Over the Fence (25 page)

In a move I hadn’t planned, and she didn’t expect, I tossed the brownie down and lunged over, pinning her to the back of the sofa, my body pressed hard into her softness, my tongue inside her mouth so fast, we both gasped. Her hands came up, gripping the back of my neck, as mine curved around her shoulders, holding her tight to me as I ravished her mouth. I couldn’t get enough of her taste, which was only heightened by the sweetness of the lingering chocolate. Over and again I kissed her, my tongue delving and twisting with hers, exploring and seeking, until we were both breathless and panting for air. With regret, I stopped, seeking the tender skin of her neck instead.

“Should I apologize for that?” I breathed into her softness when I could speak again.

“No.” Her reply was whisper-quiet.

“Good. Because it’s going to happen—a lot.”

“Was it the brownies? Do they, um, affect you?”

I smirked, looking down into her face, her lips swollen from mine, her cheeks pink from the exertion and her eyes reflecting the same passion I was feeling right back at me. “No, Kourtney. It’s you—y
ou
affect me.”

“Wow,” she mouthed.

“Wow is right.” I held her to me, wanting her to feel how much she affected me. Her eyes grew round and her cheeks darkened as she stared at me, and I could feel her tensing up. I brought her back to my mouth. “This is all I want right now, Kourtney. Just you—just this. Relax,” I begged against her full lips.

Her entire body shuddered, and I looked down at her, concerned by her change in demeanor. “Kourtney?”

“You make me want . . . more,” she murmured, her fingers dancing along my face.

I turned my face into her hand, kissing the palm. “Good. More is good, but only when you’re ready, Kourtney. No pressure. We’ll get there. Together.”

She sighed—the sound shaky. “Together.”

I looked down at Kourtney, who was asleep. After putting in a movie, I sat on the end of her sofa with the chaise lounge, put up my feet and convinced her to lie beside me with her head cradled by a pillow on my knee. A large blanket covered up both of us and I stroked her hair, pleased when I felt her relaxing into sleep. I continued to comb my fingers through her silky hair as I half watched the movie, but for the most part, watched her. I knew she was exhausted from the emotions of the last week and she had stayed awake long after I had fallen asleep, watching over me after my nightmare. Now I wanted to do the same for her.

The deep, protective feelings she brought out in me were astonishing. The desire she roused within me from a simple gesture or look almost brought me to my knees. She wasn’t even aware of it. I had never experienced anything like it. I had cut myself off from emotions for so long, I found it all confusing. Losing my family had almost devastated me, and I never thought I’d allow myself to care about someone again.

But Kourtney—she entered my life so quietly, yet had such a profound impact on it, that she had become as necessary to me as breathing. Just the thought of going back to the solitary way I had been living made me shudder. I needed her—and I knew she needed me. There was no doubt we needed each other now, and I couldn’t imagine my life without her.

Kourtney’s nose wrinkled and she shifted her head, turning toward me. I waited until she had settled then resumed stroking her head, glancing around at the shadows from the late afternoon subdued light. I could hear the steady downfall of rain hitting the roof; its peaceful rhythm soothing to my ears. As my hand moved, my fingers ran over an impression on the side of Kourtney’s head and paused. Curious, I pushed back her hair and looked down at the scar that ran under her hairline. It was jagged and twisted, about three inches long, and I frowned as I studied the nasty line marring her flesh. It would have taken some force to cut such a mark into her head. I felt the rapid fluttering of Kourtney’s eyelashes on my wrist, and I lifted my hand back to see her gazing up at me. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Her voice was sad when she spoke. “You were looking at my scar.”

I shrugged, feeling guilty. “I felt it as I was stroking your head. You’ve had it a while?”

“Since I was ten,” she replied. “I have a few others.”

“I have some good ones from my skateboarding years. I’ll show you those later.” I winked, but the sad look on her face didn’t change.

