Page 5 of Wanting What’s Wrong

Four

Kat

W hat he really doesn’t know, and what I hope he never finds out, is that I’ve been working at the Velvet Touch. It’s exactly as bad as it sounds.

In our letters, I told him I was finding freelance jobs from the internet and doing some payroll work for a local ‘bar’.

I also told him I sold our parent’s house and they’d left some savings in a trust for us both.

That seemed to comfort him, knowing I had what I needed and financially, things were okay.

They weren’t but there was no way I was laying that on his shoulders from half a world away.

I shouldn’t have lied and the day of reconning is coming when I have to fess up and tell him the house was upside down from a reserve mortgage they did with some shady financial advisor.

They’d put all their trust into some ‘expert’ they met at one of those free steak dinner deals where they lure you in with a fancy meal then sign you up for their bullshit.

Dad worked hard his entire life as a plumber, but he never graduated high school and he didn’t know anything about investing and reverse mortgages and whatever other sunshine the asshole blew their way.

They died destitute and if Trent knew what had happened, I’m sure the guy would be dead.

As well, if I told him that the local ‘bar’ was actually The Velvet Touch?

Ugg. It’s a gritty, purple cinderblock hole of a strip club over on Marshall Avenue, where only every other street-light works and every last bit of metal has been stripped off all the buildings.

The kind of area the cops don’t come unless there’s a dead body in the road.

“So, no bullshit Kat, how are you?” he asks, shifting his muscular legs into a wide man-spread. Taking up space. Making his presence felt. God, I’ve missed him so much. “Been staying out of trouble?”

I know he’s kidding. Me? In trouble? Never. But things have changed since he left. If only he knew I’ve been keeping myself triple-locked behind my apartment door, paying cash for everything, and leasing my dingy little place under an assumed name. Things haven’t been great. Not at all.

But after what he just told me? I flat-lined for 33 seconds. None of it seems all that important.

“I’m good. Just, keeping busy. Still have my Sudoku obsession.

And, I found this huge box of macramé yarn on the side of the road so I’ve been macrame’ing everything.

I’m going to macramé a bed side table next.

” I smile as I hear his soft chuckle. “I still go see Karen Murphy now and then at the bowling alley. Her dad still owns the place and he’s as crazy as ever.

Then, there’s work. Still doing bookkeeping and payroll stuff.

” I manage telling myself I’m not technically lying about my work.

The Velvet Touch’s owner did me a favor, hiring me for cash with no W-2’s or ID needed. I’m grateful. The pay is decent. Well. Decent ish and at least I don’t have to jiggle my tah-tahs to get it. Not that I judge those that do, I’m just pretty sure I’d suck at it.

“Those bookkeeping classes really paid off,” I add with a sarcastic flex of my biceps.

But I’m deflecting. I know it and he knows it. There’s a heaviness between us. The big thing we still haven’t discussed. The fact that since he left, our lives have gone upside down and now all we have in the world is each other.

He’s the brave one and tackles it first. “But how are you, Kat? Not hobbies, not work, you .”

I shift behind the wheel of the Jeep, feeling smaller, but I’m grateful I’m driving. Because there’s no way I’d be able to look him straight in the eye right now.

There was a time when I kept no secrets from him. But now I feel like a ball of secrets. And the one person in the world I want to tell everything is the one person that I can’t tell a single thing.

My parents died only two months after he deployed.

He was in deep cover somewhere, when they were killed by a drunk driver.

They were coming home from choir practice at First Baptist in Chantsbury.

My dad was in his favorite sports coat. And my mom was wearing her locket with photos of me and Trent inside.

For days and days, I held on to that news alone.

For two weeks, I checked Trent’s status on Zoom and WhatsApp hourly, even in the middle of the night.

Especially in the middle of the night, when I should be asleep but I knew he’d be awake.

Waiting. And watching. And agonizing about how to tell him the news.

I knew there was a way to reach out and get in touch with him for an emergency, but thinking of laying that on him when he was on some deep, secret mission didn’t seem fair. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

By the time he resurfaced, I’d already made all the plans.

Already had a small funeral. And really, I couldn’t think about it anymore.

I begged him not to come home. Told him it would break my heart to see him right then.

He was preparing for another mission and coming home wasn’t an easy option anyway.

But it was more than that. Lots more. For now, I keep that buried—not to stop myself from thinking how much I miss them, but buried to keep myself safe.

