Crushed (15 page)

They, like Scott, probably assume we’re together, but I don’t really give a fuck.

I tug Chloe into the house, in through the back door, then back out to the front yard, which is jam-packed with cars but blissfully free of people.

I release her hand and turn to face her. She’s already drunk a quarter of the margarita. Her tongue sneaks out, taking a little lick of salt, and I look away.

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” Her expression is all innocence.

“Don’t even. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to know you all too well. Where’s Devon? Your sister?”

She presses her lips together and glances around, avoiding my eyes. I move closer. “Chloe.”

“Devon went back to his parents’ house.”

“In the middle of a party?”

Finally her eyes come back to mine, and the panicked confusion on her face throws me a little off balance. “They broke up.”

Whoa.

I rub a hand over my face, feeling . . . something.

It’s not a surprise. Not after my conversation with Kristin yesterday, and especially not after my conversation with Devon today. I figured it was coming. Someday.

But not today.

Chloe isn’t ready for this.

“Who told you?” I ask.

She slurps at her margarita, and I reach out, taking it from her hands and having a sip myself. Partially because I need it, partially because she’s drinking way too fast.

“Neither. I heard it happen.”

“You eavesdropped.”

She shrugs. “Basically. My mom sent me on a rescue-Kristin mission, but when I got up to her room, they were fighting.”

I hand her back the margarita, feeling an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades that has me wanting to escape this fucked-up soap opera I’ve wandered into. The last thing I want to deal with is my half brother’s girl drama, and he definitely has some.

This is not why I’m here.

I’m here for . . .

My gaze lands on a troubled Chloe.

Fuck.

She looks both hopeful and completely lost. I hate that I know firsthand what she’s going through. When I learned that Ethan and Olivia had broken up, I felt a ripping sense of regret for my best friend, even as I felt that surge of selfish joy. For the first time in my life, Olivia was free to love someone other than Ethan.

And Olivia moved on. It just wasn’t to me.

I hate the thought of that happening to Chloe.

“I should go talk to my sister,” she says, her finger swiping a trail of salt from her glass before she licks it from her finger.

“Do you think she wants to talk to you?”

“Probably not. But she has to talk to someone. I need to be there for her.”

I’m 90 percent sure that Kristin wouldn’t be there for Chloe if the situation were reversed, but I don’t say a word. Chloe’s one of those obnoxiously good people. She’ll do the right thing even when it doesn’t make any sense.

“You can entertain yourself for a while?” she asks, handing me the mostly empty glass.

“Been doing it all day.”

“Oh, poor you,” she says, with a fake smile “Having to flirt with half the females here. Come on, you
know
that’s the only reason you tagged along.”

I toss back the rest of the watery drink. She doesn’t know the first thing about why I tagged along to this ridiculous party. And I have no intention of telling her.

“Okay, go preen, Beefcake. I’m going to go check on Kristin.”

But before she turns away, her eyes latch on to someone over my shoulder and she gives a quiet, under-the-breath groan. “Great,” she mutters, before her face breaks into another of those big smiles. This one, at least, is mostly genuine.

“Hi!” she says, her voice all enthusiastic warmth, as she pushes past me to go hug the newcomers.

I turn and see an older couple walking toward me. The woman is petite and blond with chin-length hair. She’s about the same age as most of my clients, but I don’t think she spends a lot of time in the gym. There’s a maternal softness about her that’s lacking in the rest of the cougar crowd. She hugs Chloe like she’s found her long-lost daughter. Must be yet another aunt.

I shift my gaze to the guy who’s looking at his wife and Chloe with a fond, indulgent expression.

The shock rocks me to my very core.

I know that face.

I’d spent hours on Google, trying to find every corporate bio, every fund-raising reference, every candid society photo.

He was the reason I came to Texas.

The reason I came to the party.

Tim Patterson.

Devon’s father.

My father.

I try to focus on what they’re saying. Mariana Patterson is laughingly explaining that their twenty-minute “catnap” turned into a three-hour siesta that had them nearly missing their own party.

