Dearly Beloved, page 10
They’d been getting their breakfast, and Chris got cereal. Knowing he waited for the same cereal, Chris put it away like Drew wasn’t standing beside him, saying, “I need that.”
Now, he sat here at the breakfast table dressed in only jeans. The guy had no home training. Good thing Renée was asleep. She’d throw up or curse him out, whichever came first.
I guess a leopard can’t change its spots.
“So, who had you drooling at the bar?” Chris grinned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was making sure those sloshed douchebags kept their hands off my sister and her friends,” he lied.
Since when did Chris pay attention to what other people did? He planned to tell his friend his dirty little secret—he might need to use him for cover—but not now. Renée might overhear. They were in the kitchen with too many sharp objects. He didn’t want to die today. For the first time, he was in love, a fact he hadn’t shared with his woman yet.
“Know what I saw, though,” Drew said, flipping the tables. “You looking at Ashley, man. Better hope Lex didn’t see you.”
“What!” Chris bellowed, eyes spitting blue fire.
Andrew laughed hard. Glancing at the entryway, his laughter died.
Disheveled and tired-looking, Renée stumbled in, wearing a maroon camisole and black sweatpants cut into shorts. Hands raised high; she stretched. Scratched her head before letting her arms drop to her side. “Could you guys be any louder?” she griped. “I don’t think they heard you in Mexico.”
He chuckled at her disgruntled scowl—until he looked at Chris. To his bewilderment, his best friend, since birth, stared at his sister like… like Chris gawked at women. Like he could eat her alive. To make matters worse, his eyes were locked on her breasts.
“Are you ever happy, or is this bad mood thing just part of your natural charm?” Chris joked, still focused on her cleavage.
Renée beamed at Chris. “I’m always happy—until I see you.”
Yeah, as usual, she might have been insulting Chris, but something about this exchange made him very uncomfortable… and homicidal.
Renée went to the cupboard, lifted onto tiptoes to retrieve a cereal bowl and a box of cereal. Her ass cheeks peeked out.
Andrew turned to Chris. The fuckin’ prick licked his lips like the coyote when he thought he’d finally caught the roadrunner.
Oh, hellllll, no!
“Renée!” Andrew snapped.
She started, lowered to flat feet, and turned toward him. Confusion etched across her face.
“Haven’t you ever heard of clothes?” he shouted.
“Yes. Why?”
Was she serious?
“’Cuz you need to put some on. Or at least wear a robe or something—shit!”
Her mouth turned down into a moue. “Geez. What crawled up your butt and died?” she quipped.
He had a mind to go over there and drag her by the arm back to her bedroom. “Nothing,” he shot back, “but I see what’s crawling up yours. Go put some fucking pants on—now!”
“Fine, shit! I’ll be back.” She stormed out of the kitchen, shooting him curious glances over her shoulder until he couldn’t see her anymore.
As soon as her door closed, Drew reared back his leg under the table, and as hard as he could, kicked Chris—square in the balls. “What the hell is your problem?”
Chris fell out of his chair, cupping himself. He groaned in pain. “I don’t think I can father children,” he answered between clenched teeth. “What’s yours?”
“You! You were checking out my sister!”
Getting back into his seat slowly, Chris shook his head but couldn’t elaborate further.
Renée stomped in wearing the same top, but with black sweatpants. She returned to the counter, where her bowl and cereal sat. She turned to Andrew with a raised brow. “Better, Versace? Or would you prefer I wear a turtleneck also?” she asked.
“Much better, Ms. Pint-size Naomi Campbell. You may proceed with your breakfast.” He grinned, satisfied with not only her clothes but Chris’s gaze, which stayed on the table and off his sister.
Renée glowered at him, then finished preparing her food. She sat at the table.
Andrew removed the composition book from his lap and slid it across the table to her. “This is yours. It’s that stuff you asked for,” he informed her cryptically, so he revealed nothing she didn’t want Chris to know.
She picked the book up, flipped through the first couple of pages. Jumping up without finishing her breakfast, she dumped the contents of her bowl into the sink. She ran the garbage disposal, grabbed the notebook off the table, and exited the kitchen.