Something about her expression bothered me. “How did you get the scars, Kourtney?”

“Andy.”

I tensed at the name. She was ready to talk to me. I picked up her hand and held it tight.

“Tell me.”

She took a deep, quiet breath, while gathering her thoughts—finally she spoke.

“I was a surprise. I was born four years after Andy.”

“That’s not a huge age gap.”

“It might as well have been fourteen. My parents . . . they never wanted another child. I was unexpected.” She glanced into my eyes. “And not very welcome.”

I frowned. “How can any child not be welcomed?”

She shrugged. “They were happy—settled. They only planned or wanted one child and they had him much later in life than their friends did. Andy was everything they wanted in a child. Outgoing, popular, good at sports . . . and then I showed up. At first, Mom thought she was going into early menopause. But instead she got me.”

I squeezed her hands. “Most people would consider that a gift. You told me it was your fault she died. How is that possible? She was in a car accident and you were a child. Just a child.”

She stared at me, unblinking. “I wasn’t like Andy, Nathan. He was wanted. My parents always referred to me as the problem child. I was chubby and shy. Sick a lot. Scared of my own shadow. Always falling and hurting myself.” She shook her head. “According to my father, I was so needy, I drove her crazy.”

She sighed. “One day, I was sick and needed medication. She went to get it, but never made it home. It was raining and the roads were slippery—she was in a car accident. Some man went through a red light and hit her head on. Things had never been . . .
great
. . . for me, but after Mom died things went downhill—fast.”

She began to move, but I stopped her. “No, Kourtney. Stay close. Please, let me see you; I need to see you.”

She settled back down on my knee, her eyes regarding me with worry.

“What happened?” I rested my hand on her cheek.

“Andy never liked me, even when I was a little kid. His favorite thing was to pick on me. He’d push me around, pinch me. He’d call me names and make fun of how fat I was or my freaky eyes. But after Mom was gone, it got worse. Mom at least tried to keep some sort of peace between us, but after she died . . .”

“Tell me, Kourtney. I’m right here, baby,” I encouraged her gently, my thumb stroking her cheek.

“It was as if he hated me. The pushing turned to punching; the pinching became hitting, and the name calling . . .” Her voice was pained. “It was constant.”

“Your dad didn’t stop it? Or do anything?”

“I was never close with my dad. There was no doubt who was his favorite child. He always compared me to Andy. Why wasn’t I stronger? Why wasn’t I popular? Why was I always sick? And, after Mom was gone, it was as if he couldn’t even be bothered to hide his distaste for me anymore. He drank all the time. He let Andy do whatever he wanted. In his eyes, Andy could do no wrong. If I tried to talk to him, he told me to buck up and quit whining.” Her hurt-filled eyes looked at me. “I remember one day when he was drunk, he told me he wasn’t even sure I was his. He said he couldn’t believe he could father such a fat, ugly, useless waste of space. He told me if I was his, I was the biggest mistake he’d ever made, and he wished I’d died instead of my mother.”

“Kourtney!”
I tightened my hold on her, horrified at her words.

How could a father say that to his own child?

Her eyes shut. “Things only got worse as I got older. It never ended. One of them was always picking on me, criticizing me, berating me for something I wasn’t doing right—which was almost everything. I did all I could to make them happy: I was quiet, I kept the house clean, I learned to cook, and I got good grades at school hoping Dad would be proud. But it was never enough. I was
never
enough. I became even more withdrawn and I never made many friends. I was picked on at school for how I looked, for being too studious, for being sick; it was always something, usually with Andy leading the charge. And if the big kids pick on you, especially your own brother, the younger ones think it’s okay, so it never stopped. I never got any peace. When I got home it was the same thing, only worse. He also loved pulling pranks on me.” Her hand drifted up to her head where the scar was located.

I lifted her hand and kissed it, ghosting my fingers over the mark. “How did this happen?”

