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Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy By Tammy Falkner

 

Night Shift Publishing

 

 


 

For my readers, because they make this job worthwhile.

 


 

 

Copyright © 2013 by Tammy Falkner

Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy

The Reed Brothers

Smashwords Edition

Night Shift Publishing

Cover design by Tammy Falkner

Cover photo © Hongqi Zhang (aka Michael Zhang) | Dreamstime.com

 

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 


 

Dear Readers,


I hope you enjoy this short story. I had a lot of fun writing it and thought you might like a glimpse at Logan, Emily and the Reed brothers in “real life.” After Logan and Emily’s books ended, their lives went on, but we don’t get to see every page. Here are a few pages from their future, and we meet Sean and Lacey in this installment.

 

Don’t worry – if you haven’t met Logan and Emily yet, you won’t be lost! And I have included sample chapters from every book available in the Reed Brothers series at the end of this short story for your enjoyment.

 

I hope you enjoy it, and wish you a joyful new year!

 

Tammy

 


 

Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy

By Tammy Falkner

 

Sean

 

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I protest, watching my best friend in the world as she paints her face. I think she’s even more beautiful when she doesn’t wear makeup at all. But even I’ll admit that this Lacey is smoking hot. Her legs are a mile long, and her dress dips deep enough that the round swells of her breasts are taunting me. Look at me, Sean, you stupid fucker. You can’t touch them. Nanny, nanny, boo, boo.

“It’s not like I’m offering up my virginity to the highest bidder,” she protests, blinking her eyes as she applies heavy coats of mascara to her lashes. The brush slides slowly down the miniscule strands of hair, and she sits back, bats her lashes, and looks at me over her shoulder in the mirror. She sticks her tongue out.

“You might as well be offering up your virginity,” I grumble. Some college-age, hormone-ridden asshole will guess the number of jelly beans in her jar, and the lucky bastard will get to kiss her. He’ll get to kiss my girl. Well, she doesn’t know she’s mine, but she has been for as long as I can remember. I can’t recall a time when Lacey wasn’t in my life. And the thought of some dickwad putting his mouth on her has my heart tripping in my chest like it’s going run away without me.



Lacey begins to paint her pretty, full, perfectly kissable lips with a horridly sexy shade of bright red. She smacks her lips together and makes a kissy face toward the mirror. I can’t watch anymore. I just can’t. I fall back across the bed in her dorm room and throw my arm across my eyes, groaning to myself.

It’s not fair that she can undo me with a simple kiss at a mirror when she doesn’t even see me as a real, live, flesh-and-blood man. She still sees me as the boy who grew up next door to her. She seems to forget that I’m the one who held her hair back as she threw up her first few shots of tequila. She forgets that I’m the one who carried her luggage up three fucking flights of stairs when I moved her into her dorm room. I’m the one who hugged her when Dusty Forbes dumped her at the homecoming dance. I’m the one who left my own date—who was a sure thing, by the way—standing alone by the wall while I retrieved Lacey from the ladies’ room and stroked her hair until she could breathe.

She forgets that I saw her naked. All right, so she wasn’t completely naked, but it was close enough. Whoever designed bikinis with those little triangles that cover the naughty bits should be given a fucking medal. Or buried six feet under. I’m not sure which.

The bed dips as she sits down on it, and she lifts my arm from over my eyes. She’s so fucking beautiful with her strawberry-blond hair hanging down over her shoulders. It looks like she’s been rolling around in bed with someone, but I know she hasn’t because I watched her work for an hour to get it to look like that.

Her hip touches mine, and she leans across me, bracing herself on her forearm. She looks down at me but doesn’t say anything. I go hard immediately. I’m glad she’s looking at my face and not at my crotch because she would get the shock of a lifetime if she glanced down right now. But she doesn’t think of me like that. She said so. She said, loudly and clearly, that she wouldn’t go there with me. She didn’t want to lose her best friend if things didn’t work out. She needs me, she says, as more than an ex-boyfriend. She needs me to be her best friend. So I am.

But good God, I want her.

“What?” I grouse.

“Stop pouting,” she says quietly. She pushes up off her propped arm and lays that hand on my chest, her elbow digging into my belly as she looks at me.

“Stop trying to impale me.” I grunt and adjust her elbow. But I don’t want her to move. I like having her this close. If this is all I can get, I’ll take it. I set my hand on her naked knee and draw swirls on it with my thumb.

She shakes her head, her face soft. Her green eyes blink at me as her gaze skitters around my face. “It’s just a kiss,” she says softly. “Why are you all torn up about a kiss?”

She’s studying me way too closely. “I’m not torn up,” I protest.

“You’ve been moping ever since I told you about the fundraiser, Sean,” she says. “What’s your problem? It’s for charity, for God’s sake.” She lays her free hand on her chest. “My kiss is going to feed victims of domestic violence. I’m doing my part for a better community.”

I look down at her mouth. God, I could just slide my fingers into her hair, pull her to me, and kiss her right here and now. But I won’t. Because she doesn’t want me. “I can’t believe you’re going kiss some stranger,” I bite out. “Don’t do it.”

“I’ve kissed men before, Sean,” she reminds me. I wish she would keep that shit to herself.

“What if it’s some big, goofy guy with really bad breath?” I ask.

“What if it’s some big, brawny guy who smells like you and kisses like a god?” she asks. She smiles, the corners of her lips tilting up so prettily. Her fingertips touch my forearm lightly, and she traces the tattoos that decorate my arm from wrist to shoulder. Every hair on my body stands up, and I lift my hand from her knee and thread my fingers with hers so she’ll stop. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be all tatted up, too.” She looks off into the distance, her gaze no longer on me.

“Honey, if you want to kiss someone who looks like me and smells like me, I think I can accommodate you so you don’t have to kiss some stranger.”

Her eyes shift back to meet mine, and she may as well have just punched me in the gut. She looks into my eyes and stares as if she’s looking into my soul. She can look into it anytime. Shit, I’d give it to her, if she wanted it. But it’s not me she wants. She’s made that abundantly clear.

“If I ever kissed you, I would never be able to stop,” I say quietly. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged down a gravel road and back, and I fucking hate that she can affect me this way.

“Prove it,” she says, and then she licks her cherry-red lips. She doesn’t break eye contact.

I move quickly. This is the first time she’s ever made an offer like this, and my gut tells me that she’s going to take it back. I cup her neck with my palm and pull her toward me. My gentle tug brings her flush against my chest, and the weight of her settles against me and feels so right. Her lips are so close to mine that her inhale is my exhale. My hand quivers as it holds her nape, so I work my fingers into the hair at the back of her head. I hold her still and look into her green eyes.

