To Hell and Back (3 page)

“No, you cannot see my daughter!  Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t know you! I don’t have any patience for strangers who show up unannounced. Especially when they want something from my little girl.”

I can hear murmuring from outside but no actual words. Hank, however, is hearing something he doesn’t like and running his hand through his thinning hair in frustration. “Oh, so you fell for that sob story? She was so sick, poor thing. A damned head cold and the girl can’t think straight! She was fine and is fine without any help from you.”

More murmuring and I’m seriously hoping against the one-in-a-million chance that it’s Carson because if I thought passing out in front of him was bad, then this tirade from my father is headed toward one of the lower circles of my own personal hell.

“Fine. If seeing her will shut you up and get you off my property, then you have five minutes. Keep your hands to yourself, too. She’s not some tramp you can come over and paw when you want to and I have a pistol that agrees with me.”

At that, Hank slams the front door and I dive back into the kitchen as if my life depends on it.  Who knows, maybe it does.

“There is some little asshole with a fancy car here to see you.  He’s all worked up about you being so sick last weekend.  So sick, my ass.  You couldn’t have been that sick if you were out seeing him, probably fucking around in his uppity little car. You have five minutes. Get him out of here and get dinner started. Sheila is coming over before the poker game at Ed’s tonight.  You’re cooking and it better not suck.”

Dammit, so much for my pot pie.  I have to cook for the bar slut now, too. Mentally going through what I can make for dinner tonight, I pull the front door open and then close it again. Holy shit, it is Carson. OHMYGOD. He just met my dad. And I just shut the door in his face. Why on Earth is he still here?  Is he still here?  Who shuts the door in a face like that?  I take a deep breath and slowly reopen the door as I scramble to think of something to say.

“Hi, Carson. I’m so sorry about that.  I was surprised to see you,” I said as I went out onto the porch and closed the door behind me. My heart is thrumming so hard in my chest I’m sure he can see it right through my sweatshirt. My old, faded sweatshirt that was my mom’s from college. Seriously? I had to change into this after school?

I find myself staring at the faded logo on the front of Carson’s vintage t-shirt.  The definition of his chest is obvious as the shirt stretches perfectly from shoulder to broad shoulder.  Damn… I can’t look up at him, it’s like those eyes are the sun and it’s just too bright to stare directly into them. He must be more than six feet tall, and to my five feet six inches, it might as well be a mile from here to the top of his gorgeous head of brown hair. He has hair that makes me want to reach out and touch it – it hangs across his forehead in a way that makes me picture him running his hands through it several times a day.  It seems like I’ve been staring at him for hours but it must have only been seconds when I hear his voice again.

“So you do know who I am.” Is it just me or does he seem embarrassed by that?

“Yeah, I, uh, I used to watch Stonewall. Well, me and every other girl between thirteen and fifty.” What I’m really thinking is, uh, hello?  Of course I do.  I’m trying not to be a super fangirl here and all but you’re really hot and you smell good even from here and I’m kind of wondering what you look like naked and…

“Yeah, I guess so. Listen, I know we didn’t meet in the best way and I was kind of a nutcase when I talked to you, but I’ve been worried about you all week.  I wanted to see how you’re doing.  I’d hoped to take you for dinner or a drive or something to talk to you but…”

“Yeah, my dad is…” I trail off.  What can I even say?

”I get that.  You don’t have to say anything else.  My dad’s kind of an ass, too. He’s a different kind of ass, but, still, an ass.  So, how are you?  No more fainting spells?”

“Nope, none; I’m feeling much better.” Although, you showing up here, at my house, is enough to knock me out again.

“Good. I’m glad. I’m sorry I was so nervous before and I was such an idiot. Something about being your hero? I can’t even believe I said any of that. I’ve never seen a girl just pass out in front of me, it kind of shook me.”

“Yeah, that’s me.  One of a kind.”  I give him a small smile as my heart continues to hammer rapidly in my chest. The heavy pea coat he’s wearing does nothing to hide his athletic figure. The tabloid photos never did this man justice.

“Definitely. I should have been thinking more clearly, but I was having kind of a rough day.  All I could think when I was helping you up was how pretty you are and that there is something innocent about you.  I never even thought to ask your name during the whole thing.  I’ve been wondering about it all week.  The guy in the store called you Brie, but I’m assuming that’s a nickname for something like Brianne or Sabrina.”

