Crushed (22 page)

We’re standing shoulder to shoulder. “You know your cars.”

“Love ’em,” he says, circling. “Hey, don’t take this the wrong way, but how the hell does a bartender and sometimes tennis pro afford this?”

I shove my hands into my back pockets. It’s an opening I hadn’t counted on.

I take it.

“I come from money,” I say unabashedly.

He lifts his eyebrows. “Must come from a shit ton of it.”

I nod once. “Yep.”

He straightens a little, maybe noticing something in my tone. “So why the hell are you spending your days lugging around a ball machine and your nights serving Bud?”

I rub a thumb over a nonexistent smudge on the hood of the car. “Had a falling-out with my parents.”

“Ah. Must have been a real shit storm.”

Here we go.

I force myself to look the guy in the eyes. “I found out that my dad isn’t actually my dad.”

Devon runs a hand over his jaw. “Ah, okay. That’s fucking rough, dude.”

I shove my hands back in my pockets. “And you’re wondering why the hell I’m telling you this.”

He grins. “Guilty. I know we’ve talked a couple times, but—”

“I came to Texas to find my biological father,” I interrupt.

He breaks off. Says nothing.

I don’t say anything, either.

I just watch him.

He watches me, waiting for me to explain further.

I don’t.

Devon’s head tilts back just slightly. “And you’re telling me this because . . .”

I continue to hold his stare.

“No,” he says. The word is quiet. Firm.

I watch as he looks at me more carefully. Looking for similarities to his father—our father. Looking for similarities to
him.

“You’re fucked-up, St. Claire.”

I’m guessing the use of my last name is deliberate. I’m a St. Claire, not a Patterson.

Except I am. At least by blood.

And I can tell the second he realizes I’m not shitting around, because his face crumples for the slightest second before his features steel.

“My parents have been happily married for twenty-three years.”

“Good for them. I’m twenty-four today,” I snap.

Yup. This is a birthday for the books all right.

He closes his eyes for a second, then shakes his head. He’s just done the math. “Fuck!”

“Pretty much.”

His eyes are a little wild now. “Does my dad know?”

I shake my head.

“Why not?”

I lift a shoulder. “My mom was married when they met. According to her, she didn’t tell him she was pregnant. He went back to Texas; she went back to her marriage—”

“No, I mean why didn’t you tell him?” he interrupts.

For a half second, I want to tell him the truth. That I don’t think I can handle the rejection.

Instead, I settle for telling him half of the truth. “I wanted to tell you first.”

Devon lets out a derisive laugh. “Bullshit.”

“Maybe. Just thought if situations were reversed, I’d want a heads-up.”

He ignores this. “Are you going to tell him?”

I take a deep breath. “It’s the reason I came to Cedar Grove.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know.”

Devon moves toward me then, his eyes angry and hard. “Well, let me help you out with that decision.
Don’t
. I’m sorry your family’s all kinds of fucked-up. And, yeah, my parents didn’t meet until three months before I was conceived. Shotgun wedding and all that, but they’re
happy,
St. Claire.”

I inhale long and hard through my nostrils. I’d wondered about that. Wondered if Mrs. Patterson had been in the picture at the same time as my mom.

Apparently not.

I rock back on my heels and then turn back toward the bar. “I should be getting back inside.”

“I want your word,” Devon says, his hard tone stopping me. “Leave my family alone.”

The bitterness swells in my chest. I hadn’t been expecting a hug. Hadn’t held my breath for an invitation to family dinner. But the outright rejection sucks.

I shove it aside, letting it add to the growing ball of pain that feels like it’s slowly creeping into every one of my vital organs.

I nod at Devon and turn again.

“Hey, one more thing,” he calls.

I turn.

“Did you use Chloe to get to me?”

I scoff. “Like you care.”

“She’s my friend.”

“She’s your ego boost,” I say, my voice rising over his. “She’s there when you need her, discarded when you don’t.”

His eyes darken and he approaches until he’s a foot away. “I’ll ask again. Did you use Chloe Bellamy to get to me? To my family.”

“Yes,” I say unapologetically. “Kristin, too.”

His expression turns irate. “Are you fucking kidding me? You used my girlfriend to spy on me and my family? And one of my best friends?”