“Tell me you want me to kiss you and you got me, honey,” I whisper. She shivers and inches up my chest ever so slightly, her mouth moving closer to mine. So close. Just a little closer. I can almost taste her.

“I want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “Please.”

Suddenly, the door opens, and Lacey jumps up, separating us in one final, powerful leap. Fuck. I pull the pillow from behind my head and shove it in my lap, sitting up on the side of the bed.

Friday, Lacey’s roommate, walks into the room. Friday stops, her gaze moving from Lacey to me and back.

Lacey’s breaths are heavy, and I can tell she’s upset about being caught like that. “Great timing, Friday,” I say quietly.

“Were you guys about to get it on?” Friday asks, her grin cheeky. She points to Lacey and then at me, and then goes back and forth. “Look at you two,” she crows. Her gaze narrows. “What did I miss?” she asks.

Friday works at the tattoo shop I like to go to. It’s called Reed’s, and I’ve known Logan, one of the artists, since we started college. He and Friday are pretty tight. “Where’s Logan?” I ask. We need to change the subject. “Did he come with you?”

She nods and jerks a thumb toward the door. “They’re right behind me.” Logan’s broad shoulders fill the doorway. He steps back and his girlfriend, Emily, walks through the door before him.

“Jesus Christ,” Logan says. Logan’s deaf, but he lost his hearing when he was thirteen so he has really great speech. He’s also very intuitive, and he’s really good at reading situations. “You could cut the tension in here with a knife,” he says. He looks back and forth between Lacey and me. His eyes land on me, and I assume he sees me floundering when he cracks a smile. “Did you cut the cheese, dude?” he asks. “Because she looks like you did something that tilted her world on its side.”

Lacey arches a brow at me as if she’s tossing the ball into my court. I can lob it back or I can choose to let it lie there. “Something like that,” I say, but I’m looking at her and not at him. I see Emily translate for him in sign language out of the corner of my eye. “Sorry,” I murmur. Usually I’m more careful about facing him when I talk, but I wanted to watch Lacey’s face. Her cheeks are rosy, and she’s shuffling her feet. I want to rewind and go back to where we were before Friday burst into the room.

“You look really pretty,” Logan says to Lacey.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

She’s fucking gorgeous. Pretty doesn’t begin to describe how wonderful she is. She’s witty and she’s smart and she’s… She’s not mine.

“I’m going to go do my laundry,” I say. I need to get the fuck out of here.

“A likely excuse,” Friday says. But the smile on her face dies when I scowl at her. She’s questioning me without saying a word, and I can’t answer her.

“I’ll go with you,” Logan says as he gets to his feet. He leans over and kisses Emily on the forehead, and she grabs his shirt, fisting her hand in the fabric and pulling him down so he can kiss her for real. “I’ll be back in a little bit,” Logan tells her.

She nods, and Logan opens the door so I can follow him out. My gut tells me not to leave this unfinished.

“Wait,” Lacey calls.

I turn back, filled with hope. Does she want me to stay? We could kick everyone out and go back to what we were doing. I could kiss the girl that I want more than anything or anyone. I could make her mine. I could pour my heart out to her. I could tell her that I love her and always will. “What?” I ask quietly.

“Are you coming to my booth?” she asks. “For the results of the contest?”

And watch another man kiss her? I don’t think so. “I have a lot of laundry to do,” I say.

She inhales quickly and blinks even faster. “Are you going to meet us for dinner after?” she asks, her voice quivering.

“Where are you going?” If I go, I’ll have to see her with her lipstick sucked off her face, and I really don’t want to.

She picks up a sticky pad and writes something down. I take it from her hand, which is shaking ever so slightly. “Are you all right?”

She nods, looking everywhere but at me. “I’ll see you at dinner,” she says.

I shove the note into my pocket, not even bothering to look at it.

I motion to Logan, and he precedes me out the door. I follow, closing it behind me softly. I want to slam it, but I don’t want her to know how I’m feeling.

“What the fuck happened between you two?” Logan asks as soon as the door closes.

I shrug. Logan is famous for his shrugs. He should accept mine. But he doesn’t. Instead, he punches me in the shoulder.

Shit, that hurt. “What the fuck?” I ask.

“What happened?” he asks. He looks straight into my eyes.

“Nothing,” I say. I shake my head. “Not a fucking thing.”

“Dude, you had a pillow shoved in your lap, and you were getting off her bed when we walked in. Something happened.” He shoves my shoulder, almost knocking me over. Logan’s a big boy. A little bigger than me, and I’m a big guy. “Not to mention that she looked like she’d just been fucked.”

I stop and turn to face him. I lay both lands flat on his chest and shove him as hard as I can. “Don’t ever fucking talk about her like that again,” I warn.

Logan takes a few steps back. Then he grins. “It’s about fucking time,” he says. He holds up a hand to high five me.

“Fuck you,” I say instead, and I keep walking toward my dorm. I can’t get there fast enough.

“Did you kiss her?” he asks. He grins at me again, and I feel a smile tugging at my own lips. But it doesn’t last for more than a minute. His joviality isn’t contagious.

“I was about to…. Then you guys busted in,” I admit.

“She wants you, man. She’s got it as bad as you do. Trust me.”

I shake my head. “She doesn’t.”

“She does.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “She told Emily. Emily told me.” He pauses and then says, “You’re welcome.”

“What did she say?” I ask. I probably don’t want to know.

“She said she wants to have your babies.” He jumps back when I go to punch him, and he laughs.

“Shut up,” I say. “This is serious.”

“Why’s it so serious all of a sudden?” Logan asks. “This shit’s been going on between you two for a long time. Why does it suddenly matter so much?”

“The contest is today. They’re raffling off a kiss from her.” I heave a sigh. “One lucky winner is going to get to kiss the woman I love. In front of everybody.”

“Oh, fuck,” Logan breathes. “That’s shit.”

“I asked her not to go,” I confess.

“So, go buy all the tickets,” he says with a shrug, as though he just solved world poverty or AIDS.

“It doesn’t work like that. You have to guess the number of jelly beans in her jar. If you get the wrong number, you don’t get anything. If you get the right number, you get to kiss her.”

“So, we need to figure out how many jelly beans are in her jar,” he says simply. He looks at me. “Did you see the jar?”

I nod. “It’s a pickle jar.” I hold out my hands to show him the size. “The big kind.”

“So we need a jar that size, and we need to fill it with jelly beans and then count them. At least then you can get close, right?”

I scrub a hand down my face. “This is stupid. I’ll never get it. Every guess costs a dollar.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. It’s nearly empty.

“You’re just going to let somebody else kiss her?”

“If I’m not there, I won’t see it.” I shrug my shoulders, trying to hide the fact that I feel as if I’m being gutted.

