Appealed (14 page)

“Shhhhhhh!” Kennedy swats her best friend like a fly. “Tha's a secret!”

“Maybe Brent can help you wif it?”

I give Vicki the thumbs-up—and it's not the only thing that's up, that's for sure.

“Don't worry, Vick, I'm on the case. And I believe in retroactive pay, so she'll be compensated for all the fun she missed out on.”

With that, Brian helps his wife out of the car and into the house.

They were fun. Kinda nuts, in a way that makes me think they'd fit right in at one of my family functions—but still fun.

•  •  •

“Do you remember when we were fourteen and we talked about masturbating?”

This, however, is
not
fun.

“I asked you if you really did
that,
and you said, ‘They cut my leg off, Kennedy, not my hand—I do it all the fucking time.' ” She presses her face against my neck, dissolving in a fit of adorable giggles.

It started in the car. A slip of her hand, an innocent touch that didn't feel innocent at all. And the talking—
Christ
—Wasted Kennedy likes to talk.

“Then you asked me if I did it. And I said, ‘Absolutely not.' ”

About sex. All kinds of sex. Oral sex—she loves giving and getting it. Anal sex—never tried it, but she really, really wants to.

“I lied. I used to do it in my dorm room—quietly so Vicki wouldn't hear.”

I carried her into the house. Harrison held the door open and closed it behind us—then he couldn't leave the room fast enough, his cheeks as red as Bozo's nose. I brought her to my place because if she gets sick, I want to be here to take care of her. Hold her hair back for her.

But Kennedy's not feeling sick at all. She's feeling very, very good.

She lifts her head and licks her lips, staring hungrily at my jawline. “And I always thought of you.”

This is what hell is. Right here, right now.

She shifts, moves her legs so she can slide down my front to her feet—pressing her chest against me, rubbing her hips.

“I'd lay there in my bed, spread my legs so wide, and—”

I cover her mouth with mine so she'll stop talking. I keep it there, because she tastes really goddamn good.

We kiss for a few moments, and then I pull away, before I'm not able to.

“I want you so much, Brent.”

She doesn't mean it, not really. She's drunk—I know that. My cock, on the other hand—he's not so sure.

“Make love to me.”

Her voice is deeper and every word, every syllable, chips away at my tenuous control. Kennedy takes a step back, holding my gaze as her fingers slide over her glistening collarbone, down to her breasts, circling where her nipples wait beneath the white, silken fabric.

“
Please
make love to me.”

Finally, I find my strangled voice. “We can't, baby.” I grab her hand and kiss her forehead, smelling her sweet-scented hair. “You're drunk.”

Her gorgeous, wounded eyes completely wreck me.

“You don't want to make love to me?”

Deflect! Deflect!
It's a trick question—there is no right answer! Not now.

I cup her cheek. “You're drunk. We can't make love now.”

She wraps her arms around my neck. And she sighs against me.

“Okay. You can just fuck me, then.”

I whimper.

And I am not ashamed. Because if anything is gonna bring a guy to his knees, it's those six words, when—no, he
can't
in fact fuck you. 'Cause it would be wrong.

Awesome and earth-shattering. But wrong.

The fulfillment of fourteen years of erotic fantasies. But wrong.

Trumpets-sounding, angels-singing, fireworks-bursting-in-the-sky kind of pleasurable. But wrong.

I repeat the mantra in my head to make sure I don't forget. But it's hard.

So.
Hard
.

And the hits just keep on coming.

Kennedy reaches around behind her back, tugging on the zipper of her dress. A heartbeat later, the fabric slips to the floor, revealing perfect peaches-and-cream skin. Her breasts are bare and more beautiful than any dream I ever had.

Tight, dark pink nipples beg for my lips, my teeth, my tongue.

Then she turns, graceful hips swaying as she walks down the hallway. She pushes at the gauzy fabric of her beige panties and they fall down her legs to the floor.

Just like magic.

