She had sort of a dim recollection of making pirate noises around Cora. Strange.

“Okay, so what does that mean?”

“If you’re here, I’m here.”

“What?”

“I’m staying as long as you do.”

She could only gape at him. It was strange to be so delighted and so freaked out by the idea.

“Because three people know who I am?”

“No, because one person has access to a lot of cameras and I don’t trust him.”

“So how about if I ask him not to do anything.”

“You can’t be that naive.”

“You’d be surprised, Brody, what people will do if you just ask nicely.”

“You won’t be getting within ten feet of that guy,” he said. “And since you’re not my boss, I’m staying.”

She took another sip of her coffee, trying to hide her smile.

“But we’re going to have some rules,” he said.

“Okay.”

“No more blabbing to people about your story. And I’ll be out of the apartment during most of the days.”

She set down her coffee cup with a thunk. “So I can’t talk to anyone and you’ll be gone all day? I don’t like your rules.”

“I didn’t say you can’t talk—”

“Let me give you my rules,” she said, leaning back against the futon. “I’ll go where I want, within reason, because I’m not a child and I appreciate the situation I’m in.”

He nodded. “Fine.”

“You don’t have to be out of the apartment, Brody.”

His dark eyes met hers and she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling. “My brother wants my help in the bar,” he said. “I’ll be down there. Close enough to be here if you need me.”

She stared at the steam rising from her coffee. It was one thing to be brave alone in the bedroom. Another to be brave out here, under his gaze. In his disturbing company.

“If this is about last night—”

“I’ll sleep on the futon. You’ll sleep in the bedroom. Last night won’t happen again.”

She took another bite of bacon.

“I’m not kidding, Ashley.”

“You’ll notice I’m not arguing with you.”

“No, you’re sitting there like the Cheshire cat, thinking you know something I don’t. Thinking you’ve figured something out, but Ashley, you haven’t.”

“If you say so.”

Suddenly, he was across the room, his hands braced on the back of her futon near her ears.

She gasped with surprise, with the power of lust that charged through her system. Bacon fell from her hand.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his face so taut, so pained, and she felt bad for a moment, that he was somehow in pain, but then thrilled. Grossly, obscenely thrilled that she had this power over him. Over the remote and cold Brody Baxter.

“You won’t hurt me,” she breathed, thinking of how he’d washed her hair.

“I didn’t hurt you ten years ago?”

Oh,
she thought. Emotional hurt. Heartbreak. Yes, he’d devastated her back then. Burned her to the ground so completely that when she grew back, she was different.

A sharp bang on the front door made Ashley jump, and Brody whirled. The bang came again.

“Go into the bedroom,” he said, helping her up with impersonal hands. Rattled, she followed his directions, but she kept the door open just enough that she could peek through the crack.

Brody moved along the side of the door, carefully lifting a corner of the curtain over its window.

For a moment, she saw him sag, as if his muscles could no longer hold him upright, as if the load he carried was just too heavy, and then he swung the door open.

An old man stood there, a vision in gray. Gray hair, gray shirt. Black sweat pants. His skin looked gray, too.

Not healthy
was her first thought.

And angry
was her second.

“Brody,” the man said.

“Hi, Dad.”

Three months after Brody was adopted, after all the home visits and court dates were finished, Linda got pregnant. He found her one morning on the bathroom floor. Passed out.

Brody had been six. And he’d thought she was dead.

But turned out she’d fainted. She did a lot of that for a month. And then she did a lot of bleeding. And then this woman, whom he’d fallen in love with, who had saved him from his fear and uncertainty, was gone. Hospitalized bed rest.

Ed took him to visit a few times a week after school, but the hospital scared Brody. Seeing Linda so pale and weak, trying so hard to pretend that everything was okay, scared him.

Being alone in the house with Ed—who was quiet and stern-faced and never hugged him like Linda did, didn’t tuck him in, didn’t play with him, or talk to him about what was happening—scared him.

And then she got worse and Ed started spending the nights at the hospital, leaving Brody in the house with a babysitter who watched MTV and talked on the phone.

He was six and he’d been through some really bad stuff and he knew in his heart he had no business complaining, because his sheets were clean and the food was good and no one was hitting him, or yelling at him.

But he’d been lonely. Worried. Anxious. And unsafe in a way that was so fundamental no amount of clean sheets would make him feel better.

The silence felt like a threat. A judgment.

You don’t belong here. This is not for you. They made a mistake and it’s only a matter of time before they send you back.

One night Ed didn’t go to the hospital and Brody had been so excited. Happy. Ed had made hot dogs and beans in the microwave. But dinner had been so silent, each silent minute worse than the last. Brody did the dishes, put them away, brushed his teeth, and went to bed, all without having to be told or asked or even looked at.

That was a skill he’d perfected—vanishing.

That night, he’d kept his light on when he went to bed, waiting for Ed to come read him a story, or better yet, sit on the edge of the bed and tell him Linda would be okay. And when he heard Ed’s footsteps in the hallway, he held his breath, light-headed with hope.