God, he hoped he’d done the right thing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Renée went cross-eyed. She felt like she was looking at one of those weird paintings or pictures that you’re supposed to put your nose on and stare at until a picture forms. She’d swear the black and white designs on the composition notebook were melting together.
Her butt was numb from sitting at her desk for so long. It had been hours since she’d moved. She’d barely taken a bite of cereal this morning, and that was… she glanced at the miniature Sylvester the Cat clock at the far corner of her desk. Eight hours! At ten this morning, she ate a single bite of cereal, and now it was six-twenty. So, how could a taste of cereal sustain a person? She didn’t know, but it did.
Then why’s your stomach in knots?
Good question. It wasn’t hunger pains—of that, she was sure. These were know-what-I-have-to-do-and-it-scares-me-crapless pains. Tension bunched her muscles. And she thought the other day was hard. That was a long walk off a short pier compared to tonight. She felt light-headed, and her head throbbed, throbbed, and knocked.
Knocked?
Not knocked. The knocking was at her door.
Please… don’t be Chris.
Now wasn’t the time for his particular brand of bullshit. She didn’t know his deal, but he was playing some game. If she were being honest, his game had a lot to do with the emotional turmoil she found herself in as of late. His mere presence affected her. Something about him was different, possessive, more… intense. His intensity stirred feelings. Old feelings, stuff she couldn’t deal with, stuff that crumbled her resistance. To amend the words of the great Jay-Z, she had ninety-nine problems but a dick wasn’t one, nor would she let it become one.
Please, please, don’t be Chris.
“Come in!”
The door eased open. Andrew’s brown-haired head peered around the door. “Hey, Little Bit, what’s going on?” He smiled with apprehension. “You’ve been in here all day.”
Taking a deep breath, Renée waved her brother in. Beating around the bush wasn’t her strong suit, and his smile showed he suspected something. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid.
Andrew sat on the edge of her bed.
She turned in her chair. “I’m leaving.” The words came out softer, less confident than she hoped—since she didn’t feel confident. “I’m gonna go find my birth family.”
Faster than she knew was possible, Andrew shot to his feet and leaned nose-to-nose with her. He squeezed the arms of the chair so hard the entire chair shook with his anger. Sweat dotted his brow. His jaw locked and set. Emerald eyes shot fire. “What the fuck do you mean?” Disbelief raised his voice. “You’re leaving? You can’t leave—that’d kill Mom, Dad… me. You said you wouldn’t hurt them,” he accused.
Tears pricked her eyes—that hurt. “I know,” her voice cracked, “and I’m not going to. I’ll be back before Mom and Dad are. They’ll never know I was gone.”
“Née.” He lowered his tone to the one he used when trying to reason with clients. “You don’t know these people. They could be serial killers. What are you going to do? Show up on their doorstep, hold them at gunpoint, and force them to spill their guts?”
Averting her eyes, she blew out a long breath. “I haven’t worked that out. And it doesn’t matter. I already bought the bus ticket online. I leave tomorrow.”
“What?” he shouted—right in her face. Spittle landed on her lowered eyelids and cheeks. “No! You can’t leave. I’m not letting you go. I got that stuff so you could make phone calls. They could be dangerous, or crazy, or both.”
Raising her eyelids, she stared into her brother’s eyes. She lifted her chin in defiance. Did she love Andrew? Yes, so much it hurt. But she was still wary of brothers, and people telling her what to do got on her nerves. “I’m not asking your permission. All I’m asking… is that you cover for me when Mom and Dad call. Nothing more.”
Andrew pinned her with a glacial stare. “I won’t let you do this. I’m your brother. I’m supposed to keep you safe, protect you.” He took a deep breath. Guilt and regret softened his features. “I already failed once.”
There it was…
Andrew always brought that sonofabitch up, and why wouldn’t he when she made him feel that way—not on purpose, nevertheless, she was the reason he felt that way.
