Bend (35 page)

Yeah, sure. Because what you like to do trumps how it might make people feel, right? Keeping my face impassive, I say, “No worries. Even if you were serious, it wouldn’t bother me.”

“Good for you.” Frank picks up the kitchen timer and turns the dial. I watch as he puts the ticking gadget down, wondering why he doesn’t just use the timer on his smartphone. Probably because this is how he’s done it since the dawn of time, and why change something if it works just fine?

Leaning back against the counter, the older man picks up his glass, which is filled about a quarter of the way with a brown liquid—bourbon, I’m guessing. That seems to be his poison of choice.

“It’s all just envy, anyway,” he comments. “A lot of these assholes think you’re not a real physician unless you spend half your life at risk of getting phone calls at three a.m. While they secretly resent that they have to put up with those calls.”

“Shift work definitely has its advantages,” I respond with a polite smile. At nearly sixty years of age, any long hours at inconvenient times of day are long behind Frank, since he only works at outpatient surgery centers now and basically keeps banker’s hours.

Giving a short nod, he takes a drink. “And when you’re done with residency, you’re looking at…what? Fourteen, fifteen shifts a month or so? Hard to beat that kind of work-life balance.”

“Yup.” I try not to sound dismissive or impatient but can’t be sure I’m succeeding. He clearly doesn’t know that I don’t plan on staying here as an attending ER physician, and I see no point in correcting him.

I glance toward the house and see Mia and Lily wrapping up their card game while Paige is stepping through the patio door, carrying bowls of food. Gesturing at them, I say to Frank, “I should probably go help out.”

“Just a minute. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.” Frank picks up and checks the timer for a second. Then he crosses his arms over his chest, one hand stroking his chin as he regards me thoughtfully, looking like he’s searching for the right words. Which all seems unusually indecisive of him.

Tensing up, I brace myself for whatever’s coming. Something tells me I won’t like it. Is this the point where he brings up this weekend’s sleeping arrangements? Because that is one hundred percent not my fault—

Mia’s dad clears his throat. “We haven’t told anyone else yet, but Gwen is considering running for a judgeship. Superior court.”

Uh. Okay. That’s nothing near what I was expecting him to say. “Wow,” I respond, hesitating. “That’s...exciting.”

“Yeah.” He sounds terse, and he’s avoiding my eyes. “Well, apparently one of the first steps in that process is to hire someone to vet you as a candidate. You know, to see if the skeletons in your closet are ugly enough to become a problem.”

“Okay…?” Seriously. What does this have to do with me?

“And Gwen was not the only one whose background was checked,” Frank goes on. “Her family was, too. Her friends. And her family’s friends.”

At that last part, he pins me with a hard and direct look.

Oh…fuck.

The fog lifts. Bile rising in my throat, I clench my jaw so hard that pain shoots back to where my skull meets my neck. I’m staring at the older man, meeting his challenging look with a cold one of my own while my pulse races and echoes in my ears.

This is not fucking happening. I know what he’s going to say next. I know it, and it’s so surreal that I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’m outside of myself, observing as I’m about to be punched in the gut.

“Why don’t you stop beating about the bush?” I grind out, feeling like the effort of it drains me of strength.

Frank’s expression turns dark and serious. “Does Mia know Bradshaw’s not your name?”

Motherfucker.
Yup. It’s like one of those things. You know it’s coming. But it still knocks the wind out of you.

“It
is
my name,” I counter, choosing to evade the question. Because the answer is, no, Mia doesn’t know.

“Not your birth name,” her dad says. “You changed it when you turned eighteen.”

I just keep looking at him, putting all my energy into keeping my facial muscles relaxed and neutral. I feel like someone dropped a five-hundred-pound boulder on my chest and then smashed open a hornet’s nest inside my head. But there’s no fucking way I’m going to show him that.

“Have you told Mia about your father?” Frank’s voice grows stern, indignant.

As his question burrows itself into my chest, all I can manage to do is watch him, unblinkingly. He already knows the answer to that, doesn’t he? So I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of forcing me to confess that, yeah, I have ugly secrets. And no, I haven’t shared them with his daughter.

“What about your juvie record?” he asks, his tone brimming with self-righteousness. “Have you told her about that?”

My stomach turns.
What. The. Fuck?

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I squeeze them into fists. Look away toward the wall of trees at the edge of the yard, where Logan is still pacing, his phone glued to his ear.

“My
sealed
record?” I say in a low voice. No, Mia doesn’t know. And why does Frank? They must’ve hired one hell of an investigator. Probably wasn’t cheap. Not that they can’t afford it.

Mia’s dad picks up his drink, staring down into the tumbler as he swishes it around. “It’s a problem, Jay.”

I release a scoff and a bitter laugh. “For Gwen and her judgeship bid?”

“Well, not really,” he clarifies. “Right now it probably wouldn’t be an issue. It’s not as if she’s running for president. I doubt anyone would bother to dig up dirt on her daughter’s friend.”

“Or a family friend?” I smirk at the man as I toss his own words back at him.

“Emphasis on friend.”

Pretty sure my heart actually stops beating. With nausea rolling in my stomach, I say, “I feel like you’re getting to your point now.”

Frank takes a drink. It’s a big one. Fortifying himself?

“Where you’re from. Your family. Your history.” He actually has the balls to give me a gentle, sympathetic, this-hurts-me-more-than-you kind of look as he finishes with, “You’re not right for Mia. You know that.”

