Authors: Nazarea Andrews
"Get your lazy ass into the office, or I'm coming up there to take the case."
I bite down on the response that rises—telling my father to go screw himself will do no one any good, and I don't want him here, in the same house as Scout with his wandering hands and eyes.
"One day, Tripp. I need one day to get some personal shit sorted. And then I'm headed back to the office. Okay?"
He grumbles and curses some more, but finally agrees—without me throwing his last month-long honeymoon in his face—and I'm able to hang up.
I take a minute to breathe, getting a grip on myself before I face Scout.
Tripp always has this effect on me. Mom used to say it was normal. It is, in a way, but hating a man whose approval you also crave is a head-trip. And not what I need. I slide out of bed, pushing thoughts of my father away. I have one day to spend with Scout without worrying about work or anything else. I'm damn well going to make the most of it.
An hour later, I usher Scout into Bubba's Budget Cars. I can look around and tell that there's nothing here I want her driving, but she's determined to buy her own car and the Volvo S60 that I'd like to put her in is a little out of her price range. Bubba, a whip-thin man who defies a name like Bubba, approaches, a greasy smile on his face. I expect Scout to shrink away from him—she doesn't like men like him—but she doesn't. She strides along at his side, chattering away with questions and comments about the cars we're passing.
We pass row of sedans and then SUVs. I pause. "S? Isn't this what you’re looking for?"
Her eyes get a gleam that I recognize—whatever she's about to do, I'm not going to like it.
Scout
He's been distant since he emerged from his bedroom in a pair of worn jeans and faded t-shirt. Paired with his scuffed boots and leather jacket, he looks yummy enough to eat.
And apparently that’s an option.
I ignore that thought and return my focus to the row of cars we’re passing. Bubba keeps throwing me lecherous glances that made my skin crawl— I can feel Dane's temper rising behind me. I put an extra swing in my step when I see it. The sky-blue Jeep Wrangler with a tan cloth top, screaming my name. It’s a little more than I
wanted
to spend, but it’s gorgeous, and I love every gleaming inch of it.
"No," Dane snaps before I say anything. "Absolutely not. That thing is a death trap."
"It's perfectly safe," I shoot back, but I'm not really arguing—it's a dangerous vehicle that will roll faster than a dog. But what really matters is that I want it. I turn to him, letting him see just how excited and determined I am. He deflates some.
"Is it the color, Scout? I can have a safe car painted for you, you know."
"I want this one." I hesitate, and then: "Please. It's important to me."
He gives me a hard look then glares at Bubba. "I'll give you eight grand, in cash."
It's two less than the asking price, but Bubba is a greedy son of a bitch, and he jumps all over the cash.
We're filling out paperwork, and Dane is leaning against the wall of Bubba's dirty office with a kind of exasperated indifference. Bubba flicks a look at him. "Are y'all together now? I heard you were seein' Ms. Melanie still."
My grip on the pen tightens, and I pause in the middle of signing. I don't know what I want him to respond with—I just know that if he says he's with that perfect little princess, I might throw up.
"Not sure why it matters, Bubba," Dane says, lazily. "You get paid no matter who I'm with. I want the car, not a conversation on who I might or might not be sleeping with. And that's Atticus Grimes’ sister. Think he'd appreciate the way you keep stripping her with your eyes?"
I glance up and watch Bubba pale. I remember that he’d always had a bit of hero worship for Atti and Dane in high school—not that either of them had time for him. He was almost as sleazy then as he is now.
"Just a few more signatures," he says, and I scribble. Three more quick signatures and it's done—the car is mine.
"You'll do the tires and oil change today. I'll be by in the morning with Scout to pick it up," Dane says, and I stand, hooking my purse onto my shoulder as I follow him out of the office. He's being extra bossy, and it's starting to grate on my nerves.
Once I'm tucked into the passenger seat of the Viper, he circles and slides into the driver's seat. She comes to life with a purr, and he whips out onto the empty street with enough speed to throw me around a little. Dane spares a single glance in my direction and growls, "Put your seatbelt on."
I bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him, and grab the belt, clicking it into place. Then I twist to stare at him. "What the hell is going on with you?"
