Gravity Page 5

  She grabbed a towel to wipe a few spills, humming under her breath before she saw a man perched on the edge of a chair, fiddling with his phone. All the blood drained from her face. Her ears went buzzy. Her knees weak. He frowned at her.

  She swallowed hard, opened her mouth, but nothing would come out. Her vision began to dim from the outside edges, going gray and fuzzy and strange. It was Trent, of course. She’d seen the picture of him—the broad shoulders, olive-skinned face, strong jaw and nose. She’d know him anywhere.

  But he looked so much like his father—her stepfather and abuser—it burned her throat like acid. The hand she put to her throat was ice cold. The man’s—Trent’s—eyes narrowed further. He rose, something in his expression making her realize he recognized her but didn’t want to believe it. She took a step back and decided to jump right into this thing.

  “Trent, it’s me. Kayla,” she managed.

  He got up and ran around the bar, then was standing in front of her, towering over her. She attempted not to cower. Something about him was so powerful. Something not at all unlike his father, until that man had let the drink get to him, weaken him enough that she could whack him in the head and run away one cold fall night.

  She put a hand on Trent’s chest and felt his heart pounding against it. As she sensed herself sliding to the floor, he gripped her arms, firm but not too tight. “Kayla,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “It is you.”

  She nodded and before she could disentangle herself, he had her crushed to his chest. She sighed and let him hold her a few minutes, then pulled away, anxious from the close contact. “Sorry,” she said, tugging at the sleeves of her long T-shirt. “I’m sort of not great with…hugging.”

  He nodded. His eyes—the exact color of hers, an odd mix of green and brown—were shining. His smile so wide it was cartoonish. He opened his mouth to say something, but someone called his name from the kitchen. He stood, blinking fast. “Wait, so, you work here? For Melody?”

  She nodded. “Don’t be mad at her. I wouldn’t let her tell you. I needed to…see you first.”

  He ran a hand around the back of his neck. Someone called his name again, louder this time. He held up a finger. “Don’t leave. I’ll be back and we can talk.”

  She smiled. “I’m working, remember? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Jesus… Okay, I’m coming, Josefa, uno momento.” He stared at her a few more seconds, shook his head then headed into the kitchen.

  By the time he made it back out to the bar, it was busy again, demanding all her attention. He sat, watching her as she worked. She felt that strange thrill of familiarity again combined with a distinct fear, given his sharp resemblance to her tormentor. The man who had yanked her innocence away from her, leaving her a shell, ready to accept anything and anyone who’d fill it up.

  At one point, she glanced over at him and saw he’d been joined by a pretty teenaged girl. She hesitated before heading over to them, not sure she could stand being around someone so lucky to have Trent as a father, money to pad her life, real paternal love to cushion her landings. But when the girl smiled at her, she unstuck her feet and fixed a smile on her face.

  “Oh my God, Dad, it is her. She looks just like you!” The girl jumped up in her seat, leaned over the bar and gave her a tight hug around the neck. Kayla suffered it as long as she could then pulled away. “I have an aunt! I love it!”

  “Hi, you must be Taylor,” she said, fiddling with the girl’s coaster, unable to meet her eyes. She felt dirty, filthy, slimed with the disgusting detritus of her past. She knew a sign was flashing over her head, neon and complete with arrows pointing down and saying, “Slut. Whore. Junkie.”

  She gulped and took a few steps back from her brother and his perfect daughter, as a sick surge of jealousy filled her gut. She blinked fast, gave them a little wave and turned away, hoping someone at the other end of the bar needed a refill. They did, and she was able to ignore Trent and Taylor for a while longer. But they stayed put, waiting for her. Finally, she gave up and faced them, bringing her lidded ginger ale cup with her.

  “Where have you been all this time?” Taylor beamed at her. Trust the teenager to jump right into the morass and stomp around. “I mean, are you a journalist or something? Some kind of world traveler?”

