Wherever It Leads (29 page)

“Maybe I’ll start with a shower?”

She nods. “Good girl. Then you can call Cashmere and go see him.”

“Presley . . .”

“No, Brynne. Be sad about Brady, worry about it. But you gotta keep going. If you don’t, what happens? You mope around here and end up ruining yourself? That’s smart.”

“That’s what I feel like doing.”

“I know. But it’s not what you’re going to do. Cashmere makes you happy and happy is what we’re after. So go wash the stink off of you and then call Mr. Abbott.”

I consider arguing with her, but I know it won’t do any good. She’s right. She knows it, and down deep, I probably do too. And down not-so-deep, I know that’s what my brother would tell me to do.

T
he steam rolls out of the bathroom door when I pop it open. I balance the towel wrapped around my head, turban-style, and take the few steps down the hallway to my room.

There’s something about running water that calms me. Showers, the ocean, even the little brook that drifted through the back of my grandparents’ property when I was a child somehow quieted my mind. I’ve never needed its powers as badly as I do today.

I stood under the shower head until the hot water ran out, thinking thoughts way too deep for someone with a headache like I have. I thought about Brady’s face in that video and the way he seemed so calm. It was so like him, making the best out of whatever situation he faces. Not panicking. Not freaking out. Just doing what he can with the life he was given.

As much as I want to climb in bed and pull the covers over my head, I can’t. How can I let Brady’s situation affect me more than he’s letting it get to him? I have to take a page out of his playbook and keep pressing forward. Living. That’s what he did by going to Africa in the first place—live. Always to the fullest. And I have to live too. For both of us. And the thing that makes me feel most alive is Fenton.

And even he is more complicated than I would like.

Sigh.

I really wish I knew how I ended up at Pano. The answer matters. I don’t want him wrangling to see me, to control what I do, because he’s jealous. I don’t really see him that way. Yes, he can be a touch aggressive, but it’s usually in a joking or protective manner, not in a caveman, seeing-red kind of way. But if it were, I don’t need that. I don’t want that. I want something real, and I don’t know if what it is with him is real or not.

Naturally, my phone takes the opportunity to ring with me in the same room and breaks me out of the spell. I can’t find it, mostly because I still haven’t picked up my room from the Vegas packing debacle. It rings twice, three times, as I scramble across my bed, knocking my pillow to the floor.

I reach it right as it rings for the fourth time. “Hey, Fenton,” I say, trying to keep my breathing from sounding like I’ve just run a mile.

“You busy?”

“No, why?” I sit up and try to push the towel back up on my head. It falls over, my wet hair smashing the side of my face.

“You’re out of breath.”

“I just got out of the shower.”

He chuckles. “I thought my cock was getting hard for a reason.”

“You’re so stupid,” I laugh.

“That’s not what you said the last time my cock was hard.”

“No, I believe I told you to slide it inside my wet—”

“Brynne . . .”

“What?” I grin.

“Don’t talk like that if I’m not there.”

“Why? I’m simply reliving a memory.”

He snorts, knowing I’m doing way more than reliving a memory. I’m winding him up, listening to him respond to me. It’s something I’ll never tire of, a methamphetamine that I’m addicted to.

“Did you have a good day?” he asks, changing the subject.

“No. My day has been absolutely horrible.”

“Why’s that?”

Taking a deep breath, I consider not telling him. But if I’m going to find out if he wants to even try things with me with my life how it is, then I may as well be honest. “We received a video today of my brother.” The words sound like they’re coming from someone else. “It was awful. They hit him with a gun . . . My mom had to go to the doctor for sedatives to keep her from losing her mind. My father is trying to get a ticket to Africa.”

“He shouldn’t do that.”

“That’s your response?” I pull my brows together. “I tell you all that and you say my dad shouldn’t go?”

He, too, blows out a breath. “I’m just saying he shouldn’t make the situation worse. What will he do there? He needs to stay put and be with you and your mother and let the experts find your brother.”

“I agree. But we’ll see what happens. It’s been hard to have a lot of faith in the so-called experts.”

A long stretch of silence descends on us and I can only hear his breathing. I wonder where he is and what he’s doing and what he’s thinking—but I don’t ask. I wait for him to make the next move.

“Can I see you tonight?” he asks finally, his voice low. “I know you’ve had a shitty day and I’m sorry for that. But let me try to help you. Let me hold you.”