Chloe laughs along with them, and I want to bark at her not to be fooled by their happy faces. I want Chloe to know that twenty-four years ago, this guy knocked up a married woman.
My mother.

Instead, I take the coward’s way, alternating between staring into the distance and staring at the man whose blood runs through my veins.

I’m not sure how much time passes . . . ten seconds? ten minutes? . . . before Chloe gestures me forward for introductions.

“Mr. and Mrs. Patterson, this is my friend Michael St. Claire. He works at the club, and since he just moved to Texas from New York, I insisted he tag along and see how we Texans do patriotic holidays.”

Mariana smiles warmly at me, shaking my hand, before Tim Patterson extends a hand. I force myself to take it. Force myself to meet his eyes, searching his face for recognition. Paternal intuition.
Anything
.

I see nothing.

Nothing but polite disinterest.

He gives me a bland, indifferent smile.

“My, you’re a long way from home!” his wife says. “What brought you all the way to Dallas?”

I can’t seem to bring myself to answer.

Chloe gives me and my awkward silence a strange look. I’d been making decent small talk all day.

But now, with these people, I can’t.

“I think it was us cowgirls,” Chloe says, with an exaggerated drawl. “They don’t have girls like us in Manhattan, right, baby?”

She pinches my butt. The Pattersons laugh, apparently used to her bald, inappropriate humor, but I can barely respond.

“Manhattan, huh? What neighborhood?” Tim asks. “I used to do a fair amount of business there in my younger years.

Yeah, I know exactly what kind of business you used to do. Other men’s wives.

“Upper East Side,” I manage to grind out.

He nods. “Classic New York.”

I say nothing in response. Chloe gives me an exasperated look, but the Pattersons barely seem to register or care that Chloe’s new friend is a conversational dud.

“Well, head on back, you’ve got to catch up on the margaritas,” Chloe says brightly, gesturing in the general direction of the bar in back.

“Oh, I’m always getting myself into trouble with those margaritas, aren’t I, Timmy?”

“Eh, what are holidays for?” he says with a wink. “We’ve only got a two-minute walk home.”

They start to move past, his wife pulling playfully at one of Chloe’s curls while Tim nods in my direction. “Welcome to Texas, son.”

Son
.

It’s just a phrase.

A harmless, patriarchal, old-school way of an older man addressing a younger one.

But the word rips through me, and I turn on my heel and barge through the front door of the Bellamys’ house, taking the stairs two at a time until I reach my temporary bedroom.

I shut the door.

I shut out the world.

Chapter 16

Chloe

Um, what the
hell
just happened?

Up until this point, I’ve been pretty impressed by Michael’s people skills. Sure, he is a little gruff, a bit scanty with words, but it’s obvious he knows his way around social niceties.

So why has he just gone bat-shit crazy on the Pattersons?

Devon’s parents turn to me in confusion after the three of us watch Michael turn and go into the house without a word of explanation.

I open my mouth, scanning my brain for an easy lie about what’s going on, only to realize . . . I’ve got nothing.

“Sorry,” I say, putting my hand on Mariana’s arm. “I better go see what’s going on.”

“Could be an upset stomach,” she says, with a kind smile.

“Yeah, maybe.”

They both smile politely as we head into the house, me toward the stairs and them toward the back.

“Oh, Chloe?”

I turn back to Devon’s mom.

“Have you talked to Devon lately? He’s been kind of on edge.”

It’s a harmless question, but for some reason it sort of pisses me off. Why not ask his
girlfriend
? Why am I always the one that’s expected to know what’s going on with Devon? It’s like I have all the burden of being in a relationship and none of the perks.

Then I remember . . . Devon doesn’t
have
a girlfriend.

Not anymore.

I’m guessing from their happily clueless expressions that he didn’t exactly go running to tell his parents the news.

And I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to drop that bomb. I’m pretty sure the Pattersons and my parents have Devon and Kristin’s wedding half-planned.

And honestly? None of this is my problem right now.

I need to get to Michael.

“I haven’t seen him,” I lie, giving them a little shrug.

“Okay, well, if you
do
see him . . .”