He stares at me. He doesn’t say anything. “If it were Emily, I’d buy every fucking pickle and every damn jelly bean in the state of New York. There’s no way my girl would kiss some asshole.”

“You’re right,” I say. “We need to go to the store.” Hope swells inside me. Do I have a chance? I won’t know until I try, I guess.

Logan and I go shopping, and after we get all our supplies, he looks at me and says, “I hope you like pickles, dude, because we’re going to have to eat this whole jar so we can fill it with jelly beans.”

I look at the jar. “I don’t like pickles that much. You?”

Logan pops the top while we walk back to the dorm and starts eating. This is what friendship is all about. He crunches each bite over and over until he swallows, and then he reaches for a second one and passes it to me, taking another for himself. He stops a stranger on the street. “You want a pickle?” he asks. The stranger sidesteps him. “What?” he asks. “You act like it’s every day somebody offers you a free pickle.”

The man keeps going. “Dude, I think he thought you mean a pickle.” I make air quotes when I say the word pickle.

“How could I mean a pickle when I’m standing here holding a jar of pickles?” he asks.

I shrug. “You didn’t look like his type anyway.”

“I’m too pretty for him, right?” he asks. Logan’s all tatted up, on top of being huge.

“That has to be it.”

By the time we get to the dorm, all but two pickles are gone, and we’ve left a trail of people eating pickles in our wake.

I burp into my closed fist. “I’ll never eat another pickle again.”

Logan dumps the last two in the bushes outside the dorm. “I can’t eat another one, man,” he says, belching.

He washes out the jar and dries it, and then we start dumping jelly beans into the empty container. Bag after bag goes in. When it’s full, I look at Logan and say, “How many is that?”

“You weren’t counting?” he asks.

“Was I supposed to?”

“Shit,” he says. Then he dumps them onto the bed, and we start to count.

I’m going to win this contest if it’s the last thing I ever do. “If I buy twenty numbers, ten before and after our count, do you think I’ll be safe? I only have twenty dollars left after the pickles.”

He points to my phone. “You have FaceTime on that thing?” he asks.

I nod and pass it to him. He opens it up and props it on the desk in front of him. It rings, and finally, Logan’s oldest brother, Paul, answers. He stares at the screen until he recognizes Logan.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asks. “And whose phone are you calling from?” He’s signing while he talks out loud.

Logan laughs and pulls me into the frame. “It’s Sean’s.”

“What up, Sean?” Paul asks.

I wave.

“You got any cash?” Logan asks.

Paul’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Sean needs to buy a kiss from his girl.”

Paul’s brow rises. “You paying for sex now, dude?” he asks. He holds up his hands when I start to protest. “Not that I think that’s a bad idea or anything. Man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. “I can’t ask you for money, man. Don’t worry about it. Logan shouldn’t have called you.”

But Logan rushes on. “So, you got any money?” he asks.

Paul heaves a sigh and empties his pockets. I see a few dollars float around. He yells toward the back of his apartment. “Sam! Matt!” Both brothers walk into the room.

“You bellowed?” Matt says.

“Asswipe there needs some cash so he can buy a hooker.” He points toward me.

“She’s not a hooker,” I protest.

But Logan’s laughing like hell by now. And Matt and Sam look amused, too.

“Cash?” Logan asks.

“Some,” Paul says.

“Can you bring it?”

“Where?”

“To school. To the kissing booth. In the quad.”

Paul heaves a sigh. “I’ll be there.” The phone goes dead.

“Do you think we’ll have enough?” I’m getting anxious now.

“You’ll have more than you thought you did.” Logan claps a hand onto my shoulder and squeezes.

God, I hope this works.

 

 


 

Lacey

 

I groan loudly as soon as the door closes behind Sean and Logan. “Aghh!” I want to hit something. I want to scream. I want to…kiss Sean. I want to kiss him so bad.

“Spill it,” Friday says as she sits down beside Emily and props her head in her hand. She doesn’t say anything more. She just waits.

“I don’t even know where to start.” My voice cracks, and I hate that it does.

“Start at the ending,” Emily says. “What was happening when we barged in?”

“Nothing,” I grunt. “Not a thing. Just like always.”

“There was something going on. Something more than the usual sexual tension between you two. Did he finally make a move?”

I shake my head. He didn’t. Not really. “He hinted that he might make a move. So, I gave him an opening. That’s all.”

“He was taking it,” Friday says. “The opening that is.”

Emily grins. “He wanted to take her opening, all right.” She snorts.

I throw a pillow at her, but she just catches it.

“I thought this kissing thing would make him step up. But I guess he just doesn’t care as much as I thought he did.”

“He cares,” Emily says.

I shake my head. “He doesn’t.”

“He does. He told Logan. Logan told me.”

My belly flutters. “Logan must be hearing things.”

Emily snorts again.

“I mean…”

“I know what you meant,” Emily says, smiling. “Logan can be pretty intuitive about some things. And he feels certain that Sean wants you. Bad. And Sean said as much.”

Friday bites her lip, then adds, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but…”

“What?” I ask.

“You know how he got a new tattoo last week?” she asks.

I didn’t know so I don’t answer. “What did he get?” I ask instead.

She inhales, weighing her decision to tell me. Then she blurts out, “It’s a honeybee.”

“Oh shit,” I say.

“What?” Emily asks. “What did I miss?”

“He calls me honey when he’s being all sweet.”

Friday nods.

“I blew it when I told him I just want to be friends.”

“Logan says boyfriends are friends that get to make girls come.” Emily snickers. She gets this dreamy look on her face and sighs. “Over and over and over.”

“What if I blew my chance forever?” I ask. Tears sting my eyes.

“Oh, don’t cry,” Friday says. “You’ll mess up your makeup.”

“You look hot, by the way,” Emily says.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

I adjust the top of my dress. I never show this much cleavage. “I better get down to the booth. The sale will only last an hour, and then the kiss happens.”

Emily frowns. “What happens when you have to kiss some strange guy?” she asks.

“Then I guess I get to kiss some strange guy.” I shrug. I can’t get out of it now. “I’d hoped that Sean would, you know… But he didn’t.”

“You’ve got yourself in quite a predicament,” Emily says.

I flop down in a chair. “Tell me about it.”

“Why did you want to be just friends?” Friday asks. “I don’t think you ever told me. It’s pretty damn obvious you have feelings for him.”

“I was afraid,” I admit. “I can’t live without him. He’s my best friend. What if we start dating and then it all falls apart? I will lose him forever.” I shake my head. “I just can’t let that happen.” I wince. “I may have made a mistake giving him that piece of paper, but I’m going to chance it. If I don’t, I’ll never know. I love him. I just need for him to love me back.”

“What mistake?” Emily asks.

“What piece of paper?” Friday asks right after.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll either show up or he won’t.”

