Interference st michaels.., p.7
Interference: (St. Michaels Duet #1), page 7
He smelled like fabric softener and nicotine. He rested his chin against the top of my head, letting me burrow into his warmth, as his palm ghosted down the length of my hair.
We sat there for a while in silence, curled up together, while the color of the water that stretched out in front of us slid through the shades between gray and black.
“I allowed myself to hope this time,” he said, finally breaking the quiet. “He stayed long enough I thought maybe he was finally gonna stick it out. Stay around and be a real father instead of a sperm donor. The way he came to practices . . . watching me play . . . like he actually gave a damn.”
I wrapped my arms farther around him, squeezing him as he spoke.
“I wanted him to be proud of me.” He paused to collect himself as his words jammed with too much emotion. “I’ve spent my whole damn life hearing people brag about how great my dad is. How lucky I am.” He laughed sarcastically. “For one damn day, I wanted him to feel lucky that I’m his kid. I wanted that to be enough for him to stay. But he couldn’t stick it out. Couldn’t find the time.” He rested his cheek against the top of my head and inhaled deeply. “Call me crazy,” he murmured softly, “but if you really love someone, you should make time.”
I squeezed harder, hoping if I held him tight enough, all his broken pieces would stay together.
“You make me proud. Me and Nathan and my folks . . . Grams. We were all amazed by the way you pulled it around. We were going crazy in the stands.”
“I know. I could hear you. Hard to miss Grams with that crazy wolf-finger-whistle thing she does.”
Grams always cheered enthusiastically during his games. Sometimes, I thought she tried to compensate for the empty seats where his two absentee parents should have been.
“At least we’ve convinced her to leave the cowbell at home now,” I said lightly.
He chuckled and pulled me in closer.
“We should just stay right here forever. Beer, a pack of smokes, and my favorite girl—this is all I really need.”
He kissed the top of my head before running a hand up and down my back in a lazy pattern that drew goose bumps across my arms.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” he added softly.
“Thanks for not laughing at me about hating beer.”
“You gotta give me some forewarning before I corrupt you next time.”
“I wouldn’t mind letting you corrupt me,” I mumbled in response.
His hand stalled on my lower back, right in the spot where my T-shirt met the top of my shorts. Fingertips slowly traced across a patch of naked skin. They burned more than that beer sliding down the back of my throat.
“A little corrupting is good for me,” I lightly added. “Keeps me from getting too boring.”
He pulled back to look at me. “You could never be boring, Soot. You’re the best of us. Just the way you are. Sweet and perfect. I don’t want you to change. Ever.”
Molten blue eyes stared into mine. I worried they’d see too much—my secret thoughts I’d learned to bury deep. The ones I’d never share with him.
Or even share openly with myself.
To cover my discomfort, I reached both hands over my head and rubbed the air back and forth.
“What are you doing?”
“Polishing my halo.”
His bubbling laughter broke the heaviness of the moment. Our world settled back on its axis. We relaxed into silence, holding on to one another and the final strands of evening.
“Where do you think they’re all headed?” he asked, pointing out to the tiny bobbing lights I’d admired before.
“Toward happiness,” I answered without pause. “Someday, that’s where I plan to go.”
He smiled down at me and then tweaked the tip of my nose. “Let’s go together.”
7
Undefined Variables
Brayden
“What’re you doing?” I asked, leaning down to rest my chin on the top of her head so I could study the paper she was angrily glaring at.
Her shiny, dark hair smelled like coconuts and sea air. I breathed in deeper, stealing a little more of her.
“This bullshit,” she replied, smacking her pencil down on the kitchen table. “I can’t turn X or Y into anything but a curse word.”
“This is all wrong.” I pointed to a line on her paper. “How the hell did you get that?”
“I don’t know. Algebra hates me. We have a mutual dislike for one another.”
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head as I tried to make sense of her chicken scratch.
“Baby girl, you’re killing these poor, harmless numbers. Who taught you to do it this way?”
“Satan,” she answered. “This is his evil language, and I’m stuck in hell.”
I lifted my chin and wrapped her ponytail around my fist, tugging back till her eyes looked up into mine. The corners of her mouth lifted upward. Buttery warmth spread through my chest. I pressed a soft kiss to the center of her forehead.
“You want me to help you? This stuff is easy. You’re just doing it fugly and backward.”
“Oh, sure, rub it in, math genie,” she answered sarcastically.
I couldn’t help it. Math was easy. Always had been. Numbers just made sense to me. I never even did half my homework. But I raised my hand and answered every problem in class, so my teachers always loved me. It was the key to skating by.
I plopped down on the chair beside her, picked up her scratch paper, and tore it in half down the middle. “Let’s start over.”
I spent thirty minutes walking her through it. Step by step, in plain English.
When we finally finished the page of problems, she jumped up from her chair, unceremoniously plopped down on my lap, and grabbed my face with both hands. She planted big, noisy kisses on both my cheeks.
“This is like a Christmas miracle and a visit from the tooth fairy. Thank you, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You were my only hope.”
She bounced up and down a little. I laughed at her exuberance as I gripped her waist to steady her.
