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“Who’s Morris?” I ask again, my tone agitated.
“Why do you care?” Damien asks instead of answering me. “You’re here to hide out from the paparazzi while you ride out your latest PR nightmare,” he reminds me. “This time next month you’ll be back in California or New York and you’ll forget all about us.”
Us.
That one word tells me that the long stretch of silence between us before I called asking for help bothers him more than he lets on. Leaving that particular can of worms closed for another day, I focus on Kait.
“I care because we’re friends.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s a lie and so does Damien. I’m not entirely sure what I want from her but I know it’s not friendship.
“You’re not friends,” he says, turning that dark, guarded gaze in my direction. “You don’t even know her.”
He’s right. Kait and I aren’t friends. Because friends don’t kiss. They don’t lick and bite each other either and they definitely don’t jerk off to the memory of said licking and biting, the second they’re alone.
Which I did.
Twice.
“Yeah—” Tossing back the rest of my glass, I set it, empty, on the small table between us. “well, I’d like to know her but she keeps sneaking in at some god-awful hour to scrub my toilet and leave me baked goods and then she just leaves before I even get a chance to—”
“He’s her fiancé.” Damien talks over me, cutting off what’s shaping up to be a pretty spectacular rant before looking away on a sigh. “That’s who Brock Morris is—he’s Kait’s fiancé. They’re getting married.”
TWENTY-ONE
Kaitlyn
I almost don’t go.
Sitting outside the barn, waiting for Two-tone to finish his breakfast, I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to go back. That I’d find Damien and ask him to take over babysitting duty. I know he’s been going up there to see him almost every night because when I open the fridge to see if he’s running low on supplies, he’s almost always fully stocked. If he’s not getting them from me, his brother is the only other place he could be getting them—and he’s already told me that he doesn’t want or need me to clean up after him.
That means that without school, there’s no real reason for me to keep going up there.
Except for the fact that I’m hoping he’s awake and waiting for me when I get there. Because I’m hoping he’s been thinking about what happened between us yesterday and wants to do it again.
Get real, Kait—you think a guy who looks like that isn’t used to women falling all over themselves in front of him. You really think you’re the first woman who’s ever been turned on by his tattoos and asked to touch them. It’s probably a daily occurrence for him. He said yes because he’s bored and probably horny because a guy like him is used to getting laid on a regular basis. You’re a convenience. A sad, pathetic, desperate convenience. That’s it.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I unzip my backpack and fish out my blue notebook. Pulling the pen hooked onto the notebooks spiral binding, I draw a line through two of my recent entries.
Scanning the list, I feel my cheeks grow hot because everything I’ve added to it over the last week is about him. Things I want to ask him. Things I want to do with him.
Things I want to do to him.
Things I want him to do to me.
I want you here when I wake up.
I chickened out yesterday. Reasoned that it was Sunday—the one day I don’t have to wake up before the sun so I can work through the extensive list of chores that have become mine over the last few years. The day we have breakfast as a family before getting ready for church.
After the sermon, Brock caught me outside and asked my father if it would be okay for him to walk me to The Square for the picnic the church ladies put on every Sunday afternoon. I spent the rest of the day trapped, trailing after Brock under my father’s watchful eye, wondering why neither of them have ever asked me what I want.
It’s okay, Sunshine... you can say it out loud. I’ll give it to you—whatever it is. Whatever you want. All you have to do is ask.
All I have to do is ask.
Like I said it out loud, Two-tone lets out a soft, answering nicker, letting me know that he’s finished with his breakfast and ready to go. “Alright.” Closing the notebook, I jam it back into my pack and stand. “Let’s go.”
Even though it’s too early for any normal person to be awake, I knew he’d be waiting for me.
Even so, I’m still surprised to see him standing in the kitchen, in nearly the same spot as the other morning, when I get there. This time he’s fully clothed—jeans and a gray hoodie covering his huge frame, hiding the colorful swirls of ink covering his body almost completely, reminding me of how he looked the first day we met.