I slide on my sandals and pick up my jar of jelly beans. It’s big and heavy, but I don’t have to walk too far. “You guys want to come?” I ask.

Friday snorts this time. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

We walk up to the booth, and I set up my display. Emily and Friday help me take pledges for a solid hour. People write their names and guesses on a piece of paper, and Friday sorts through them as they turn them in, tossing out the ones that aren’t even close. We keep the two closest to the actual number, both over and under. There will only be one winner, but it’s whoever comes the closest that will get to kiss me.

I see Sean in the crowd. He’s walking with Logan and three of his brothers. There’s a wide path around them. They are some fearsome-looking boys, that’s for sure. They’re also head-turners in every sense of the word. But none of the Reed boys are as handsome as Sean. His brown eyes meet mine, and he looks away. He pulls his baseball cap down low, shielding his eyes in shadow so I can’t even see them.

Logan hands me a ten-dollar bill and ten guesses.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Emily breathes.

He winks at her, and she crosses her arms under her breasts. He crooks a finger at her, and she shakes her head. She signs something to him really quickly. He laughs out loud and signs back. All the tension leaves her body, and she deflates.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” I tell Logan. “Give him his money back.” I motion toward Emily.

But she just sorts through his entries and keeps one out to the side. I take it from her. It’s close. It’s really close.

“Emily,” I warn.

She smiles at me. I have no idea what’s going on.

Logan’s brothers all have guesses, too, and each of them hands me a stack of tickets. Emily and Friday sort through them and pull another one out, discarding the one that belonged to Logan. Thank God. Emily would kill me if I kissed her boyfriend. I wouldn’t be able to do it. I just wouldn’t.

So far, Logan’s brother Matt is the closest, but I can’t tell him that.

Friday and Emily keep taking the money as I talk with the men who stop to buy tickets. When the hour is up, my heart is racing and my pits are sweating. Logan hands me a tissue and points to my brow. I blot it dry.

On the hour, the bell rings and the announcer calls me to the stage. “And now for the results of the kissing contest,” the announcer says. He looks at Friday who has the winning ticket in her hand. “Do we have a winner?”

She nods and walks across the stage. She stops and takes a bow when she gets catcalls and whistles. She’s very Katy Perry-pretty with her tattoos, vintage dress, and old-fashioned hairstyle. She puts the winning ticket in the announcer’s extended hand.

“And the winner is,” he sings. He waits, opening the folded piece of paper slowly, drawing out the suspense. I can barely hear him over my own heartbeat, which is thumping like crazy. Is it too late to back out? Shit. I don’t want to do this. “The winner is the person who guessed twelve hundred and forty-eight!”

The crowd is silent, and all the participants look to one another. But then I hear a thump, thump, thump, thump as someone comes up the stairs onto the platform. I see the baseball cap before I see the rest of him, and I hope to God that’s Sean’s cap. But Sean didn’t even buy a ticket. Not a single one.

Yet it’s his brown gaze that meets mine. It’s his baseball cap, and they are his tattoos. They’re his broad shoulders and his long strides that eat up the distance between us.

He turns his hat backward and looks down at me. He stops with less than an inch to spare between us. “Congratulations,” I squeak out. “You didn’t even buy a ticket. How did you…?”

“I bought one hundred and forty-two tickets, dummy,” he says.

My heart trips a beat. “You did?” All he had to buy was one. I put the winning number on the piece of paper I gave him.

He nods, and he takes my face in his hands. His thumbs draw little circles on my cheeks as his fingers thread into the hair at my temples.

“You didn’t look at the paper I gave you….” My heart is pounding like mad.

“What paper?” he asks. His smile is soft and inviting, and I want to fall into him.

“The one you put in your pocket.”

His brow furrows.

“Never mind,” I say, breathless. He spent 142 dollars for a kiss he already owned in more ways than one. If I loved this man any more, it would be dangerous.

He looks down into my eyes, not moving. He’s going to kiss me, right? “What’s the plan here?”

“I’m going to kiss my girl,” he says, smiling at me.

My breath hitches.

“But you have to say yes, first.” He hasn’t let me go. He’s holding me tightly, forcing me to meet his eyes. “This isn’t going to be a one-time thing.”

I can’t even think, and he wants me to commit?

“It’s not,” I breathe.

“You promise?” His gaze searches mine like he’s going to find the secrets to the universe there.

“I swear on your life,” I say.

He chuckles. “My life?”

I nod.

His eyebrows draw together. “Aren’t you supposed to swear on your own life?”

“My life means nothing if you’re not in it.”

His hands start to tremble against my face, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Logan’s brothers start to chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss…,” and the crowd joins in.

“You better kiss me,” I say, “or they’re going to get restless.” A tear rolls down my cheek, and he brushes it back with his thumb, his gaze soft and warm.

His eyes open, and he leans closer to me. I step onto my tiptoes to get to him because I can’t wait one more second. He stops a breath away from me, just like he did in the room. He waits. “You have to close the distance,” he says to me. He’s making me choose.

I fall into him and press my lips to his. He freezes. But then he starts to kiss me. And all the fireworks at the state fair couldn’t compare to the ones that go off in my head. His lips are gentle but urgent. They’re kind but insistent. They’re soft but firm. His head tilts, and he licks across the seam of my lips. I open for him, a whimper leaving my throat completely unbidden. His tongue touches mine, and the velvet rasp of him searching my mouth makes my knees begin to shake. I tangle my tongue with his, and nothing ever felt so right as being with him. God, this man can kiss. He steals my thoughts, taking me inside him and refusing to let me go. I don’t want to let go. I want to kiss him forever and never even come up for air.

Somewhere in the distance I hear the announcer as he coughs into the microphone, but I don’t care. And neither does Sean. He kisses me and keeps on kissing me until he wipes the memory of every other kiss I have ever experienced from my head. There will never be another kiss like this. Not for me. He’s the one. He will always be the one.

“We’re going to have to get the hose, I think,” the announcer says. I open my eyes, and Sean opens his at exactly the same time. His withdraws his tongue from my mouth and closes his lips, kissing me quickly, again and again, and then he lets me go. I wobble on my feet, and he reaches out a hand to steady me, chuckling as he does.

“You okay?” he asks. He holds onto my elbow until he slings an arm around my shoulders.

I nod. I can’t speak. I can’t gather enough wits.

The crowd goes wild. Sean takes my hand and leads me to the edge of the stage. My wobbly knees will barely carry me, but I follow. Logan and his brothers high five Sean as we approach, and Emily and Friday just laugh.

“How was it?” Emily asks.

I don’t need to answer. They can see it on my face. I look up at Sean, and he smiles down at me. He’s everything I ever wanted. I can’t imagine my life without him. “Earth-shattering,” I admit. He squeezes me, his face glowing. I narrow my gaze and smack my lips. “But for some reason, he tastes like pickles.”