Everything will be okay,
he’d thought.

Ed had pushed open the door, the bedside table light cutting across his stern face, slicing it into pieces. He’d opened his mouth, shut it. Glanced down at his feet. Minutes seemed to pass. Hours. Until finally he looked up and said:

“You’re fine.”

It wasn’t a question. It had been a decree, a need by a man with too much on his hands.
I need you to be fine, to not require anything from me that I can’t give.

“Yeah,” Brody had lied. He’d turned off his light, rolled onto his side, and never spent another minute wishing for more from Ed.

Except for moments like these, when the sight of the old man, sudden and unexpected, detonated a loneliness in him that was catastrophic, tore down everything, left him reeling.

I’m fine,
he thought.
I’m fine. I am.

“Can I come in?” Ed asked, standing on the apartment’s rickety landing.

“Yes. Of course.”

Ed stepped inside and for the first time Brody noticed he was using a cane. Instinctively, Brody reached out to help him over the threshold but Ed was already past him.

“Sean cleaned the place up.”

Brody didn’t know how to respond to that so he said nothing.

“How long you been here?” Ed asked.

“A few days.”

“Heard you had a girl here.”

A girl?
he thought.
Was this the ’40s?

“Sean’s real talkative.”

Under woolly brows, Ed’s eyes met his. “You could have told me. You know, you could stay at the house.”

How totally unprecedented that would be. Since Linda had died, since after the Corps and the injury, he’d never come home to Dad. Never stayed in the old house. Never really thought he was welcome. Wasn’t at all convinced of it now.

“I’m working.” He busied himself with the dishes. “You hungry?”

“No.”

“Coffee?” Brody looked over his shoulder, to see Ed shake his head.
Then why are you here,
he wanted to yell. But that would break the mold they were cast in. The mold they’d been cast in since he was six and Linda got pregnant and everything became so strange.

Don’t ask him for anything.

“It’s Tuesday,” Ed said.

Brody scrubbed harder at the dishes in the sink, unsure of what the old man’s point was.

“Bar’s closed on Tuesday and Sean comes over for dinner. We watch the Cards if they’re playing.” The sponge flipped out of Brody’s hands into the soapy water. His dad was working sideways toward his point. A family
dinner. Brody had a lurching feeling, like he was going down familiar steps in the dark only to lose count and the ground was farther away than expected.

He recaptured the sponge, went after the egg on the pan like his life depended on it.

“I … ah … I told you, I’m working.”

“You could bring her. Sean will behave.”

“Right.”

Brody glanced over his shoulder in time to see Ed’s lip curve—it was the closest they’d come to sharing a joke in years. Ed shuffled toward the stuffed fish and Brody wondered when the cane had come into play, because the old man was leaning on it hard. And his face looked pale.

“Sean’s going to pick up fried chicken from Cora’s.”

“Are you sure you should be having that?”

“I’m sure you don’t really care.”

Brody blinked, surprised, not so much by the words, but the tone. Ed was angry. The old man turned away, high color creeping up his neck.

“It’s dinner, Brody. Not a doctor’s appointment. Come, or don’t.” Ed started to walk toward the door and Brody reached over to open it for him, relieved just to have the impromptu visit over.

But the bedroom door swung open and Ashley stepped into the living room.

“Dear God,” Ed breathed, no doubt in reaction to the bruises turning yellow on her face. Or maybe Ed saw through it to the woman beneath. Hard to say.

“I’ll be there,” Ashley said.

Oh great.

“You want to come for dinner?” Ed asked.

“If I’m invited.”

“You’re not,” Brody said. “You’re supposed to be lying low.”

She shot Brody a hot gaze that told him he should be
ashamed of himself, but she didn’t understand the deeply damaged nature of his relationship with Ed and so he ignored her censure.

“Are you going to take my picture and sell it to the press?” she asked Ed.

“No,” his father replied.

“Wonderful. Can I come to dinner?” she asked Ed, who, miracle of miracles, actually smiled.

“I’d love to have you.”

“What time?”

“Six. Sean will be there.”

“I can’t wait to meet him.” Both of them turned to Brody, who was swimming hard against the tide. But in the end he threw his hands in the air and let himself get swept away.

“Fine.”

“Don’t you want to prep me?” Ashley asked as they walked from the bar to Brody’s family house.

“Prep you? No. I want to drive.”

“That’s crazy, it’s two blocks.”

Staring out at the trees and bushes that must, in his imagination, hide hundreds of photographers, he was silent.

“There’s nothing you want to warn me about with your family?”

“Like what?”

“Like don’t bring up politics or mention Sean’s lazy eye.”

“Sean doesn’t have a lazy eye.”

“I wouldn’t know. This is what you need to tell me.”

Brody’s lip curled and he shook his head.
So easy to tease,
she thought, and braved putting a hand on his arm. Immediately he bent it, guiding her hand to his elbow. The perfect escort.

A perfect, begrudging escort for a woman in a gray jersey skirt and a thin yellow cardigan sweater with a button missing. Her shoes were an old pair of Keds she didn’t remember packing.