  Trent put a hand on his daughter’s arm, keeping his soft gaze on Kayla. “Honey, lighten up. Give her some space.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just so weird, you know?” She raised her smart phone and held it up, then typed away on it. “I just Insta’d you. That okay?”

  “Since I have no idea what you’re talking about, I guess so.” Kayla smiled, unable to keep from getting caught up in the girl’s enthusiasm.

  “Me neither. It’s like Greek or Latin,” Trent said, pushing his empty glass toward her. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” she said, happy to have something to do with her hands. “Taylor? Another root beer?”

  “No, thank you.” The girl patted her flat belly. “I will take some of the crack fries, please. Extra spice.”

  “Okay, I’ll put that in for you. Trent? Hungry?”

  He shook his head, still staring at her in wonder. She smiled at him then looked away, her face burning hot, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

  She put the basket of fries in front of Taylor, who smiled up from her phone. “You’re so thin,” she said, giving Kayla a frank once-over. “How do you do it?”

  “I don’t have much appetite. It was the drugs.”

  When Taylor choked on her fries, Trent pounded her back then trained his gaze on Kayla. “We have a lot of catching up to do,” he said.

  “Yes, we do,” she agreed, giving the bar a perfunctory swipe with a towel. “But I’m not one to mince words, fair warning.”

  Taylor glanced at her father then stared at Kayla. “So fuckin’ cool,” she said, tucking into the fries like a little kid.

  “Language,” Trent warned.

  “Something like that,” Kayla said as she refilled the girl’s water glass. “It is really good to see you,” she said to Trent.

  His grin widened. “I never thought I would see you again. I just figured you were dead.”

  “I was, kinda, for a while.” He reached out and grabbed her hand, folding it between his two giant ones. She pulled away on reflex, fiddling with her shirtsleeves and strands of dangling hair. “Sorry. I’m not…into touching.”

  “No, I’m sorry. Will you come to our house tonight maybe? Have dinner? Stay?”

  “I can’t do that. Not yet.” She studied them—her family, her blood relatives. “I will though, soon. I promise.”

  Taylor finished her fries and glanced at the ever-present phone. “Brad’s here, Dad.” Trent’s face fell, his gaze darkened. “It’s fine. We’re just studying.” She rolled her eyes. The rush of emotion that filled Kayla’s chest was an odd mix of jealousy and protectiveness.

  “Studying, eh,” she said, putting the dirty basket in the tub under the bar.

  Trent raised an eyebrow at her. “Be safe, Tay.”

  “I always am, jeez.” She reached out and grabbed Kayla’s hand, gave it a squeeze then let go before Kayla could wriggle free. “I’m so glad to see you, to meet you. I can’t wait for you to come over. I could use some help with this guy.” She punched her father’s shoulder then got up and kissed the top of his bald head. “Love you, Daddy.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, watching her as she flounced through the bar, drawing plenty of eyes in her yoga pants and T-shirt. “God, I hate being a parent some days.”

  “I admire you for giving it the old college try,” Kayla said, taking his empty. “More?”

  “Better not. Just some water. I actually should go.” He glanced around Kayla as if hoping Melody might appear. “She was pretty sick.”

  “Yes,” Kayla said. They stared at each other. “I wish I were better at this.”

  “At what? Coming back from the dead? Making my day? I’d
consider you pretty damn good at it.” He leaned forward then righted himself when she moved the corresponding space apart from him. He frowned at her. “Kayla, you…you ran away. I know why.”

  Her heart seemed to skip a few beats then caught up with itself. “Oh. Well…okay.” She looked down at the rubber mats under her feet. She shut her eyes against the urge to scream. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” His voice was sharp, with an angry edge to it. She glanced up at him, her pulse racing.

  Don’t hate me. Please. Don’t hate me.

  “I killed him. Did you know that? I killed my own father.”

  “He’s…dead?”

  “Yeah, the sick fucker. He killed our mother on his way to Hell. But I beat the living shit out of him and he never woke up from it.” He said this with a level of matter-of-factness that made Kayla hate the sick son of a bitch all over again.