Revealing a luscious heart-shaped ass that deserves to be worshipped and glorified. I think I whimper again, but I can't be sure.

As she walks up the stairs, she doesn't look over her shoulder at me, doesn't call my name. She doesn't have to.

Because I'm already moving forward.

I follow her up the stairs to the bedroom.

And close the door behind us.

I
wait patiently on the chaise longue in the corner, legs stretched out, watching her. Enjoying the pretty picture she makes lying in the middle of my big bed.

Without warning, Kennedy bolts straight up, so fast that her long honey-colored hair covers her face. She blows at it with a puff of breath, eyes darting around the room. She glances down at her body, covered in my black Spider-Man T-shirt—the one I had to practically put her in a headlock to get on her.

“Morning, cupcake.” I smile.

She glares.

“Did you have sex with me?”

I tap my lips with a finger, contemplating her question.

“I can't decide if I'm more offended that you think we'd have sex while you were shitfaced—or that you actually think you wouldn't remember it if we had.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course we didn't have sex. Not from any lack of trying on
your
part, by the way. I felt so objectified. Does all alcohol turn you into a cat in heat, or just scotch specifically?”

If it's the latter, I'm buying stock in it. Maybe a whole company.

She covers her face and lies back on the bed. “Fuck my life. Fuck it hard.”

“Let's be careful with the imagery—not sure I can handle a hard-on right now.”

Or harder-on, if I'm being completely honest.

I check my watch. “We haven't even gotten to the best part yet. Three, two, one—”

My phone rings on the table beside me.

I bring it to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”

News travels fast—and news of your children potentially hooking up with the person you picked out for them when they were three years old? That's fucking warp-speed fast.

My mother dives headfirst into the interrogation.

“Yes, she's right here.” I smile at Kennedy, who peeks out at me from behind her hands of shame, looking miserable.

“No, Mom, we didn't elope. Sorry to disappoint.”

I cover the phone with my palm and give Kennedy the bad news. “Your mother's looking for you.”

She fully covers her eyes.

But she groans when she hears my answer to my mother's next question.

“No, Kennedy's not pregnant with my child. At least—not that I know of.”

A pillow comes flying at my head.

And I respond to my mother's next question. “She didn't officially say no to Prince's proposal—but the odds look pretty good it'll go down that way the next time she sees him.” I laugh. “A picture, huh? I'll check it out. Yeah, I think we make a handsome couple too.”

“Where's my phone?” Kennedy moan-hisses.

“Listen, Mom, I have to go, okay? Yes, I'll call you back later. No, we can't put this in the family newsletter. I love you too. Bye.”

I tap the end button and watch as Kennedy drags herself to the edge of the bed. I tilt my head, trying to get another look at the paradise I glimpsed last night.

I've been a good, chivalrous guy. I think that deserves a reward.

“My mother says hi, by the way. Your phone is in your purse next to the bed, but it's dead—your mother killed it last night with call after unanswered call.”

Kennedy's feet hit the floor. She takes a deep breath, then slowly stands. “They're going to disown me.”

“Would that really be so bad?”

She limps toward the chair where her clothes are neatly folded.

“Father always wanted a boy. Mother never liked me. This is the moment they've been waiting for. They're going to disinherit me.”

I stand, walking toward her. “I'll cover you with a loan. At very attractive interest rates—that's what friends are for.”

Finally her eyes meet mine, and she looks so despondent my heart twists.

“My life is a mess, Brent.”

I brush her hair back. “If you want to make an omelet, you gotta break some eggs. And you, my Little Lush, deserve only gourmet. Your parents will get over it. Everything's gonna be okay—I promise.”

•  •  •

Before I drive Kennedy home, I change out of last night's clothes into running shorts and a T-shirt. She climbs out of my car wearing my sweatpants. And even folded at the ankle and cuffed to death at her waist, they're about twelve sizes too large.

She looks fucking adorable.

As we get to her front porch, the rear door of a black SUV with tinted windows parked at the curb opens. And out steps David Prince—dark sunglasses on his face, his brown hair perfectly sideswept and visibly hair sprayed.