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

No, I don’t fucking know that, asshole.

I feel like there should be steam blowing out of my ears. Yeah, there are a lot of really good reasons I should keep my hands off his daughter, but I’m not good enough? I’m not worthy? I’m too dirtied by my shitbag family and by the mistakes I made when I was a teenager, still essentially a kid?

No. Fuck him. He doesn’t get to stand there and judge me. Not based on stuff that has abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with my life anymore.

I’ve always felt like he just kind of tolerated me as Mia’s friend. He’s not blind, and he’s not dumb. I guess he’s caught on enough to what’s going on that he’s decided to try and put a stop to it.

Well, fine. It should be easy enough to set his mind at rest.

“I wouldn’t worry if I were you.” I force myself to say this casually, and I recognize that it doesn’t exactly sound convincing.

Franklin Waters, esteemed physician and college professor and family man, frowns at me. “Meaning what?”

“Your daughter doesn’t want to marry me, Frank,” I answer, flashing him a tight smile. “She just wants to fuck me.”

I take a moment to let that sink in. Watch as his head jerks back a fraction of an inch, surprise sparking in his eyes. Enjoy the sight of his countenance clouding over, his color running high.

And then I grab my beer off the counter and walk away.

“What did you and my dad talk about?” Mia asks while placing dinner plates on the patio table. Except for Frank still guarding the barbecue and Logan still pacing over by the edge of the yard, we’re alone out here—everyone else has disappeared inside the house.

“Work stuff.” The vague answer spills almost automatically out of my mouth. It’s true enough of how the conversation with her father started, and she doesn’t need to know how it ended. That’s my problem, not hers.

Not to mention that I wouldn’t know how to tell her without revealing too much.

I pick cups off the tray Mia used to carry everything outside. We slowly but steadily make our way around the table, and I’m sticking as close to her as I can, brushing against her every chance I get. Because about fifteen feet away, her dad is standing by the grill with nothing to do except sip his bourbon while watching that ticking timer…and us.

Yeah, I’m being kind of childish. Because fuck him, that’s why.

“He didn’t say anything about last night?” Mia sets down the last plate, and the utensils clink noisily as she grabs them off the tray.

“Nope.” My chest feels tight, and my hand is unsteady as I put the last cup on the table.

So. Frank and Gwen have discovered everything. About my delinquent past. And about my dad.

But so what? I need to calm down. No one is dead or dying. This is not worth getting worked up about.

I have to tell Mia, though, and I have to do it soon so she doesn’t hear it from her parents first. I owe her that. The thought fills me with icy dread, and I want to punch Frank in the nose for putting me in this position.

Goddamn it. Goddamn
him.

“Has anyone said anything to you?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Paige is pretty mad that I said nothing was going on between you and me. Mom wants to talk, but I’ve avoided being alone with her, so…”

Bent over the table while putting down the knives and forks, she doesn’t finish the thought, but she doesn’t need to. The sun is hanging low, and in the soft glow of pre-dusk, her small-boned frame seems even smaller, and she looks ethereal, almost elfish. Wisps of her wild hair are dancing around her head. She’s wearing jean shorts with a loose-fitting T-shirt that’s a bright green, a few shades darker than her eyes.

I heave a sigh. “This is not how I expected this weekend to go.”

Pausing with a steak knife in midair, her eyes appear luminous as they meet mine. “Is that good or bad?”

I’m not sure how to answer that. Exactly how much discomfort would it take for me to decide the amazing parts of yesterday—the blow job in the car, eating her pussy on the stairs, fucking her in the moonlight—weren’t worth it?

Answer: A lot. Pretty sure not even her dad being a fuckwad can make me regret coming on this trip.

“Both, I guess,” I say with a shrug.

Mia places the last fork and knife on the table, and then she inches closer to me, her voice lowering intimately. “Maybe tonight you can reprise your role as a landscaper for me? You know, look all hardworking and sweaty in your shorts with no shirt on…”

She tugs playfully at the front of my T-shirt, one corner of her mouth dimpling, and my dick responds. Which is not a good thing, not here and now.

Still, I can’t help throwing a lightning-quick glance in her dad’s direction. Yup, he’s watching.

So I bend down and whisper in Mia’s ear, “I don’t know. You gonna let me taste that sweet ass of yours again?”

I can feel her spine straightening, can hear her sucking in and holding her breath. Taking her earlobe gently between my teeth, I reach down and squeeze her butt, pressing her against my groin.

The whole thing lasts just a couple of breathless seconds, and when I let her go, she pulls back, her cheeks flushed. With one last fiery look full of lust and promise, she turns on her heel, grabs the empty tray, and flits away.

Across the patio, Frank is giving me a death stare. I meet it head on, refusing to be the one to look away first.

That’s right, old man. This is me. Giving zero fucks about you and your opinions.

Am I just making him feel more justified right now, confirming that I’m not “right” for Mia? Maybe.

Should that bother me? Probably.

Does it bother me? I don’t know.

The final preparations for dinner are done in a flurry of activity, and soon I’m seated between Mia and her brother with the rest of the Waters family crowded around the large patio table. Cicadas chirrup in the bushes, silverware clatters on ceramic plates, and throughout the meal, the nonstop conversation is cheerful and loud—and the laughter even louder.