“Oh my God,” Emily squeals. “So does Logan!” She shoots them a quizzical glance.

Sean flushes scarlet. There’s a story there. I just don’t know what it is. But he’ll tell me. I won’t let him avoid it.

He reaches into his pocket and pops a handful of jelly beans into his mouth. Logan does the same. Logan points to Sean’s mouth. “Dude,” he says. “That color’s not great on you.”

I look at Sean again, and my lipstick is smudged all over his lips. I laugh. I must look a sight if he looks like that. He wipes at the corners of my lips with his thumbs. “Next time, I’ll wear pink,” I whisper.

“I don’t care what you wear,” he says. His gaze is hot, and my belly flips. “I’d like to see you wearing nothing.” He looks into my eyes, his expression full of longing. He presses his lips to mine briefly. “I can’t get used to the fact that I can kiss you whenever I want.”

“Says who?” I taunt.

“That’s what boyfriends do, Lacey,” he says, as if he needs to remind me. My stomach flutters again. I step onto my tiptoes and pull his head down to mine. I kiss him, holding onto the back of his neck, until we’re both breathless, and I’m whimpering.

“Yea,” I agree. “That’s what boyfriends do.”

 


 

If you haven’t read Tall, Tatted and Tempting, Smart, Sexy and Secretive, or Calmly, Carefully, Completely, you can keep reading for a sneak peek at each of the books! They’re all part of The Reed Brothers series.

 

Tall, Tatted, and Tempting

 

Smart, Sexy, and Secretive

 

Calmly, Carefully, Completely

 


 

Tall, Tatted, and Tempting

 

Book 1 in The Reed Brothers Series

 

Logan

I don’t know her name, but she looks familiar to me. She’s a tight package in a short skirt that makes me imagine the curves under her plump little ass. That skirt is made to draw attention, and she has all of mine. I’m so hard I can’t get up from behind the table where I’m drawing a tat for a client on paper. I reach down and adjust my junk, the metallic scrape of the zipper against my dick not nearly enough to calm my raging hard on. I shouldn’t have gone commando today. I hope Paul did some laundry this morning.

Her nipples are hard beneath the ribbed shirt she’s wearing, and she pulls her sleeve back to show me something. But I can’t take my eyes from her tits long enough to look at them. She shoves her wrist toward my face, and I have to jerk my eyes away. Shit. She caught me. I would tell her I’m a guy, I can’t help it…or at least I would if I could talk.

I see her mouth move out of the corner of my eye. She’s talking to me. Or at least she’s mouthing something at me. No one really talks to me since I can’t hear. I haven’t heard a word since I was thirteen years old. She’s talking again. When I don’t answer, she looks at my oldest brother Paul, who rolls his eyes and smacks the center of his head with his fist.

“Stop looking at her tits, dumbass.” He says the words as he signs them, and her face flushes. But there’s a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth at the same time.

I roll my eyes and sign back. Shut up. She’s fucking beautiful.

He translates for her. I would groan aloud, but I don’t. No sound has left my throat since I lost my hearing. Well, I talked for a while after that. But not for long. Not after a boy on the playground said I sounded like a frog. Now I don’t talk at all. It’s better that way.

“He says you’re beautiful,” he tells her. “That’s why he was ogling your tits like a twelve-year-old.”

I flip him off, and he laughs, holding out his hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “What?” he asks, still signing. But she can hear him. “If you’re going to be rude and sign around her, I’m going to tell her what you say.”

Like I have another choice besides signing. You never heard of a secret code between brothers? I sign.

“You start whispering secrets in my ear, dickhead, and I’ll knock your head off your shoulders.”

You can try, asswipe.

He laughs. “He’s talking all romantic to me,” he tells her. “Something about kissing his ass.” She’s grinning now. The smile hits me hard enough I’d be on my knees if I wasn’t stuck behind that table. She brushes a strand of jet-black hair back from her face, tucking it—along with a lock of light blue—behind her ear.

I watch her open her mouth to start to speak. But she looks over at my brother instead. “He can read lips?” she asks.

“Depends on how much he likes you,” my brother says with a shrug. “Or how ornery he’s feeling that day.” He raises his eyebrows at me, and then his gaze travels toward the tabletop. Shit. He saw me adjust my junk. “I’d say he likes you a lot.”

This time, she closes her eyes tightly, wincing as she smiles. She doesn’t say anything. But then she looks directly at me and says, “I want a tattoo.” She points toward the front of the store. She’s still talking, but I can’t see her lips move if she’s not looking at me. I want to follow her face, to jump up so I can watch those cherry-red lips move as she speaks to me. To me. God knows she’s speaking to me. But I don’t. I force myself to keep my seat. She looks back at me as she finishes talking and her lips form an O.

“Sorry,” she says. “You didn’t catch any of that, did you?” She heaves a sigh and says, “The girl up front said to see you for a tattoo.”

I look over at my brother who just finished a tat and isn’t working on anything at the moment. Friday—really, that’s her name—laughs and signs, “You’re welcome.”

I scratch my head and grin. Friday set me up. She does it all the time. And sometimes it works out well. She sends all the hot girls to me. And the not-so-hot girls. And the girls who want to sleep with the deaf guy because they heard he’s amazing in the sack. I’m the guy they don’t have to talk to. I’m the guy they don’t have to pretend with because I wouldn’t know what they’re saying regardless.

If this girl is just there to sleep with me, we can skip all the tattoo nonsense.

“Don’t even think about it,” my brother says. “She wants a tat. That’s all.”

How do you know what she wants?

I just know, he signs. This time he doesn’t speak the words. Don’t try to lay this one.

I hold my hands up in question asking him why. “She’s not from around here,” he says, but he signs, Not our kind.

Oh, I get it. She’s from the other side of the tracks. I don’t mind. She might be rich, but she would still love what I can do for her. I reach for her hand and squeeze it gently so she’ll look at me. I flip her hand over and point to her wrist. My fingers play across the iridescent blue veins beneath her tender skin, and I draw a circle with the tip of my finger asking her, Here?

Her mouth falls open. Goose bumps rise along her arm. Hell, yeah, I’m good at this.

I stand up and touch the side of her neck, and she brushes my hand away, shaking her head. Her lips are pressed tightly together.

I look directly at her boobs and lick my lips. Then I reach out and drag one finger down the slope of her breast. Here? I mouth.

I don’t even see it coming. Her tiny fist slams into my nose. I’ve had girls slap me before, but I’ve never had one punch me in the face. Fuck, that hurt. The wet, coppery taste of blood slides over my lips, and I reach up to wipe it away. My nose is gushing. Paul thrusts a towel in my hands and tilts my head back.

