Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance (47 page)

But we don’t go to her room anyways. We end up in the huge second floor library that’s practically two stories in itself. She’s running her fingers over the spines of leather books, almost wistfully, and when she looks back over her shoulder at me and smiles, I’m lost. She opens the double doors at the end of the room to the private stone terrace and steps out. 

Idiot; you fucking asshole idiot this is such a dumb fucking move.

I need to leave. What I should be doing is turning right around and heading right back to that crowd of mourners downstairs morning
my
friend and
her
Father. But instead, I follow her out into the night air.

She takes a deep breath and lets her head drop back as she stares up at the stars, and she’s so fucking beautiful and so fucking sad standing there that I want to put my arms around her and tell her I’m here, but I know I can’t and shouldn’t do that; not here, not now, not ever.

“It’s nice out here; nice and quiet.” She turns and smiles at me; “Sorry, I just couldn’t be in there anymore.”

I shrug; “I don’t really do crowds either.”

She smiles and turns, and walks over to the stone balcony on the edge of the terrace. I’m tongue tied;
me
, for the first time ever at a loss of what to say; “He was a great-“

“I don’t really want to talk about my Father right now.”

She turns, her hands behind her as she leans back on the balcony, looking perfectly broken and like the perfect fix all tossed into one beautiful package. She smiles at me and bites her lip in this sexy, innocent way as she slowly raises one of her hands from behind her and starts to beckon me with one finger.

No. Stop. Stop it.

But I’m ignoring that voice inside my head as I walk in slow motion towards her. It’s like I’m walking underwater, in a dream, as I put one foot in front of the other, and before I know it I’m standing right in front of her. Her eyes are huge, and blue, and looking up at me with such sadness and such determination, and I can smell the lavender of her shampoo in her hair, and before the world can move another inch across it’s starry path, I’m kissing her. It’s fire, and passion, and it’s everything I’ve ever imagined kissing someone who matters feels like, and it’s like my whole life gets hit with a reset button; like I know after this I can start clean. 

She moans into my mouth, the sound both soft and completely sexy at the same time, and I find myself growling as I push myself against her. Her hands are at my neck, pulling at my tie and unbuttoning my shirt, and my hand is sliding over her thigh. I’m pushing her dress higher, feeling her shiver and whimper into me as my hand trails up until I feel lace, and heat, and-

Protect them.

The words hit me like slap across the face. Fuck; I can’t do this. I want to do this with every single fiber of everything I am, but what the
fuck
am I doing? 

I pull away from her; “Wait, hang on,” She’s leaning forward to kiss me again and I draw back further; “
Reagan
, hold on.”

“What?” She’s looking at me like she messed up; like it’s
her
that’s doing something wrong, and that look just kills me.

“I-“ What, tell her I can’t do this? Tell her it
is
her? Yeah, no, fuck that; I’m not doing that to her. “I- I just need to go get something for a sec.”

She gives me a strange, nervous look as she bites her lip; “Oh-“

Ah, shit, she thinks-

“Ok, there might be one in my sister’s room, in the bedside table.” She looks so shy, so innocent, and so on the verge of breaking, and it’s giving me the fuel I need to walk away. I can’t let her get into me; can’t let her touch the wreck I am inside.
Reset button?
How fucking delusional am I? I’m broken, and in the way that can’t be fixed.

“I’ll uh, I’ll see you soon.”

And then I’m walking away; walking away from the one girl in the world I can’t get out of my head and regretting it and hating every step I take as I let the terrace and her and the memory of that one perfect moment in time slip away behind me.

P R E S E N T

There’s something dreamlike about being back in the Old Man’s house in Greenwich, and I feel like I’m half-asleep as I wander through it. The strongest thing is, I’ve only ever been here a handful of times, but every single one sticks out like a dog-eared bookmark along the pages of my past. The kitchen has the lingering memories of swapping stories of trauma and horror with William over mushroom pizza; like our own fucked up little PTSD support group. There’s the guest-room upstairs, where he and I sat by day and night with Bryce for seven fucking days in a row while he detoxed off the junk; screaming his demons out at the ceiling while we held him down and kept him hydrated. I can remember parking myself in the library and reading every damn book the Old Man had on power and management and business when he set me up within Archer.

And then of course, there’s the garden out back where I first met Reagan, and really, that’s the weirdest part. It’s not
just
that I haven’t been back here since William died, it’s that the last time I
was
here was when I kissed her. 

“Remind me again why we picked
this place
for the media Q&A?” I grin as I hear her walk up behind me where I’m staring off across the back gardens like a weirdo. It’s basically the first time she’s spoken to me since our little stupid blow-up yesterday, and I can tell she’s just as weirded out by being back at her Father’s place as I am which gives me a strange comfort. We both have our own ghosts about this place, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about that last time we were both here too.

“One guess, but I’ll give you a hint; it starts with a ‘D’ and ends with ‘onald’.”

She snorts, and as I turn to her, I see her look up at me like she’s about to say something.