I settle back on my bed and look at the ceiling. Being in his arms is the best medicine I can think of, but I can’t just let this situation be skirted over. I have to remember why I didn’t see him last night and stay true to myself. Stay strong. “Honestly, Fenton. I have a lot of questions.”

“I’m sure you do.”

I can hear the indignation in his exhale. He doesn’t want to answer my questions or give me an explanation, and that takes my frustration up a couple four notches.

“I know you want to know the odds of you and Grant showing up at Pano.”

“Yes. That would be a good start. And also why you bothered to arrange that . . . however you arranged that.”

“I get it. There’s a list.”

“Of course there’s a list. And I need some transparency here. This thing between us started off as a weekend getaway and the weekend is over—not even mentioning because you cut it short—and you’re still calling me and interfering in my life.”

“Interfering? Is that what you think I was doing?”

“Yes,” I sigh. “Kind of. It all depends on why you did it.”

Giving him a chance to interject, to come forward and volunteer the information, I pause. But it doesn’t happen. I suck in a hasty breath and get ready to play hardball because as sinful as he is and as much as I really, really want to be with him again, I’m not going to be bowled over by anyone.

“Why does it matter?” he asks.

I pop myself up on my elbows. “It doesn’t unless you want to see me again. If you’re just a rebound—”

“A what?”

“A rebound. If you and I are just fuck buddies, then I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“I loathe that term, Brynne,” he bites out.

“Loathe it all you want. It’s the truth,” I say, holding on to my courage as tightly as I can. “I’m just telling you . . . I’m telling you that I really enjoy being with you. And that you have the power to flip me all around. When I went to Vegas, it was to make a fresh break from my life before, to get a new baseline, and have some fun. Easy peasy. But you’re so easy to be around that it makes it completely not easy.”

I pause, feeling my way through this. The feeling of vulnerability makes my stomach weak, a feeling I dislike more than many others. But I am vulnerable to him, and if this has any potential of going anywhere, he needs to at least realize that and decide if he wants that responsibility.

“I don’t know how to process you ensuring I see Grant at your restaurant, Fent. How am I supposed to read that? You tell me you can’t see me and then you go off and make it so I don’t see anyone else without you there. That’s not fair.”

“Brynne, there was a reason for that.”

“Then tell me!”

“I will. See me.”

Lying back on my bed, I take a deep breath and hold it before letting it trickle out of my lungs a wisp at a time.

“I know what you’re saying,” he voices. “I realize how confused you might be.”

“Might be?”

“Brynne . . .” he sighs. “I want to give you answers. But I don’t want to do it over the phone.”

“I’m sure you don’t. You can pick me up and take me somewhere and use that damn cashmere voice and sexy smirk and have my pants off in two seconds flat. Not happening.”

He pauses. “If I have my way, it won’t take two seconds.”

“Fenton . . .”

“What if I promise you I won’t?”

“You won’t what?”

“I won’t fuck you . . . first.”

I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles in my throat. “Fuck me first? Like it’s a guarantee?”

“Let’s be real. If we’re together, we’re gonna fuck. You made me promise that, remember?” he teases.

I could argue with him and pretend to be Superwoman and have some sort of feminine resistance to his charms, but it’d be a lie and we both know it.

“Just let me pick you up. We’ll talk and you can ask whatever you want,” he says in a tone I haven’t heard from him before. It’s a touch shaky, a little nervous. “And then we’ll fuck.”

“You promise to answer everything?”

After a brief delay, he says, “Yes.”

“You promise to make me come on your face?”

“Oh, rudo, I promise to make you come any way you’d like.”

I catch my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are pink, a wide smile on my face. This is what Presley was talking about and she’s right—there’s no sense in not being happy if I can be. Being miserable isn’t going to help anything.

Pulling my towel completely off my shoulders, my hair doesn’t look too bad for not brushing it out right after my shower. “I can be ready in an hour.”

“I’ll be there.”

“See you soon.”

I
hold up a yellow blouse and look into the mirror. I’m all over the place, unable to make a simple choice about what to wear.

My phone sits in front of me on the dresser, right where I left it after talking to my mother. She sounded eerily calm, sort of sleepy. She said they were suing Mandla and that my father had lost his passport so he couldn’t go to Africa until he got it replaced and he was pissed about it. I’m not sure how much of that is true and how much is the result of her medication.

A part of me feels guilty for looking forward to seeing Fenton and not being with my parents. But what good would it really do? And my mother’s sister came into town and is staying with them, so that helps ease my burden.