How could a person be pissed off and guilty at the same time? She didn’t know, but her system worked it out. She didn’t want him feeling inadequate. “The Event” wasn’t his fault. Her lack of faith in the concept of big brothers shouldered a large majority of the blame for what happened. Yeah, she’d had a big brother before, a two-bit sonofabitch older brother who—
No!
She stopped those thoughts dead in their tracks; she refused to go there. The topic, the situation at hand, mattered more.
A lack of faith in the concept of older siblings made this her fault. She’d been close to Andrew once, very close, closer than she’d been to Kathy. She’d opened her heart to him in a big way, and like with Kathy, she let one situation no one could’ve foreseen—except her—shake her faith in him. And as much as she wanted to open herself to him again, she couldn’t. There was a block in her mind. The past haunted her, which was more reason to follow through with her plans. Renée wanted to restore her relationship with Andrew.
The sorrow in his tone broke her heart. “No, you didn’t fail. That was my fault, not yours.” She covered one of his hands, gripping the arm of her chair, rubbed it. “I’m sorry, Drew. I have to do this.”
Andrew let go of her chair, hefted himself to his full height. Stepping back, he raked his fingers through his hair, breathed in deep, and exhaled. He rolled his shoulders. His face, once pinched in anger, smoothed into a hard mask of resolve. “Fine. I’m coming with you.”
Eyes bulging, she stared up at her brother. “No. You can’t… I’m-I-I mean…” she stammered. It’d be weird enough with her going. She couldn’t take him in some supervisory bodyguard role. Futile it might be, but she needed him to see reason. “Who’s gonna cover with Mom and Dad? You can’t come. And you can’t take care of me forever, Drew.”
“Yes, I can,” he responded. “I’m your big brother. Besides harassing you, giving you a hard time, and chasing away would-be suitors, my number one job is to protect you. So, yes, I can… and I’m going. Matter of fact, we’re all going. Your friends, my friends; we’ll road trip it.”
“No!” she protested.
If she didn’t want him to go, what would make him think she wanted a whole posse? Didn’t he understand anything about self-discovery? It wasn’t the type of work that needed witnesses. Showing up at these people’s doors half-cocked might not be the best plan. Showing up with the cast of Euphoria behind her wouldn’t help endear them to her.
Andrew sauntered to the door with all the swagger and confidence of John Wayne. “Yes. Now, get packed. I’ve got calls to make, and I need to get the Denali cleaned—”
“What? Why? I paid for a bus ticket. If you don’t want to take the bus with me, then don’t come.”
“Oh, no, I’m going—we’re all going. I’ll get you back for the bus ticket. It couldn’t have been that much. Call your friends, or I’ll do it for you.” He smiled a big toothy grin, opened the door, and walked out with mock enthusiasm. “Road trip, baby!” She heard Drew shout as he walked down the hall, then he sang, badly, “The more we get together, together, together, the more we get together, the happier we’ll be. When your friends are my friends, and my friends are your friends, the more we—”
The slamming of his bedroom door cut off the rest of his little ditty.
Renée heaved herself up from her chair. She dropped to her knees, crawled to her bed, and pulled her duffel bag out from underneath it. “Well, this just got a lot more complicated. Fun times… fun times,” she muttered.
The house came straight out of a movie. It had to. Places this big didn’t exist in real life, at least not in her real life. When they pulled up to the single-story, north Scottsdale, southwest-style mansion—which she learned was two large houses pushed together to make one—with a tennis court, NBA-size basketball court, Olympic-size pool, and enormous rock garden with a walking path, her mouth fell open. A long circular drive led to the house, protected by a tall stucco wall with ornate, black, iron gates outside the front door.
Nine-year-old Renée watched a twenty-something, light, brown-skinned man with a thick mustache hug and kiss his mother. Why was she here? Yes, she liked her middle-aged, mocha-skinned, short, curly black-haired speech therapist. However, that didn’t explain why she stood in the woman’s foyer with two Hefty bags full of her belongings.
Eight hours ago, she’d lived in a shelter for abused and neglected girls close to her elementary school. An hour before school let out, her state-appointed caseworker showed up and chauffeured her to the shelter. They’d allotted her ten minutes to pack her meager belongings. Then her social worker drove her back to school, deposited her and her things in the speech therapist’s office, and announced the widowed Mrs. Bobby Greensburg would be her foster mother. Just like that, it was done.