I give him a derisive look. “I was right, wasn’t I? Turns out I was smart to use Kristin
and
Chloe. God knows you’re hot for both of them.”

When Devon Patterson’s fist collides with my jaw, I’m not even surprised.

I fucking deserve it.

Chapter 24

Chloe

The Monday after the disastrous date-not-date at Pig and Scout, I stand on Michael’s front porch.

“Michael, I know you’re in there!”

I bang on the beat-up wooden door that leads down into what looks like a freaking bomb shelter.

No response.

I knock again. “I’m not leaving. You know how persistent I can be.”

The door swings open and I nearly fall in. “You’re not persistent,” he says, even before I get my balance. “If you were, you’d be able to put in more than five minutes on the treadmill.”

I recover and look him over. He looks . . . good.

Except for the bruising around his jaw.

I jab a finger into his chest. “You don’t get to even
mention
the gym to me today,” I say. “
You
didn’t show up.”

“I called in sick.”

“With what, bruised ego?” I ask, shoving past him.

“Come on in,” he mutters.

I take in Michael’s home. Except for a door in the corner, presumably leading to a bathroom, it’s nothing but one big room, an oversized studio apartment.

There’s a kitchen in the back left corner that’s surprisingly modern, a bed against the right-hand wall that’s unsurprisingly enormous (and unmade), and then a random smattering of other furniture that absolutely does not go together.

“Who’s your decorator?” I ask.

He heads to the kitchen and picks up a bowl and whisk. “Want any eggs?”

“Sure!” I say.

He rolls his eyes, no doubt having expected me to politely decline.

He cracks two more eggs into the bowl before whisking them with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Cheese?” he asks.

“Always,” I say, seating myself at the tiny, two-chaired kitchen table.

“So,” I say, as he puts a small pad of butter into a skillet. The personal trainer uses butter. Who knew?

“So,” he echoes.

“Sorry I was a bitch at the bar the other night,” I say, running a finger over one of the million scratches in the beat-up table.

He glances over his shoulder before turning back to the stove and dumping the eggs into the pan. “It’s fine.”

I smile. “Just like that? We made up?”

He shrugs. “So you were a pain in the ass. I’m used to it.”

I smile and go to his fridge. I pull out some orange juice. “Can I have some?”

“Sure. Check the date.”

I do, and it’s fine, so I pour myself a glass. I pour him one, too, even though he didn’t ask.

I hold it out to him, and he glances down at it for several seconds before taking it. His fingers brush mine, but I refuse to be titillated.

“So how’d things go with Carly?” he asks.

I take a sip of the juice. “Oh, you mean the Jillian Michaels wannabe who you got to cover for you?”

“Yup.”

“She’s scary,” I say.

He glances over at me, his eyes raking up and down my body.
Again,
I refuse to be titillated. It’s getting harder.

“You don’t look like she worked you all that hard,” he observes.

“She didn’t work me at all.” I take another sip of juice. “She told me you’d called in sick, and I told her I had lady cramps and had to go.”

He grunts. “And I’m sure she told you that exercise can help with that.”

“She did. And I told her that Midol worked better.”

He shakes his head.

“And actually, it’s not even my lady-flow time,” I say, ignoring his wince. “But no way was I going to sweat in front of that overly toned monster.”

“Carly’s a good trainer,” he says, picking up a block of cheese and grating a little into the egg mixture.

“We had a deal, Beefcake.”

He runs a spatula through the eggs and ignores me.

“Devon called me last night,” I say, watching his profile.

“Yeah? He propose marriage?”

My eyes lock on the bruising around his chin. “He told me what happened.”

Michael says nothing, letting the eggs cook a bit more before flicking off the burner, pulling down two plates, and unceremoniously dumping the eggs onto them.

He shoves one of the plates at me and then picks up some salt and pepper shakers with his free hand. “Grab a couple paper towels, would you? Sorry, no linen napkins.”

I do as he says then join him at the table. I notice that he puts his paper towel in his lap as he shakes pepper onto his eggs. It’s weird to know that such pretty manners lie beneath the angry, tough-guy persona.

“Michael.”