His jaw tightens, and I reach out, feathering my fingers over it. He jerks away, and I let my hand drop into my lap. Look away.
It hurts, that he wants to be there for me, but refuses to let me be there for him. I know—better than anyone but Atticus—that Dane has a truck load of issues. But he's never been one to open up about them, not even when we were younger and he was living in the basement.
"Is the big house still empty?" I ask, idly.
"Yeah. You’re between renters, right now. Why?"
"I want to go see it."
Dane darts a look in my direction. I know it's an odd request. But he doesn't say anything. Just twists the wheel and turns the car toward the edges of town.
River Drive looks the same. Golden and flaming red and bright orange in the mid-morning light, the brilliant colors of fall bringing the tree-lined street to vibrant life. Our house—the big house—is the only one on River Drive, a short little road that barely qualifies, with a single sprawling plantation home set in at the end of it. We used to laugh, because River Drive is just a glorified driveway, but it was ours—a little piece of heaven tucked in the middle of the country, where the forest still held the land from the swamps.
The house is achingly familiar—the river rock chimney against the whitewashed siding and green trim and wraparound porch. That the screen door wasn't banging in the wind, the porch swing hanging still—it made it seem deserted.
It was, in a way.
"I should sell this place," I murmur, and Dane tenses in the seat next to me. "Let some family love it, the way we can't anymore."
"You still love it," he says, not looking at me.
"But we're not a family. Not anymore."
He frowns at that, opens his mouth to say something, but I slip out of the car before he can. I don't want a lecture about family—and I don't want him to say that we are. It's kinda squicky, when I'm thinking about sleeping with him.
The door slams behind me, and the leaves crunch as he follows me across the yard and up the steps. I hold out a hand, and he laughs softly, handing me his keys. There it is—Dane still carries the key we gave him almost eight years ago when he lived with us.
There's a sparkle to the counters of the kitchen that makes me think someone's been here recently. I give him a questioning glance. Dane primarily does insurance law, but he handles all of our family’s legal affairs, so he knows better than me what's going on here.
"We send a cleaner out twice a month when it's not being rented," he says.
Walking through the house is like stepping back into my childhood. The walls have been patched and painted, the scars of our life here quietly erased, but I can picture them—the dent Atti put in the wall, the spot Dane fell and broke his arm when he jumped from the second story, the stair I sat on when I talked to Mama about school—so many good memories.
And the bad ones—the corner I'd huddled in when Dad died. I turn away from there, and into Dane. I didn't realize he was so close, and I take an automatic step back, but his arms come up around me, holding me. There's a quiet sort of tenseness to him, and he drops his head to mine, his lips against my temple as he murmurs, "Come downstairs with me."
I nod, and he releases me, but catches my hand. I'm not sure what to make of this side of Dane—his previous tension has dropped away; he's being sweet and attentive, not the normal snarky sarcasm I'm used to. I like it, but it's a little unnerving outside the confines of his bed.
The basement is a separate apartment. There's a closed off bathroom and a tiny kitchen—not that Dane ever used it—and enough room for his bed, a couch, and a TV. I used to love sitting down here, curled up on his bed while he and Atti played some idiotic video game and Nik painted her nails. Then, when they went to college, I just liked coming down here. It made me feel closer to them. Dane would come home for a home cooked meal to find me sprawled across his bed, reading and doing homework.
He never seemed to care, and I can't remember a time he ever kicked me out. "I love it down here," I say into the dimness.
Dane clicks on a light and drags me over to the couch. The basement stays furnished—it's easier than dealing with repairing the stairwell when renters bang it up. "I know. You were always here. I think there were two times I came back from school and you weren't down here."
I laugh, feeling a blush traveling up my cheeks. His hand comes up, tucking my short hair back and turning me to face him. His thumb smoothes over my lip and I go very still. "I didn't mind. I liked coming home to find you here. Made it really hard to sleep, sometimes, with your scent all over my blankets."
I blink, not sure I understand what he's saying, He grins. "You were gorgeous, Scout. You have no idea how hard it's been, not touching you over the years."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, my voice shaky.