Pretty?  Me?  Did Carson hit his head?  I’m fairly sure he’s just trying to make me feel better about this awkwardness.  The last girl he was in a magazine with, before his disappearing act, was Madeline Young.  The same Madeline who was just on the cover of GQ wearing not much more than her imagination.  I look up at him to see that he’s just staring at my face.  My red, blotchy, just-getting-over-a-cold face.  It almost looks like he likes what he sees.  Huh.  What a good actor.  I realize he’s probably staring because I still haven’t told him my name.

“I’m Brielle.  Brielle Douglas.  Thanks for saying, you know, the thing about me being pretty. And thanks for checking on me. I really am fine. I should go back inside…”

“Brielle,” he says, trying it out on his beautiful lips. “So much better than any of the possibilities I went over in my head. So, Brielle, can I stop by again tomorrow? Or Sunday? Maybe I can reason with your dad and we can get lunch somewhere.  There is just something about you, something that makes me want to spend more time with you.”

“There is no reasoning with my dad.  But he’s going out later so I will have a few hours free. You can pick me up at eight o’clock tonight.  If you really want to and it’s convenient.  You know, if you’re not busy.”

Wow, ramble much? What on Earth does he see in me?  I’m pretty sure all I would see from his side is a hot mess.

“Eight o’clock is perfect, I will see you then.”

He leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and the fire that runs through me from that innocent peck is like nothing I’ve felt before.  Damn, if he can make me feel like that from a cheek kiss… Wow.  I’m watching his perfect ass in his perfect jeans as he walks away. 
How the hell did that just happen
?

Chapter Four

Brielle

I decide to make a chicken stir-fry for dinner. It comes out pretty well, but since both Hank and Sheila are completely hammered by the time they sit down to eat, it wouldn’t really have mattered either way.  I tell them I’m not hungry in an attempt to make myself scarce, but Hank insists I join them at the table anyway.  They linger for a while after dinner with Alcoholic Barbie slurring questions at me.  She is as batshit crazy as they come. She says things like, “So who do you look like?  Your mom?  She’s dead right? Your dad’s really fucking handsome; it’s a shame you don’t look more like him.”  Even that was better than the next subject.  I don’t know who told her it’s okay to talk to your date’s teenage daughter about sex, but she was all over the place with that one. 

“So you’re eighteen now, huh?  You must be fucking somebody by now.  Are you on the pill?  Trust me, honey; the last thing you want is some fucking baby to take care of.”  My father perks right up at that one.  He loves to paint a slutty picture of me.

Sneering at me, he tells Sheila, “She was slutting it up with some guy until I took the car away. Thinks I’m dumb, this one, but with no car, she’s got limited options. But now, today, some jerk shows up in the middle of the afternoon looking to get some.  I don’t know what the fuck that’s all about.  She doesn’t have time for any of that shit, though.  I make sure of it.  I just keep her busy enough here at home that she stays away from those punks. When I was still on the force, I saw all these jerk-offs every single day and they just wanted sex from young girls like her. I’m telling you, she’d better be on the pill ‘cause I’m not having any babies living here.  She can barely take care of herself.”

What a fun family dinner. I keep looking nervously at the clock as they continue to hang around at the dinner table the whole time I’m cleaning up the dishes.  It’s almost 7:45 by the time they take off and I just thank my lucky stars they are finally gone.  If Hank were to see Carson show up, again, on the same day, I don’t know what he would say or do. I’m already taking a huge chance by leaving with him, but I am pretty sure Hank won’t be home before three or four in the morning, if then.  There is always a chance he will call, but I can claim I fell asleep with my music on and didn’t hear the phone.