If her ass kept shifting on my lap like that, I’d end up teaching her about more than multivariable equations.
“You oughta let me keep helping you with your homework.”
“Yeah? Like you’d ever have the time for that.”
“Well, someone has to save all the innocent numbers from your evil clutches,” I said in a dramatic, goofy voice.
She laughed and kissed both my cheeks again. I turned slightly. Her soft lips missed their mark, landing close to the edge of my mouth. Close enough for me to almost taste the strawberries in her lip gloss.
I stood quickly, hiding my involuntary teenage-boy response by lifting her up and setting her down on her feet. She yelped a little and grabbed my shoulders to steady herself. I looked down into her pretty eyes.
Green like a field of baseball grass.
Like her beloved M&M’s.
Like my favorite color.
“I’ll always make time for you.”
Ashley
We met at the old boathouse to avoid distractions. I showed up to our first session to find Brayden waiting with a pack of cigarettes and an oversized yellow bag full of sweet sentiment and empty calories.
“Figured it was my turn to bring the brain food,” he said, smiling.
I dropped down on the futon next to him and accepted a pre-sorted handful of green goodness. He took a drag from the cigarette that hung from his mouth, careful to blow the smoke away from me.
I waved a finger at him. “That shit’s gonna shrivel your pecker and give you yellow teeth and cancer.”
He sputtered a little and pounded himself on the chest with the side of his fist before he smirked at my bluntness.
“We’ve all gotta die from something. Can we solve for X and Y and skip the lecture?”
He took another long drag, then stubbed out the cigarette in an old soda can. “Like I can finish that with the picture of my dick all shriveled up. Jesus, Ash.” He mumbled, “You made that up anyway.”
He groaned softly and uncouthly grabbed hold of his crotch, adjusting himself like he needed sudden reassurance.
I smiled triumphantly and pressed an M&M between his lips so he’d stop talking while I fished the assignment sheet out of my bag.
From that day forward, we met there twice a week, binging on chocolate, coefficients, and each other’s laughter. The boathouse morphed from his hideout to our special place—a new version of the library that very first summer.
I had him back for a little bit. My Brayden. Tangled up in a mix of candy, soft touches, and teasing conversation. Algebra quickly became my favorite subject.
Then, I made a horrible mistake.
I forgot the order of operations. Not parentheses and exponents. The rule that said to always knock before you entered.
We weren’t scheduled to meet that afternoon.
I just wanted to hang out.
I climbed the ladder, ready to make a joke about it not smelling like cigarettes. Maybe he’d finally gotten sick of my pestering and was trying to quit. I didn’t notice the tobacco stench had been covered by the floral spice of girlie perfume.
He wasn’t alone.
Whitney Hamilton was in my spot. Only she wasn’t sitting next to him. She was curled up on his lap. One of her hands fisted in his hair, the other was hidden under his shirt.
They were so busy shoving their tongues in each other’s mouths; they hadn’t heard me climb up the ladder. Thankfully, though her shirt was missing, her black lace bra remained intact, partially held in place by his hungry palms.
I quietly backed out, trying not to trip over my own feet and heavy heart. I left the big barn door open slightly, so they wouldn’t hear it slide shut.
I tried not to think too hard about why I felt so melancholy. I walked back home, alone, hugging my book bag like a life preserver, barely holding my head above the breakwater.
“Do you want more crumb cake, honey?” she asked, standing up again.
“No, Grams. Sit. If I eat any more, these jeans aren’t gonna fit me ever again.” I stuffed the last bite of powdered sugar confection into my mouth.
I’d made an excuse to move my sessions with Brayden up to the house. It broke our secret bubble but kept visions of tangled hands and lips out of my head.
Sampling Grams’s baking was a side benefit.
I’d be the first girl in history to get fat off algebra.
Who knew math would help me finally grow some hips?
Grams rotated between stations, looking out the kitchen window and sitting at the table across from me. She twisted a green, heart covered dish towel in her hands. The clock over the stove kept reminding her nerves he was late.
“I’m sure he just forgot about me. He’s got better things to do than help me with math.”
I didn’t want to say he had better people to do. Literally. No doubt, he was holed up somewhere with his lace-bra-wearing Floozie.
Since my stalker mishap, I’d secretly spent time surfing the Victoria’s Secret website. The idea of spending sixty bucks on a bra seemed more scandalous than half of their lingerie. I’d bet Whitney Hamilton never wore ordinary white cotton from Walmart.
“He would never forget you, Ashley. You mean a lot to him. More than I think you realize.” She reached across the table to pat my hand, the maternal shorthand for, Trust me; I know. “I love that he’s spending so much time with you. Keeps the boy out of trouble.”
“He’s been better lately, don’t you think?”
She nodded. Her eyes and lips crinkled at the corners as she smiled softly. “Yes. Bless him. He’s trying. Still won’t take his father’s phone calls, but he’s working hard at everything else.”
She sighed and twisted her towel some more.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. I didn’t want to insult her own child, but life might be a lot more peaceful if Jack Ross stayed away.
One or the other really—stay or go.
Living in a fickle purgatory hurt Brayden the most.
“Jackson doesn’t mean to be a bad father. He actually gave up quite a bit to be a dad.”