"You hit puberty early, Scout. By the time you were a freshman, I was struggling to not mentally strip you every time you walked by. It didn't help that you bounced around the house practically naked, and summer, when you tanned? Just about killed me."
His voice is rough with remembering. I swallow hard. "You never said anything."
Dane laughs. "I was a high school senior, and a colossal screw up. You were my best friend's baby sister, the girl I'd watched grow up. What did you want me to do—walk up and tell you about how I'd jack off thinking about you?"
Desire, hot and desperate, unfurls in me, wet heat pooling between my legs. The familiar flutter of arousal lights in my belly and I twist, just a little, kissing the side of his throat. Bite down lightly, just to hear him groan. "Tell me now."
He catches a handful of my short hair, pulling me back to stare at him as he smirks. "You want to hear the sordid details, Ittybitty?"
The name makes me shiver, and I nod, a short bob of my head, limited by his grip. His eyes cloud with lust, and I lean up, stretching for his mouth, gasping when it puts delicious pressure on my hair. His lips close over mine, a hot, hungry kiss, his tongue snaking over mine. He delves into my mouth, retreats, again, a deliberate rhythm that makes me think of other parts of his body doing the same thing, and I whimper. His hands come up, framing my face so gently, while his teeth catch my bottom lip and nip down, hard enough to make me gasp, before drawing it into his mouth and licking away the sting.
"The first time," he whispers against my lips, "you were lying out back with Lou in that tiny green suit you got down in Panama—do you remember that bikini?" I nod, mesmerized by his words. He dips down, kissing along my shoulder, and I hiss in a breath as his lips brush over the nape of my neck. "I fucking loved that thing. I probably would have killed any guy who saw you in it, but Jesus, the things it did to your ass. I was walking through the woods, and I saw you lying there, and you untied that damn top—didn't want to leave tan lines. I stayed in the woods for almost an hour, just listening to y’all laugh and watching you. I was so hard I thought I'd explode—as soon as I got down here, I got myself off. I didn't need anything—just closed my eyes and pictured you there, almost naked, that perfect ass in the air. That's all it took."
I sit up and crawl onto him. The ache between my legs is building, and I need something—his hand, his cock, some friction, just enough to get me there. I nestle against him. Dane groans as I rock back and forth on his erection.
"Another," I whisper, kissing the skin below his ear.
"One time, I came home from a date," he says, his voice hoarse. "You were asleep in my bed—I think your parents were out that night. Anyway, you were down here, and I came down and you were just lying there in this little dress. It was bunched up around your waist some, and I felt like a perv, but I couldn't help staring. You were so gorgeous. You had these tiny pink panties with one of those lip prints on them. And I started thinking about kissing you there, peeling those panties off and going down on you until you woke up and came on my tongue. I wanted to give that to you—I knew you hadn't been with a guy, and I wanted to give you that first orgasm. I wanted to know if you tasted as good as you smelled."
I shudder. His words are so hot, so completely honest, and it's driving me wild. I want him inside me, so bad I can almost taste it. I grind down against him, and he moans, holding my hips and thrusting against me. "Did you get off?" I ask, breathless.
He hesitates, and I pull back, going still. "Tell me."
"I sat on my desk and watched you sleep and I jerked off. It was such a turn on—if you had woken up, you'd see everything. I wanted you to."
I almost come from that, and I go still again, forcing my climax down. Jesus, how does he do this? He hasn't even seen me naked, and he's given me a mind-bending orgasm, and if we keep this up, there'll be another.
"Some nights, I'd come down here while you were gone. I'd lay in your bed and close my eyes so I could pretend you were here. That my hand was yours—that
you
were slipping your fingers into me and pinching my nipples. I could get myself off so quick, when I was here—it was your space. It was easy."
He curses, dragging my face back to his as his hand flattens against my back, his fingers slipping below my pants and curving over my ass. He thrusts against me, but it's not enough—there's too many layers between us. I pull away and whisper, against his lips, "I want it to be you. I want you giving me that orgasm. I’m so tired of toys and boys who don't know what the hell they’re doing."