“I hated our basement. It was dark and musty and so”—Kourtney shivered—“awful. I despised going down there and I only did it when I absolutely had to. Andy had told me for years the boogeyman lived down there and would get me one day. He loved to turn off the lights when I was down there to scare me. One day, I came home from school and I went down to get something from the cold room, thinking I was alone in the house. I was partway up the stairs when the lights went off and the door slammed shut. I knew it was Andy and I begged him repeatedly to open the door. I could hear him laughing on the other side, but he wouldn’t open it.” Her eyes filled with tears as she relived her terror, and I could feel her shaking. My hand tightened on hers in silent support. “I heard something coming up the steps behind me, breathing heavily and whispering my name.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I became hysterical, and I was screaming for Andy to open the door. The next thing I knew, I felt cold, wet fingers touch my neck, and I passed out.”

That fucking little prick.

I wished he was standing in front of me so I could hit him. It took everything I had to keep myself calm. “That’s not surprising. You were terrified.”

“I was. When I woke up, I was lying on the basement floor, bleeding. I had fallen down the stairs, taking Andy’s friend with me. He broke his arm; I hit my head on the wooden steps, causing this.” She ran her fingers over the scar. “It didn’t heal very well.”

“Didn’t they take you to the hospital?” I asked, horrified.

“When my father got home later that night, he took me—he had no choice. He wasn’t happy about it, but he finally did because the bleeding wouldn’t stop. He called me some of his favorite insulting names all the way to the hospital.” She shrugged. “I was pretty banged up and they asked a lot of questions. Dad didn’t like questions. I told them I fell down the stairs, and Dad and Andy weren’t home. Eventually, they stopped hounding me, fixed me up, and sent me home.”

“Was the fucker punished?”

“No.”

“Why?” I spat out between gritted teeth.

“He told my father I had done it on purpose. I had pushed his friend going up the stairs, knocked him down, slipped and hit my head.”

I snorted. “And he believed it, of course?”

“He was always happy to believe anything negative about me, Nathan.”

“Did you try to tell him the truth?”

She shook her head.

“Why?”

She looked away, unable to meet my eyes. I hated the embarrassment I could see on her face.

I cupped her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Tell me.”

“Andy told me if I said anything, he was going to tell everyone at school I tripped and fell on his friend and because I was so fat I broke his arm.” She pushed away and stood up, looking at me, her eyes blazing. “Life was already hard enough without adding more humiliation to it, Nathan. I kept my mouth shut, and for a while, lived with the clever comments from Dad and Andy about not being able to see the steps because I was so fat. At least I didn’t have to face it at school, too. When I didn’t react to the remarks anymore, they eventually stopped.”

My hands were clenched at my sides as I struggled not to show Kourtney how angry I was. “What else did he do?”

“After the basement thing, he switched more into intimidation. He still liked to push me around on occasion.” She held out her hand and I could see another jagged scar across her palm. “He snuck up behind me one day while I was cutting buns for sandwiches and grabbed me. The knife slipped and I cut myself badly; right to the bone. I had to walk myself to the hospital that day for the stitches.”

“Where was your father?”

“Drunk and passed out on the sofa.” She shrugged, looking nervous. “I had no money to take a taxi.”

I shut my eyes. That weak bastard.

Kourtney continued to talk, her tone almost robotic as she shared more of her painful past. “Andy threatened me all the time, called me names, pinched me so hard I would have bruises, whatever he could do to make me miserable. He would deliberately do things he knew would gross me out; put a snake in my bed or blow his nose on my pillow. One time he put dye in my shampoo and I had green hair for a week. That made school even more fun—freaky eyes, freaky hair—lots of insults to choose from for all of them.”

“And your father turned a blind eye to all this?”

“Andy could do no wrong in my father’s eye. According to him, it was simple sibling rivalry. Plus, he loved to poke fun at me. Call me Porky Pig or his favorite—Pinky the Pachyderm. He didn’t care, Nathan.”