Yet, from the buried place, I remember the black Mercedes that slipped away before the police could arrive.

My life depends on keeping that memory secret.

Even from Trent. Who I trust with my life. Who has protected me from so much.

“I’m fine,” I finally offer. “ Really . But it hasn’t been easy. I didn’t need the money you sent, but thank you anyway. I told you a hundred times in the letters to stop sending it but I want you to know I appreciate it anyway. And I’m glad you’re back.”

“It wasn’t much. I’m so fucking sorry I couldn’t come back when it happened,” Trent shakes his head.

“I asked you not to come. I don’t know why, but having it over and moving on helped me.”

He looks so tired, so much older than his 27 years .

I know he’s done things that no man wants to bear the burden of carrying. I read about these poor guys coming home with depression, PTSD, and worse; but it is so real now, being near to him. I can see it in his eyes. He’s spent, worn, and needs someone to care for him.

Not make everything worse.

I feel my emotions clutching around my throat. “Can we talk about something else?” I blink back tears.

“Shit,” Trent says. “Of course. How about…boyfriends. Got one?”

It sounds more like an accusation than a question. “Your small talk has gone to shit.”

He manages a low chuckle but there’s no humor in it. “True. But seriously. Look at you. I’m sure the guys at your work are falling all over themselves to get to you.”

I groan. The guys at my work are falling all over themselves to shove damp dollar bills into the thong straps of girls named Cindi and Porsche. “Not at all.”

He smiles a little on a soft snort. Smug. Maybe even… satisfied.

“Good,” he grunts, gruff and dark. From the corner of my eye, I see him looking my way. His hands on his spread knees, squeezing. “Otherwise, there’d be some body bags to fill.”

A wave of desire bursts from my core, dampening my panties and making me grip the steering wheel as my nipples pull tight.

I’m blushing all the way to the hot tips of my ears. It’s time for a subject change.

“Okay. My turn. You’re the one back from two years away. Tell me what you want. A chocolate dipped cone? Waffle fries? Chicken wings with blue cheese sauce? Anything. You name it.”

He takes another long inhale as I steal another glance and see such desire in his eyes. Such heat. His eyes lower to my lap, then to my knees, following my legs down to the pedals and then back up over my hips, locking on the three open buttons at my chest.

If he says You are what I want, I’ll run us off the road. I know I will.

He turns away on a painful little grunt. His close-cropped golden-brown hair shows off a long pink and silver scar that runs behind his left ear, still fresh enough to see the tiny dots from where the sutures held it together. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“The first thing I want is a shower. In a clean bathroom. With no interruptions. And no schedule. And no douchebags telling me to Move it, Reynolds, you asshole .” He leans his head back, his eyes falling slightly, deep in the fantasy of a long, hot, steamy...

A wave of tension clutches me between my legs. Thinking of that night before he left.

He’s your brother, I tell myself. Let it go. Let. It. Go.

“One hot shower,” I choke out. “Coming up.”

He punches in the address of the new house into my phone, then watches the screen. He signals for me to get off the highway, toward the exit for the lush rolling expanses and mansions of Elmond Estates.

I take a hard right turn down a long oak-lined driveway, flanked by iron gates. The house sits back over lush green lawns, peeking out from behind sky-scraping pines.

“Oh my god ,” I whisper, as I slow the Jeep, grinding the gears as I downshift.

“ This neighborhood doesn’t suck, right?”

Doesn’t suck is one way of saying it. Takes my breath away is another.

“And you bought this place? Really?” I’m dumbstruck. This can’t be real.

He nods, looking proud and cocky. “Oh, and look who’s here. Guess he wasn’t sure what to do after you blew him off. So, now that you know, it’s your new ride parked in front of your new house.”

I follow his eyes and there it sits. The freaking limo from this morning.

“I can’t accept this, Trent,” I shake my head, clearing my throat, ignoring the twelve warning lights lit up across my dashboard. “This is yours. Not mine. ”

Trent scoffs, shooting me an icy look, but a second later it’s melted away.

“Stop being so fucking hard-headed. You will take the money. You will live in the house. You will let me take care of you.”

A wave of relief bubbles up in me. I blow out a horse-breath as I come to a stop in front of a blooming magnolia putting the Jeep in neutral and pull on the squeaky parking break. “Fine.”