Though I'm annoyed that the bastard hasn't even given Kennedy the morning to process, I'm delighted that I'll be around for this little exchange. 'Cause I
really
want to watch her tell him to screw off. And if she's not feeling up to it, I'll do it for her.

I follow Kennedy through her door and Prince slips in behind me. He closes the door and they square off a few feet apart in the middle of a tastefully decorated living room. I position myself next to the beige couch, far enough away to let their confrontation play out but close enough to step between them if needed.

Prince looks predictably unhappy, but far from brokenhearted. The grin that graces his campaign posters is replaced with an ugly scowl. He throws his arms up from his sides, “What the hell, Kennedy?”

Kennedy's shoulders are back, her chin high—the same stance she takes in court, fearless and brash, ready to throw down.

“I could ask you the same thing, David.”

“You humiliated me last night!”

“You humiliated yourself. The sympathy you'll garner will only help your polls—and we both know that's what you're
really
worried about. If you had bothered to ask me what I wanted—”

“I thought we were on the same page.” He takes a step toward her.

But she holds her ground. “No, you didn't—otherwise you wouldn't have ambushed me.”

“It was a surprise! A gesture of my affection.”

“It was a sound bite!” Kennedy shoots back. “We both knew what this relationship was about. I was a pretty, professional face to smile next to you in your photo ops, and you—”

“Yes,” he interrupts, stepping even closer. “What was I?”

“You were convenient. Someone I enjoyed spending time with, but didn't care enough about to be upset about your screwing the intern.”

He pales just slightly and his eyes narrow. Then he moves to grab her arm, but I move faster. I wrap my hand around his wrist. And squeeze.

“If having a functioning wrist is important to you, you're going to want to step back. And calm down.”

Dave drops his hand and I let him go.

He glares at me from head to toe, then he turns back to Kennedy and spits, “This is what I've been replaced by? A cripple?”

As Kennedy opens her mouth to tear into him, I throw my head back and laugh.

“Cripple, Dave? That's the best you've got? Not even gimp or stumpy or quarter-man? If you're going to insult someone, have the decency to make it a clever insult. Otherwise, you don't just look like an asshole—you look like a dumb asshole. Also, go fuck yourself, you entitled, parasitic, two-faced, bloodsucking prick.”

David does his best to ignore me and looks at Kennedy with an expression that tries for persuasive, but falls short.

“We're good together, Kennedy.”

She shakes her head. “Not good enough.”

“We could've gone all the way to the White House. We still could.”

How romantic. Does this douche want a girlfriend or a running mate?

“I like this house just fine. We're done, David. Good-bye.”

And just like that, he gives up. If putting your fingers up in front of your forehead in the shape of a capital L was still a thing, I'd do it right now—'cause this guy is a
loser
.

He turns toward the door, but he only takes two steps before he turns back around. “I know you didn't sign an NDA, but if you even think of speaking to the press—”

“Are you serious?” Her tone is biting. “I'm not going to be speaking to anyone. I have important matters to deal with—airing your dirty laundry isn't one of them.” She raises her arm, pointing at the door. “Now get the hell out.”

To help him along, I open the door wide. “Bye-bye, Dave.”

I let it swing closed with a bang after he walks out.

I move toward Kennedy, stretching my arms above my head. “Well, I certainly feel better now that
that's
out of the way.”

I thought she'd giggle; at least smile. But she just kind of collapses onto the couch—elbows on her knees, head in her hands.

I kneel down in front of her, rubbing my palms up her legs. “You okay, Sparkles?”

Weary eyes meet mine. “Sparkles?”

With two fingers I trace her collarbone, then show her the residual glitter from last night's festivities. That gets me a small smile as she says, “I'm exhausted.”

I stand. “I'm sure you are. So . . . relax, take a bubble bath, take a nap, recharge—then be at my place tonight at six. I'm making you dinner.”