  “How old were you?” She took a step toward him, permitting herself the few pleasant memories she still retained of him, of them, as sister and brother, playing, reading, eating, hiding from his temper-prone father and making a game out of it.

  “Too young,” he said. “But I was acquitted once it was determined what he’d done to our mother. Self-defense. Which it was, of course. Asshole beat on me pretty heartily most days, too.”

  “I am so, so sorry, Trent.” She put her hand on his then withdrew it as if he’d shocked her.

  “Stop saying that, God damn it.” He scowled at her, making her heart pound and her throat close up with raw, primal anxiety.

  Don’t hate me.

  She’d said that a lot, at the end. She’d also said it to her last pseudo-boyfriend, who’d been her dealer for a while until he’d sniffed out her inner needy little girl and turned it to his advantage.

  “Don’t hate me,” she said, meaning it.

  Trent stood to his full height, towering and powerful again, soothing her with his presence. “We’re going to work on this. I’ll find you a therapist and pay for it. Anything you need.”

  “No, no you don’t have to—”

  “You may not want me to touch you yet, but I will by God help you get through this. We’re family, Kayla. You and Taylor are all I’ve got left in that arena.”

  “Taylor’s mother?”

  “Not in the picture anymore. And thank your lucky stars for that.” He slumped against the bar chair, checking his phone for the hundredth time.

  “And Melody?” She crossed her arms, feeling brave all of a sudden. “She’s not family?”

  “Not yet, but she will be.” His lips were set in a firm line. “But I really do have to go. I need to check on her, okay? I’ll… We’ll talk. You call me.” He flipped a business card onto the bar. “Whenever you’re ready. I won’t push you but please know I need to help you, and I will. Whatever you need me to do.”

  He had an expression on his face then that shot her straight back to their childhood. He’d always been a worrier, even as a little kid. And since she’d practically raised him, even though she was only five years older than he, she recalled that worried Trent face. She reached over the bar and touched the line between his eyes. He smiled and let her. Her hand dropped.

  “I’ll call. I promise. Probably sometime this week.”

  The bar door opened, sending a shaft of late afternoon sunshine into the dark space. For some reason, she glanced around Trent, wanting to see who’d walked in. Her face flushed and she put her cold palm to her throat when she spotted Brock, re-shouldering a backpack and blinking as his eyesight adjusted to the gloom. Trent seemed surprised by her reaction then turned to see who’d caused it.

  He raised a hand at the man, then treated her to the sort of protective glare that surprised her. “Brock Fitzgerald is a fucking hot mess, Kayla,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Yeah, Trent. I guessed that, thanks.” She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat and grabbed up his beer glass and Taylor’s water. “Takes one to know one.”

  He glared while Brock settled himself at the opposite end of the bar and opened up a laptop without glancing at either of them. Then he sighed. “I have to go check on Melody.”

  “Go, already.” She flapped the bar towel at him. “And don’t worry about me. I don’t like to be touched, remember? Mr. Hot Mess isn’t getting in a country mile of me. But he does seem like he could use a friend. So, I may give that a shot. Relax.”

  “Fine,” he said, jamming a ratty Tigers ball cap on his head. “Talk to you soon.”

  “Yes. Soon.” She smiled.

  He shook his head again and mumbled, “I still can’t believe it.”

  She sighed, arranged her face in a neutral expression, then poured and served Brock his ginger ale. He grunted at her when she put it on a coaster next to his computer. “Don’t spill it,” she warned before heading down the bar to assist some other newcomers.

  When she checked back on him, he’d drained the drink and was still pecking away at his keyboard. “Hungry?” she asked as she passed by him.