Fuck, that hurts. He presses the bridge of my nose, and I can’t see his mouth or his hands over the bunched-up towel, so I have no idea if he’s talking to me. Or if he’s just laughing his ass off. He lifts the towel, but blood trickles down over my lips again. I see her standing there for a brief second, her fists clenched at her sides as she watches me suffer.

Shit, that hurts.

Then she turns on the heels of her black boots and walks away. I want to call out to her to get her to stay. I would say I’m sorry, but I can’t. I can’t call her back to me. I start to rise, but Paul shoves me back into the chair. Sit down, he signs. I think it might be broken.

I see a piece of paper on the floor and it’s crumpled. I take the towel from Paul and press it to my nose, pointing to the piece of paper. He picks it up and looks at it. “Did she drop this?” he asks.

I nod. It’s damp from her sweaty palms. I unfold it and look down. It’s an intricate design, and you have to look hard to find the hidden pictures. I see a guitar, the strings broken and sticking out at odd angles. At the end of the strings are small blossoms. I turn the picture, looking over the towel I’m still holding to my nose with one hand. Paul replaces it with a clean one. My nose is still bleeding. Son of a bitch. I look closer at the blossoms. They’re not blossoms at all. They’re teeny, tiny shackles. Like handcuffs but more medieval. Most people would see the beauty of that drawing. But I see pain. I see things she probably wouldn’t want anyone to see.

Shit. I fucked up. Now I want more than anything to know what this tat means. It’s obviously more than just a pretty drawing. Just like she might be more than just a pretty face. Or she might not be. She might be a bitch with a mean right hook that will eat my balls for lunch if I look at her the wrong way.

I spin the drawing in my hands and look around the shop. It’s late, and no one is waiting. I punch Paul in the shoulder and point to the drawing. Then I point to the inside of my own wrist. It’s the only place on my whole arm that’s not tatted up already. I have full sleeves because my brothers have been practicing on me since long before it was legal to do so.

No, Paul signs with first two fingers and his thumb, slapping them together. You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m going to put that on you.

He walks toward the front of the store and sits down beside Friday. He’s been trying to get in her pants since she started here. It’s too bad she has a girlfriend.

I get out my supplies. I’ve done more intricate tats on myself. I can do this one.

He stalks back to the back of the shop where I’m setting up. “I’ll run it,” he says. “You’re going to do it anyway.”

I hold up one finger. One change.

What do you want to change? He looks down at the design, and his brow furrows as he takes in the shapes and the colors, the handcuffs and the guitar and the prickly thorns. And I wonder if he also sees her misery. That’s some heavy shit, he signs. He signs a lot when it’s just me and him. I’m kind of glad. It’s like we speak the same language when we’re alone.

I nod, and I start prepping my arm with alcohol as he gloves up.

 

 


 

Emily

 

It has been two days since I punched that asshole in the tattoo shop, and my hand still hurts. I’ve been busking in the subway tunnel by Central Park, and it’s somewhat more difficult to play my guitar when my hand feels like it does. But this tunnel is one of my favorite spots because the kids stop to listen to me. They like the music, and it makes them smile. Smiling is something leftover from my old life. I don’t get to do it much, and I enjoy it even less. But I like it when the kids look up at me with all that innocence and they grin. There’s so much promise in their faces. It reminds me of how I used to be, way back when.

I’m considering singing today. I don’t do it every time I play, but I am seriously low on funds. The more attention I get, the more change I’ll get to take home with me. Home is a relative term. Home is wherever I find to sleep that night.

I’m sitting on the cold cement floor of the tunnel, back a ways from the rush of feet with my guitar case open in front of me. In it, there are some quarters, and a little old lady stopped a few minutes ago and tossed in a fiver while I played “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Old ladies usually like that one. They haven’t seen troubled waters.

I’m wearing my school-girl outfit, too, because I get more attention from men when I wear it. It’s a short plaid skirt and a black ribbed short sleeve top that fits me like a second skin. Ladies don’t seem to mind it, and men love it. I sure got a lot of attention from that asshole two days ago. He was hot, I had to admit. He had shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway and a head full of sandy-blond curls. He towered over me when he stood up from behind that table, at least a head and shoulders taller than me. Tattoos filled up all the empty space that used to be his forearms, and it was kind of hot. He had lips painted on his left arm, and I wanted to ask him what those were. Were they to remember someone? A first kiss, maybe? Or did they mean something the way the tattoo I wanted did?

I’d dropped my tattoo design as I ran out of the shop, which pisses me off. I thought I had it clutched in my hand, and when I’d stopped to take a breath, it was gone. I’d almost expected the asshole to follow me, but he was still bleeding when I’d left him.

I shake out the pain in my hand again. A towheaded boy stops in front of me, his hand full of pennies. He is a regular, and his mother had stopped to pray over me once, so I switch my song to “Jesus Loves Me.” Jesus doesn’t. If He did, He wouldn’t have made me like I am. He would have made me normal. The boy’s mother sings along with my tune, and the boy dips his face into her thigh, hugging it tightly as she sings. When the song is over, he drops his handful of pennies into my guitar case, the thud of each one hitting the felt as quietly as a whisper.

I never say thank you or talk to the kids. I don’t talk to the adults unless they ask me something specific. I just play my music. Sometimes I sing, but I really don’t like to draw that much attention to myself. Except, today, I need to draw attention to myself. I had saved up three hundred dollars, which would pay for a place to sleep and that tattoo I thought I needed, but someone had stolen it while I was asleep at the shelter last night. I’d made the mistake of falling asleep with it in my pocket instead of tucking it in my bra. When I woke up, it was gone. I don’t know why they didn’t take my guitar. Probably because I was sleeping with it in my arms, clutched to me like a mother with her child.

I wish I’d gotten the tattoo yesterday. It was a useless expense, but it was my nineteenth birthday, and it’s been a long time since anyone has done anything for me. So, I was giving it to myself. And trying to free myself in the process. Who was I kidding? I’ll never be free.

This city is hard. It’s mean. It’s nothing like where I came from. But now it’s home. I like the noise of the city and the bustle of the people. I like the different ethnicities. I’d never seen so many skin colors, eye shapes, and body types as I did when I got here.

A girl reaches her chubby hand to touch my strings, and I smile and intercept her hand by taking it in mine, instead. Her hands are soft and a little damp from where her first finger was shoved in her mouth just a minute ago. I toy with her fingers while I make an O with my mouth.

Her mother smacks her hand away with a sharp, cracking blow to her forearm, and the girl’s eyes immediately fill with tears. You didn’t have to do that, I think. She didn’t mean any harm. But the mother drags the crying child with her toward the subway and picks her up when she doesn’t move quickly enough.