“Reagan! We’re live in two damn minutes!”

Goddamnit, Donald.

Reagan rolls her eyes and shakes her head, and with one last flickering look at me, she’s following her campaign manager back through the house to the front steps where they’re holding the press conference.

*****

I’m anxious and restless; subtly shifting my weight from foot to foot, tensing my muscles, and generally feeling too warm under my dress-shirt. I start to roll the sleeves up too before Donald gives me the evil eye and mutters something about “not testing well with target demographics” as he scowls at my tattoos, so I leave them be with a scowl right back at him.  

My nervousness of course has
nothing
to with Reagan talking to the media. No, fuck that, she’s
flawless
up there, looking every bit the political powerhouse behind the podium. Her answers are effortless, she’s direct and yet light, and she makes them laugh without even trying to play the comedian. No, what I’m fidgeting about is how I’m going to apologize to her about yesterday when we’re done here. There’s a nervous, rumbling energy inside of me that tumbles under the surface; the kind I usually only get when I’m strapping on my gloves for what I know is going to be a long, rough session with the bag, or when I think too long about the past. I want to tell her everything -
all
of it - and that quite honestly scares the shit out of me.

I’m walking towards her with a grin on my face, ready to pull her away from all of this and just lay it all out, when mother-fucking
Chet
swoops out of nowhere with Donald tailing behind him like a puppy dog. And then it’s just a repeat of the previous day, where I’m gritting my teeth and trying to keep my cool while this asshole cracks stupid jokes and mugs for the cameras next to Reagan, using every ounce of my willpower to try and ignore the fact that he keeps
touching
her on the arm.

And really, it’s not even
Chet
; it’s the thought of
any
guy putting their hands on her that makes me rage inside. The thought makes my fists clench up and brings me right back to where I was, drunk and fucked up in whatever shit-hole third world slum we were in at the time back then. I can’t help but think of
my
hands on her;
my
hands running down her sides, feeling the curve of her hips and the heat between her legs.

Fuck,
I mean I was so close to everything one time, and not just the prospect of fucking her, but I mean
everything
. That last time we were both here, I know it was something more and something deeper than just the idea of banging a chick. It was fucking
way
more than that, which is why five Goddamn years later I still can’t get it out of my head and still can’t get
her
out from under my skin. I think I even knew back then that when I kissed her for that first time, I was just
done
. With her, there was light, and peace, and finally a fucking
silence
to the blaring of my memories that scream through my head. I was so fucking close to
knowing
her, and letting her in before I ruined it. 

I realize I’ve been zoning out again as I hear Chet’s
horrible
little weasel laugh.

“So I say,
that’s
how you putt a par-three, baby!” Donald erupts in laughter right along with him, and even Reagan is humoring him with a smile; the kind of smile I’ve barely seen tossed my way in days.

“Am I right, Hudson?” Chet winks at me; “Yeah this guy knows what I’m talking about!”

I have no fucking idea in the world what he’s talking about.

“Hey so Hudson, remind me what it is you
do
over at Archer Holdings? You were a fighter pilot or something, right?
Currahee!
” Chet pumps his fist in the air like he’s at a football game or something.

Seriously, punching this asshole in the face right here and right now would be an act of mercy.

“I was a Marine, actually. And Currahee is the 101st Airborne; Army.”

Reagan gives me a look, and I begrudgingly plaster a nicer, totally disingenuous look on my face; “I make sure the money flows in the right direction at Archer and just pretty much fix problems.”

Chet grins and elbow’s me in the arm like we’re buddies; “Fix things, huh? So, you think you can
fix
this girl’s phone so she can call me back sometime?” Chet laughs hysterically at his own joke, with Donald right there with him clapping him on the back.

No, but I can fix how fucking straight your teeth are in about five seconds, dickwad.

But Reagan is laughing too, even though I
know
she can’t stand this clown either. She’s touching his arm and leaning into him, and I wince as a photographer flashes a quick shot of the two of them like that which I’m
sure
will end up on some stupid blog somewhere involving “romance on the campaign trail” or some other bullshit that Donald and Erika cook up.

I
want
to hate all of this; all the fucking pageantry and the concocted narratives, and I
definitely
want to hate Reagan having her picture taken with
this
fucking guy. But deep down, I get it. I look around at the college volunteers clearing chairs from the front lawn; I see the campaign posters with her face on them, and the boxes of buttons and t-shirts with her name emblazoned across them, and I
get it
. Chet’s obnoxious, and vanilla, and a total talking head, but he
fits
the part.
This
is who she should be with, I think darkly to myself; not some fucked up broken toy soldier like me, with all the shit I’m still carrying around on my shoulders. This girl is fucking incredible, but her being with a guy like this just makes sense, and I’m fucking delusional to think otherwise.

She laughs again at something stupid he says - the sound so perfect and so pure and good - and I can’t; I’m just done.

I’m barely aware of Donald asking me where I’m going as I just walk away; away from the lights and the camera and Reagan and Chet.