  “Maybe,” he said, not looking up. Without asking him, she put in an order for a mushroom burger, something she’d developed a hankering for in the last few weeks. Her taste buds were shot and she found eating to be a waste of her time, most days. Going for days high as a kite had a funny way of training your body not to require food at regular intervals. Something told her Mr. Brock Fitzgerald had familiarity with that. But the way the earthy, rich portabella ‘shroom was grilled, then served hot with a slice of locally sourced white Cheddar and a side of borderline kimchi level fermented slaw hit her long-dormant taste buds like a sledgehammer.

  She ordered it up for him then served it with a small jar of grainy, horseradish mustard. He blinked at it then up at her. “Damn. You’re a mind reader. Cool.”

  “No. I’m not. But whenever I’m hungry that always tastes good so…” She shrugged and plucked a strand of the fermented cabbage out of the small bowl and ate it.

  He grinned at her. And it almost made her faint. He was so fucking cute. So guileless, innocent and kind. But he wasn’t, of course. She knew that. Short of a secret handshake, a junkie knew another one as if he or she were staring into a mirror. She offered him a small smile, refilled his soda then ignored him, alarmed at her reaction to a guy who was very possibly the worst thing that might ever happen to her.

  You are such a sucker, she thought as she kept a peripheral eye on him, eating and staring at his screen as if it contained something crucial to his existence. Every now and then, he’d catch her looking and smile at her, making her flutter like a teenager. As if she knew what a real teenager got to experience.

  “Stop it,” she said, staring at the beer tap she was pouring from. “You are almost forty-two years old. That guy is thirty if he’s a day. And you’re both the hottest of hot messes. Let it go.”

  “What’s that?” One of the closing bartenders moved past her with a full tub of dirty dishes.

  “Nothing. Sorry.” She served the beers and kept ignoring Brock, letting her colleague serve him, until she realized that he’d left.

  Chapter Eight

  “I hope you’re fucking happy.”

  Brock squinted up at Caroline, woozy from the sun and water and sleepless nights.

  “I’m not, I don’t think.” He shaded his eyes and studied her, standing over him, her hands on her hips.

  “I’m leaving,” she said, flopping onto the oversized lounge chair next to his.

  “Fine,” he said. He trained his gaze out over the expanse of lawn between Trent’s giant house and the boat dock, where most of the others of their long weekend party were gathered, drinking beer and splashing each other in the waning afternoon. “Probably for the best.”

  She grabbed his chin and jerked his face around so he was forced to look at her. “Brock, I can’t be your friend.”

  “I gathered.” He turned away from her, his heart breaking into a million pieces even as he knew this was for the best. They couldn’t be a
nything but lovers—emotional, passionate, and destructive intimates. There was too much between them. Too much shit in their mutual past. It was insurmountable. And this weekend away had proven it.

  He wanted it to be her fault. He was dying to blame someone other than himself. He was fucking sick of being the one to blame all the time. But it was his fate, it would seem. “I’m sorry, Caro.” He reached for her but she rose, holding her giant sunhat in place as she gazed down at the happier couples, doing happy normal couple things. His hand hovered in mid-air for a few seconds until he let it drop to the deck, mere centimeters from her tan, bare feet. He touched her instep, his baser self wondering if he could finagle a break-up screw.

  “You’re a sick asshole,” he said muttered as his fingers trailed up her firm leg to her knee. He loved to kiss her there, right behind her knee. If he closed his eyes right now, he could taste her skin—warm and earthy with a hint of spice.

  She stepped out of his reach. “I’m moving away,” she said. “I took a job. It’s in D.C. I’m leaving next week.”

  The brightest slash of panic, powered with a spike of anger, hit Brock in his solar plexus, leaving him breathless and, somehow, standing up staring at her.

  “D.C.? Really? And you were going to tell me about this when?”

  Her green eyes were impenetrable, creating a thick, jungle-like wall between them that he’d never seen before. She stood stock still, not even blinking.

  “Well?” He drew back, crossing his arms, sensing control slip out of his grasping fingers. “Jesus, Caroline. Why did you even come up here with me, then?”

  “Last time I checked, Brock, we’re just friends. At your request, after you fucked me when I was barely sober enough to remember it?”