I draw a small crowd between subway arrivals, and one man yells out, “Do you take requests?”

I nod, and keep on smiling, playing with all I’m worth. He calls out, “I think you should suck my dick, then.” One of his buddies punches him in the shoulder and he laughs.

College kid. His mama never taught him any manners. I let my eyes roam over the crowd, and no one corrects him. So, I start to play “All the Wishing in the World” by Matt Monroe. The irony is lost on the jock, and they walk away as the train pulls in behind them.

The platform fills with new people getting off the train, so I switch to some more familiar tunes. Money drops into my case, and I see a dollar float down. I nod and smile as the person walks by, but she’s not looking at me. A big pair of scuffed work boots steps up beside my case next. I look at them for a minute and then up over the worn jeans and the blue T-shirt that’s stretched across broad shoulders. And then I’m looking into the same sky-blue eyes as the other day. My pick stumbles across the strings. I wince. His eyes narrow at me, but he can’t hear my mistake, can he? His head tilts to the side, and I turn my body to face the other direction.

My butt is freezing and my legs are aching from sitting on the cold floor for so long. But I don’t have anywhere else to go. My three weeks at the shelter were up yesterday. So, I have to find somewhere new to sleep tonight. I look down into my case. There’s enough there for dinner—but not for anything else. So, I keep playing.

Those boots move over so that he’s standing in front of me. I scoot to the side and look everywhere but at him. But then he drops down beside me, his legs crossed criss-cross-applesauce style in front of me. He has tape across the bridge of his nose, and it makes me feel competent for some reason. There are very few things in my life that I can control, and someone touching my body is one of them. I say when. I say where. I say with who. Just like in Pretty Woman. Only Stucky would never get to backhand me. I’d take him out first.

Tattoo guy leans on one butt cheek so he can pull out his wallet, and he throws in a twenty. He doesn’t say anything, but he points to my guitar and raises his brow. I don’t know what he wants, and he can’t tell me, so I just look at him. I don’t want to acknowledge his presence, but he’s sitting with his knee an inch from mine.

When I don’t respond, he puts a hand on my guitar. He points to me and strums at the air like he’s playing a guitar. I realize I’ve stopped playing. But he did put a twenty in my case, so I suppose I owe him. I start to play “I’m Just a Gigolo.” I love that tune, and love playing it. After a minute, his eyebrows draw together, and he points to his lips.

I shake my head because I don’t know what he’s asking. Either he wants me to kiss him or I have something on my face. I swipe the back of my hand across my lips. Not that. And the other isn’t going to happen.

He shakes his head quickly and retrieves a small dry-erase board from his backpack.

Sing, he writes.

I have to concentrate really hard to read it, and there are too many distractions here in the tunnel, so I don’t want him to write anymore. I just shake my head. I don’t want to encourage him to keep writing. I could read the word sing, but I can’t read everything. Or anything, sometimes.

He holds his hand up to his mouth and spreads his fingers like someone throwing up. I draw my head back, but I keep on playing.

Why does he want me to sing? He can’t hear it. But I start to sing softly, anyway. He smiles and nods. And then he laughs when he sees the words of the song on my lips. He shakes his head and motions for me to continue.

I forgot he can read lips. I can talk to him, but he can’t talk back. I play all the way to the end of the song, and some people have now stopped to listen. Maybe I should sing every time.

He writes something on the board. But I flip it over and lay it on the concrete. I don’t want to talk to him. I wish he would go away.

He throws up his hands but not in an “I’m going to knock you out” sort of way. In a “what am I going to do with you” way. He motions for me to keep playing. His fingers rest on my guitar, like he’s feeling the vibrations of it. But what he’s concentrating on most is my mouth. It’s almost unnerving.

A cop stops beside us and clears his throat. I scramble to gather my money and drop it in my pocket. I’ve made about thirty-two dollars. That’s more than the nickel I had when I started. I pack up my guitar, and Blue Eyes scowls. He looks kind of like someone just took his favorite toy.

He starts to scribble on the board and holds it up, but I’m already walking away.

He follows after me, tugging on my arm. I have all my worldly possessions in a canvas bag over my right shoulder and my guitar case in my left hand, so when he tugs me, it almost topples me over. But he steadies me, slides the bag off my shoulder in one quick move and puts it on his own. I hold fiercely to it, and he pries my fingers off the strap with a grimace. What the heck?

“Give me my bag,” I say, and I plant my feet. I’m ready to hit him again if that’s what it takes. But he smiles, shakes his head, and starts to walk away. I follow him, but getting him to stop is like stopping a boulder from rolling downhill once it gets started.

He keeps walking with me hanging on to his arm like I’m a Velcro monkey. But then he stops, and he walks into a diner in the middle of the city. I follow him, and he slides into a booth, putting my bag on the bench on the inside, beside him. He motions to the other side of the bench. He wants me to sit? I punched him in the nose two days ago, and now he wants to have a meal with me? Maybe he just wants his twenty dollars back. I reach in my pocket and pull it out, feeling its loss as I slap it down on the table. He presses his lips together and hands it back to me, pointing again to the seat opposite him.

The smell of the grill hits me, and I realize I haven’t eaten today. Not once. My stomach growls out loud. Thank God he can’t hear it. He motions toward the bench again and takes my guitar from my hand, sliding it under the table.

I sit down, and he looks at the menu. He passes one to me, and I shake my head. He raises an eyebrow at me. The waitress stops and says, “What can I get you?”

He points to the menu, and she nods. “You got it, Logan,” she says with a wink. He grins back at her. His name is Logan?

“Who’s your friend?” she asks of him.

He shrugs.

She eyes the bandages across his nose. “What happened?” she asks.

He points to me and punches a fist toward his face, but he’s grinning when he does it. She laughs. I don’t think she believes it.

“What can I get for you?” she asks me.

“What’s good?” I reply.

“Everything.” She cracks her gum when she’s talking to me. She didn’t do that when she talked to Logan.

“What did you get?” I ask Logan. He looks up at the waitress and bats those thick lashes that veil his blue eyes.

“Burger and fries,” she tells me.

Thank God. “I’ll have the same.” I point to him. “And he’s buying.” I smile at her. She doesn’t look amused. “And a root beer,” I add at the last minute.

He holds up two fingers when I say root beer. She nods and scribbles it down.

“Separate checks?” she asks Logan.

He points a finger at his chest, and she nods as she walks away.

“They know you here?” I ask.

He nods. Silence would be an easy thing to get used to with this guy, I think.

The waitress returns with two root beers, two straws, and a bowl of chips and salsa. “On the house,” she says as she plops them down.

I dive for them like I’ve never seen food before. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember if I ate yesterday, either. Sometimes it’s like that. I get so busy surviving that I forget to eat. Or I can’t afford it.