The Jack Ross I knew didn’t seem to ever give up anything. Other than time with his son. But for once in my life, I kept my mouth from spewing that unfiltered opinion.
She stood and took my empty plate to the sink. Staring out the window above it, she was quiet for a minute, clearly contemplating if she wanted to say more.
“I lost my Tommy so early in life. Jackson was so little. He doesn’t know how to be a father because he didn’t grow up with one.”
She fingered the gold wedding band she still wore as she came back to sit across from me.
There were pictures of Thomas Ross all over the house. I’d heard Grams tell stories about her late husband so many times, his sepia smile felt like it belonged to someone I’d met in more than two dimensions. Her voice softened whenever she spoke of him.
“Jackson wasn’t always like he is now,” she continued. “As a boy, he was very serious and focused. From the moment he touched a football that was all he wanted to do. He spent his youth chasing the dream of being a ballplayer. Now that playing has been taken away from him, he’s out foolishly chasing his youth.”
Her sweet words couldn’t change my opinion.
I’d spent too many years hearing Brayden’s point of view.
“I think what’s so hard is his father is out there. He didn’t go off to war or catch some terrible disease. He just stays away. Brayden’s convinced he’s the reason.” I stared at the twisted hearts on her dish towel and wondered if I’d said too much.
“Brayden’s very lucky to have someone who knows him so well,” she replied softly.
She pressed the dish towel flat on the table, smoothing out the creases. Her head nodded in agreement.
“His parents have done some unforgivable things. Leaving him like they have. God only knows where his mama is. She took the money and ran off.” She pursed her lips in disgust as she stared down at the table. She chased away an elusive crumb with her fingertips.
Those words were the most I’d ever heard anyone speak of his mother.
“But bitterness just clips your own feathers. Locks you up in a cage. My grandson is hell-bent on letting it keep himself a prisoner.” She sighed sadly. “The problem with not choosing forgiveness is you’re the one who’s trapped. You can’t forgive someone else’s mistakes, so you end up hurt and angry. And those both turn too easily into mistakes of your own.”
She fluttered a hand in the air, helpless and resigned.
“You kids are too young to understand that right now. Some life lessons ripen on the vine.”
“No, no. I know what you mean,” I said defensively.
Why did everyone constantly think I was too young to get stuff?
Grown-ups had a way of forgetting how much they’d understood before they got old and started telling the world they knew everything.
Pink Floyd and Jeep tires intruded on the heaviness of our conversation. Moments later, Brayden arrived at the kitchen door in a tsunami of dirt and sweat.
His baseball pants were covered in mud. His face remained red from recent exertion. The bottom edge of his hat looked damp. So did the wisps of dark brown hair that curled out beneath it.
“Oh hell, Soot. I’m a douchebag. I totally forgot you were coming over today.”
He clambered in, kicked his shoes off, and dropped his book bag on the floor. Walking by the table, he paused to drop a kiss on the top of Grams’s head and then mine. He headed straight for the fridge, jamming his head inside until he found the milk.
“I was late to practice, so Coach made me stay and drag the field by myself. It took freaking forever.”
He uncapped the half-gallon container and guzzled a quarter of it right from the jug before screwing it back on and slamming the door shut.
“It’s okay. I was just gonna go. I think I’m ready for the test tomorrow anyway. If I don’t know it by now—”
“No. Stay. I just have to grab a quick shower. Let’s work up in my room, so we can have some music.”
He wasn’t waiting for my answer; he’d already picked up his bag and headed for the stairs.
“Hey, Grams, can Ash stay for dinner?” he called back down once he was already halfway up.
I shook my head at her, embarrassed.
“Of course she can,” Grams called back. She lowered her voice and smiled at me. “You know you can’t pass up my lasagna, missy. Go up and tackle your homework, and I’ll get it in the oven. I’ll call your mama and tell her I’m feeding you, and Brayden will drive you home later.”
“Grams, are you trying to fatten me up?”
“Lord, child, if someone doesn’t feed you, you’ll waste away. Turning into a woman right quick now, but you’re still too skinny. We’ve gotta make you some curves for the boys to hold on to.”
I pulled out my notebook and flopped facedown across his bed, waiting for him to get done in the shower.
His comforter smelled like boy.
In a good way.
I might have been stupidly rubbing my cheek against it when he announced his return with a stinging swat on my backside.
“No falling asleep. We’ve got work to do. It’s gonna be my fault if you flunk this test tomorrow.”
“I’m not sleeping. Just resting my eyes to recover from a Grams-induced sugar coma.”
I rolled over onto my back and was greeted with an eyeful of Brayden. He stood by his dresser in a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else. They hung precariously low, showcasing the pay-per-view crease where his abdomen met his hipbones. He kept rubbing his wet hair with a towel, unfazed by his semi-pornographic display.
Unfazed did not describe my current state. I felt hot all over. Unfortunately, he noticed.
“I know I’m breathtaking but try not to stare.” He ran his free hand up and down his rippled abs with mock seduction.
“Gross. Get over yourself, Dallas. You might wanna up the weights a little next week. You’re getting soft around the middle.”