I pretend I don’t hear this as I take the stairs two at a time.

Michael’s door is closed. I knock.

No response.

I knock again. “I know you’re in there.”

Silence.

My hand goes to the doorknob. “I’m coming in, Beefcake. Unless you want me to ogle your muscles, you’d better not be naked.”

Still nothing. My wrist twists, prepared for the door to be locked, but it’s not—a clear reminder that Michael didn’t grow up with siblings, in which a locked door is the key to survival.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed. His back is to me, but the way he’s hunched forward, head in hands, says plenty about where he’s at.

Not in a good place.

But
why
?

“Michael?”

He doesn’t move a muscle. I enter the room uninvited, quietly shutting the door behind me. His window is open, and since the room faces the lake, there’s a not-so-quiet background hum of increasingly loud conversation (thank you, tequila).

But I don’t think he’s aware of any of this.

He looks . . . lost.

“Michael?” I say again.

Still no response, but he doesn’t tell me to get the hell out, which is what I’m expecting, and probably what I
deserve,
considering I’ve entered a sullen-man zone uninvited.

I pause a few feet from the bed, torn about my next move.

His silence tells me he wants to be left alone.

His tense shoulders tell me he
needs
a friend.

I move forward and sit beside him.

He doesn’t move, his head still in his hand, his fingers plowed through all that glorious dark hair.

Only when I put a hand on his back does he move. A violent little shake as though he’s unprepared—and unused—to being touched. At least in this way.

For a second I start to pull my hand back, but what the hell . . . I’ve come this far into the danger zone. Might as well go all the way.

My hand rubs his back in what I hope is a non-weird comforting manner. He doesn’t shrug me off, and after a few moments, the gesture feels strangely natural.

“So,” I say, my hand coming to rest in the middle of his back. A nice back. Hard. Muscled. No surprise there.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t respond to my prompt.

I decide to cut the crap. This is Michael. We’re friends. Kind of. And if your friends won’t call you out when you need it, who will?

“You kind of lost your shit out there,” I say, keeping my voice friendly.

“Yeah.”

I press my lips together in relief at the gruff word. It’s not much of a response, but at least I know he’s not going to start rocking back and forth all catatonic-like.

I move away from his back and clasp my hands in front of me, looking at my nails. Red and white stripes with blue tips.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond.

“You should talk about it,” I say, my voice more matter-of-fact this time. “You don’t want to be one of those cliché a-holes, do you? The kind that think it’s all manly to be pent up and angry when really nobody will want to marry you, ever.”

He makes a grunting noise, but I can’t tell if it’s a laugh, or a
fuck-off, Chloe.

I nudge my knee against his. “What if I take my cover-up off? Will you spill your guts to a curvy girl in a star-spangled bathing suit?”

For the first time since I’ve entered the room, Michael moves. Not much. He just turns his head slightly toward me until I see his profile. His face is unreadable, but I think—I hope—I see a tiny smile threatening.

I lean toward him a little, my voice going into a conspiratorial whisper. “Would it sweeten the deal if I sang something a little patriotic? Hmm? Ohhhhhh say can you SEEEEEE . . .”

“Stop.”

“By the dawn’s early light . . .”

He sits up all the way now, and he’s not quite smiling, but he looks . . . something.

I hook a finger into the neckline of my cover-up and give him a little eyebrow wiggle and a shimmy as though teasing with the wares beneath. “What so PROUDLY we hailed . . .”

He lets out a little laugh and flops backward onto the bed, putting his hand over his face, although he uncovers it just as quickly, staring at the ceiling. “You know if you keep this up, I’ll have to kick you out.”

“My voice is bee-YOO-tee-ful,” I say.

“Your voice is
loud
. And you promised bikini, but you’re not delivering.”

“Eh, it’s not that great,” I say with a wave over my body, kicking off my flip-flops, and pulling my knees up on the bed so I can face him fully.

He gives me a once-over. “It’s pretty damn great.”

I punch his leg. “Don’t even. If you’re going to try to change the subject, at least do it with something sincere.”