She didn’t know this woman but was expected to live with her. Mrs. Greensburg informed her that her three grown children still lived at home on the drive here. This young guy dressed in a white polo shirt and fitted khaki pants must be her youngest.
Renée was confounded. Her life had turned from hell to heaven in a matter of hours. She needed time to breathe, time to absorb what was going on. She wasn’t used to family life or how families behaved. However, she wanted to learn. It would feel so good to be a part of a family, have siblings, a mother. She’d seen tons of television shows where young girls had protective older brothers and secretly envied them.
Ever since she could remember, she’d been protecting herself. Checking over her shoulder for someone to do her wrong. Hurt her somehow. It would be nice to have someone whose job it was to watch out for her. Here, she’d have two big brothers since Mrs. Greensburg had two sons. As far as she knew, there was no such thing as a nice guy. A good man. Brothers were supposed to be that and more.
This would be great.
After kissing his mother, the man extended his hand to her. He smiled. “I’m Aaron.” They shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Renée. I guess I’m your brother.”
“I guess so.” She shrugged, uncomfortable with the conversation. “Nice to meet you.”
The entire situation made her uncomfortable. Even standing in the foyer, she felt inferior. Inadequate. They dressed to impress. The house’s furniture belonged in a castle. Garbage sacks rested at her feet. She wore a shirt and pants two sizes too small. Hunger pangs gnawed at her insides, and her hair was in a ponytail with a million fly-a-ways pointing in every direction. She didn’t belong here.
“I’ve never had a younger sibling before,” Aaron commented, breaking into her thoughts. “I’ve always been the tortured youngest.” He laughed. “I won’t torment you too badly, though; I’ve always wanted a little sister.” He winked and patted her shoulder. “You and I’ll be close.”
Putting her arm around Renée’s shoulder, Bobby steered her away from Aaron and down a long, tiled hall. “Let me show you your side of the house.”
Ornate doors lined each wall. There were about nine rooms in this one hall. Renée was awed. She assumed one door would lead to her room, but Bobby didn’t stop at any of them.
It took several minutes to get to the forked end of the hall. To the left was a large kitchen. Peeking inside, she saw two ovens. A large island with a baker’s rack hung over it, an industrial-size refrigerator, and stainless steel sub-zero freezer side-by-side—an entirely stainless steel wine storage unit with a glass panel front built into one wall. At the back of the kitchen was a cherry wood table with eight matching chairs set around it. In front of each chair were white and gold China plates with gold cloth napkins folded like origami crowns.
Bobby turned right. Renée quickened her steps to catch up. At the end of a short hall were tall, intricately carved, mahogany double doors. Grabbing the knob of each entry, Bobby opened them. Renée froze at the sight before her.
Cathedral-style ceilings. Built into the walls were shelves filled to the brim with books. An in-home library. Her fantasy brought to life. This must be how Belle felt in Beauty and the Beast. Hardback, paperback, poetry, old classics, romance, paranormal, bestsellers, every genre a person could ever want to read. She stared, slack-jawed, at the magnificence surrounding her. Set on opposite sides of the room, two white wicker couches with fluffy maroon cushions. This was her idea of heaven.
Caught in the splendor, it startled her when Bobby touched her shoulder.
“Come,” she said in her magisterial, British accent. Hand placed in the middle of Renée’s back, she nudged her toward double doors across the library. “Your side of the house is through here.” She opened one door. “These doors don’t lock, but this is your part of the house. Make yourself at home. No one will bother you.”
They stepped through the doorway into another house. A modest four-bedroom home with a decorated living room, a small kitchen, three spare bedrooms, and a two-way fireplace. Again, Renée was taken aback.
“This is your domain. Your kitchen. Your living room, and down the hall there,”—she turned and pointed— “are two extra bedrooms. There’s three, but my daughter January uses one when she’s home from school. And the door near the fireplace, that’s your surprise.”