I run upstairs to throw some more appropriate clothes on, which ends up being dark skinny jeans, a red scoop-necked sweater and brown ankle boots.  My long brown hair has been in a ponytail all day, so there isn’t much I can do except brush it and put it back up.  I don’t have time to get rid of that annoying line from the hair tie.  Seeing that there is still redness around my nose I dab a little light powder on it, swipe some mascara across my lashes and consider it good enough. I’m not big on makeup. Probably because using it to cover Hank’s handiwork took all the fun out of it. But I’m trying to look like I’m making an effort.  I quickly brush my teeth, and just as I rinse I hear a knock at the front door.  I add some clear gloss to my lips before going downstairs. The butterflies that have been in my stomach all evening suddenly start having a carnival inside me, and I feel tingly everywhere.  From nerves, I think, although I am definitely still thinking about that kiss on my cheek.  What a pathetic excuse for a high school senior, getting so excited by the kind of kiss he’d give his grandmother.

I open the door and smell that incredibly masculine scent I’ve already come to associate with Carson.  He looks amazing in jeans and a leather jacket.  His dark brown hair is just slightly damp so he must have showered and changed just for me. 

“Wow, Carson, you look…”
Hot? Gorgeous? Like some kind of sex god?
  “Really nice.  Thanks for picking me up.”

“I’m glad you agreed to come out with me, Brielle.  You look really beautiful. These are for you.”

He hands me a small bouquet of daisies tied with a thin blue ribbon. There are guys who still bring flowers? Maybe it happens more than I think; my experience with the opposite sex being as pathetically limited as it is.

“Thank you, Carson. I’ll take these with us so I can look at them. Let me grab my jacket.” Really, I have to take the flowers with us just in case, for some reason, Hank comes home early.  I hope Carson isn’t too upset when I “forget” them somewhere tonight. 

Carson heads for the passenger side of the car and opens the door for me. As I get inside the same blue Lexus he had last week, I ask “No Lucy tonight?”

“No, it’s just us. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine. I was kind of out of it when we met but she seemed like a lot of fun.”

He laughed, a sound that makes the butterflies party just a little harder.  “You have no idea.”

As he gets in and starts the engine, I can’t stand it any longer. “So, I have to know why someone like you is here in Marshall. You can imagine that it isn’t every day a major TV star just happens to show his face in town.”

“I guess not, although I’d prefer you don’t think of me as ‘someone like me.’ I got a lot of that after Stonewall and I’ve spent some time trying to just be Carson.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any…”

“It’s fine, really. I just want you to know I’m a regular person. I even took some time off and tried to kind of disappear for a while. I’m actually here because I’m going back to work. We’ve had some movie offers recently, and my dad, who is also my manager, has been on me a lot lately to get back “in the game”.  He decided I had to stop saying no to everyone and pick a project.  The one I chose is an independent film being made near Philadelphia.  I loved the script immediately and the director is a great guy, so I’m happy with my decision.  I did draw the line, though, at staying at some fancy hotel and being catered to all the time.  When I’m not on the set, it’s my own time.  During the week, I live in my trailer on set.  It’s small, but it’s comfortable and it’s quiet.  Every weekend, I come up here to Marshall.  I found a bed and breakfast with an owner who agreed to be discreet and I’ve been staying here every chance I get.  Lucy was my concession to having a ‘staff’ around.  The producers threw a fit at the thought I might be driving myself up here in the snow.  She drops me off every Friday and picks me up every Sunday.  I like things simple.  And Lucy is fun to have around, so it’s not all that bad.”

Even with the smile on his face, I notice a darkness in his voice at the mention of his dad.  I remember him saying they don’t have an easy relationship. Not wanting to talk about fathers tonight, I move on. “So, you must be staying at Mrs. Hanley’s B&B, then?  She’s a nice lady.  I used to wait for the bus at her house in elementary school.  She always had fresh muffins for her guests and would give me one with a glass of milk while I waited.  She’d send an extra one along with me if they were chocolate chip.”

“Yeah, I really like her. She still makes the muffins. It was blueberry this morning.”

“Blueberry is good, but seriously, just wait until you try the chocolate chip,” I laugh. Talking with Carson is so much easier than I thought it would be. The butterflies are still dancing but it has more to do with my proximity to this incredibly attractive man than with worrying about the conversation.

“Mrs. Hanley said the food at Amarillo is really good. Are you hungry? Do you like Mexican?”

“Sure.  The Riveras own Amarillo and they make a great chimichanga.  I went to school with their daughter Maria.  She always loved the color yellow, so her parents chose the name Amarillo just for her.”