“How’s your brother doing?” the waitress asks quietly.

He scribbles something on the board and shows it to her.

“Chemo can be tough,” she says. “Tell him we’re praying for him, will you?” she asks. He nods, and she squeezes his shoulder before she walks away.

“Your brother has cancer?” I ask, none too gently. I don’t realize it until the words hang there in the air. His face scrunches up and he nods.

“Is he going to be all right?” I ask. I stop eating and watch his face.

He shrugs.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

He nods.

“Is it the brother I met? A the tattoo parlor?”

He shakes his head.

“How many brothers do you have?”

He holds up four fingers.

“Older? Or younger?”

He raises his hand above his head and shows me two fingers. Then lowers it like someone is shorter than he is and makes two fingers.

“Two older and two younger?” I ask.

He nods.

I wish I could ask him more questions.

He writes something on the board, and I sigh heavily and throw my head back in defeat. This part of it is torturous. I would rather have someone pull my teeth with a pair of pliers than read. But his brother has freaking cancer. The least I can do is try.

I look down at it, and the words blur for me. I try to unscramble them, but it’s too hard. I shove the board back toward him.

He narrows his eyes at me and scrubs the board clean. He writes one word and turns it around.

You, it says. He points to me.

I point to myself. “Me?”

He nods and swipes the board clean. He writes another word and shows it to me.

“Can’t,” I say.

He nods and writes another word. He’s spacing the letters far enough apart that they’re not jumbled together in my head, but it’s still hard.

My lips falter over the last word, but I say, “Read.” Then I realize that I just told him I can’t read. “Wait! I can read!” I protest.

He writes another word: Well.

He knows I can read. Air escapes me in a big, gratified rush. “I can read,” I repeat. “I can’t read well, but…” I let my words trail off.

He nods quickly, as though he’s telling me he understands. He points to me and then at the board, moving two fingers over it like a pair of eyes, and then he gives me a thumbs-up.

My heart is beating so fast it’s hard to breathe. I read the damn words, didn’t I? “At least I can talk!” I say. I want to take the words back as soon as they leave my lips, but it’s too late. I slap a hand over my lips when his face falls. He shakes his head, bites his lip, and gets up. “I’m sorry,” I say. I am. I really am. He walks away, but he doesn’t take his backpack with him.

While he’s gone, a man approaches the table. He’s a handsome black man with tall, natural hair. Everyone calls him Bone, but I don’t know what his real name is. I just know he’s trouble. Everyone knows that.

“Who’s the chump, Kit?” he asks. The people in this city who know me call me Kit. It couldn’t be farther from my real name.

“None of your business,” I say, taking a sip of my root beer. I fill my mouth up with a chip and hope he goes away before Logan comes back. And I hope deep inside that Logan will come back so I can apologize.

Logan slides back into the booth. He looks up at Bone and doesn’t acknowledge him. He just looks at him.

“You got a place to sleep tonight, Kit?” Bone asks.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m fine.”

“I could use a girl like you,” Bone says.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” It doesn’t pay to piss Bone off. He walks away.

“You all right?” I ask Logan.

He nods, brushing his curls from his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. And I mean it. I really do.

He nods again.

“It’s not your fault you can’t talk. And…” My voice falls off. I’ve never talked to anyone about this. “It’s not my fault I can’t read well.”

He nods.

“I’m not stupid,” I rush to say.

He nods again and waves his hands to shut me up. He places a finger to his lips like he wants me to be quiet.

“Okay,” I grumble.

He writes on the board, and I groan, visibly folding. I hate to do it, but I can’t take it. “I should go,” I say. I reach for my bag.

He takes the board and puts it in his backpack. He gets it, I think. I’d rather play twenty questions than I would try to read words.

He opens his mouth and I hear a noise. He stops, grits his teeth, and then a sound like a murmur in a cavern comes out of his mouth.

“You can talk?” I ask. He put me through reading when he can talk?

He shakes his head and bites his lips together. I shush and wait. “Maybe,” he says. It comes out quiet and soft and his consonants are as smooth as his vowels. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

I draw a cross over my heart, which is swelling with something I don’t understand.

“What’s your name?” he asks. He signs while he says it. It’s halting, and he has to stop between words, like when I’m reading.

“People call me Kit,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “But what’s your name?” he asks again.

I shake my head. “No.”

He nods again. The waitress brings the burgers, and he smiles at her. She squeezes his shoulder again.

When she’s gone, I ask him, “Why are you talking to me?”

“I want to.” He heaves a sigh and starts to eat his burger.

“You don’t talk to anyone else?”

He shakes his head.

“Ever?”

He shakes his head again.

“Why me?”

He shrugs.

We eat in silence. I was hungrier than I thought, and I clear my plate. He doesn’t say anything else, but he eats his food and pushes his plate to the edge of the table. He puts mine on the top of it and looks for the waitress over his shoulder. I’m almost sorry the meal is over. We shared a companionable silence for more than a half hour. I kind of like it.

He gets the waitress’s attention and holds up two fingers. He’s asking for two checks. I should have known. I pull my money from my pocket. He closes his hand on mine and shakes his head. The waitress appears with two huge pieces of apple pie. I haven’t had apple pie since I left home. Tears prick at the backs of my lashes, and I don’t know how to stop them. “Dammit,” I say to myself.

He reaches over and wipes beneath my eyes with the pads of his thumbs. “It’s just pie,” he says.

I nod because I can’t talk past the lump in my throat.

 


 

Smart, Sexy, and Secretive

 

Book 2 in The Reed Brothers Series

 

Emily

 

My dad doesn’t want me to go back to New York. He’s wholeheartedly opposed to it. But New York is where my heart is. It’s where Logan is. And we’re in a plane on our way there right now.

I met Logan in the fall. He took care of me when I needed a place to stay, and I took care of him when his brother got sick with cancer. Matt needed an expensive medical treatment, and the only way to get the money was for me to suck it up and take one for the team. So, I did. I went back to California, leaving the only man I’ve ever loved in New York, and returned to my estranged family—the one I’d run away from. Matt went into treatment, paid for by my father, and Logan went on with his life.

I have wanted to contact him so many times. But talking is difficult between us. Logan is deaf, and he communicates by writing. I have dyslexia, and reading is hard for me. So letters and phone calls are not possible for us. The Reed family is poor, and they don’t even have a computer. I considered buying them one and shipping it to them, so Logan and I could talk using sign language on Skype, but they are both poor and proud, which is a killer combination.

It’s been almost three months since I last saw Logan. It has been just as long since I’ve talked to him. I want to look into his eyes. I need to see him. Soon.

The pilot


Date: 2015-02-28; view: 776


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