“Don’t, Chloe,” he says, his voice lacking heat. “I never should have told you about my family shit in the first place. And I appreciate that you were there for me on the Fourth, but I’m putting it behind me.”

I take a tentative bite of eggs. They’re good. I take a bigger bite. “What do you mean, putting it behind you? It’s your
family
. You don’t get to just walk away.”

His brown eyes lift to mine, and my heart tears a little at the forced emptiness I see there. “The Pattersons are not my family.”

I fiddle with my fork. “So you’re going to go back to New York then? Be a St. Claire?”

“Nope.”

I sigh. “Meaning . . . ?”

He takes a sip of my orange juice since he left his own glass over by the stove. “Meaning, Mike St. Claire, Sr., is an asshole. My mother is weak and a liar. Tim Patterson doesn’t know I exist. And the only thing your precious Devon had to say about it all was a right hook.”

“Well, that’s kind of brotherly, right?” I say, trying to make him smile. “Aren’t punches a way of male bonding?”

He glares.

I tilt my head. “What did you say to piss him off, anyway?”

He goes back to his eggs. “What did he tell you?”

I take another bite of my eggs. Chew. Add some salt and pepper. “He told me to stay away from you.”

His arm pauses, although he doesn’t look up. “And yet here you are.”

“And yet here I am,” I say, leaning back in my chair to study him.

“Unfortunately.”

The word is meant to sting, but I don’t let it, because here’s the weird thing: I’m starting to
know
this guy. I don’t know if it’s as a friend, or as the girl who begged him to take her like he was a common prostitute, but it’s like I
get
him. And instinct tells me he shouldn’t be alone. Doesn’t want to be alone. Not really.

I finish my eggs and then reach for his empty plate and stand up.

“You don’t have to clean.”

I ignore him again, moving to the sink and rinsing both plates before putting them and our forks in the dishwasher. I turn around, hips to the counter as I cross my arms and study him. “You quitting your job at the country club?”

“Nope.”

“So this is really just a ‘sick’ day?” I put the word in air quotes.

He puts his elbows on the table and plows his fingers through his hair. “I just . . . I couldn’t today, okay? I’ll be there Wednesday. And Friday. And every day until my contract’s up at the end of the summer.”

“Then what?”

He doesn’t lift his head. “Dunno.”

“Gosh, that’s brave of you.”

This time he shoots me a look over his shoulder. An angry one. “Says the girl who’s taking the really
brave
route of going to finish her fourth year at a cushy college? You’re not exactly living on the edge.”

“Hey!” I point a warning finger at him. “
I
know what I want, and I’m going after it. You don’t even have the courage to
think
about what you want.”

He stands and starts moving toward me. Then he crosses his arms, mirroring my stance. “I thought you wanted Devon.”

I blink. “I do.”

“But you just claimed that you go after what you want.”

“I do,” I say again.

He leans in, his face inches from mine, his voice rough. “Then why are you here?”

My breathing increases just a little at the intensity on his face. “Because we’re friends.”

Michael makes a growling noise. “So you get a call from the guy you’ve been obsessed with for a decade, he tells you to stay away from his evil half brother, and yet you go running straight to the enemy?”

I lick my lips. He’s right. Put that way it sounds . . . confusing.

“So let me ask you again, Chloe. Why are you here?”

The question echoes my question of Devon the other night, and the parallel disturbs me. Makes me wonder if I’m not just as clueless as Devon.

But as confused as I may be, I refuse to be spineless. There’s enough of that going around on the male side of the house.

I straighten my shoulders and meet Michael’s eyes. “I’m here because I
care
. I don’t know why, because you’re an ass. And I don’t know why I came when Devon told me not to, but maybe it’s because I knew somehow that you needed me more—”

“No.” His voice is harsh. Angry. “I don’t
need
you, Chloe. I don’t need anyone.”

I pride myself on being a patient person. Really, I do. But this flippant rejection of friendship? This is quite enough.

“Fine,” I snap, uncrossing my arms to shove at his chest. “That’s fine, Michael. You stay here in your hovel, with your anger and your secret tattoos, hating those who hurt you, and hating the ones that want to help you even more. Go crazy with all that hate. And you know? I think I
will
see if Carly’s available to take over my personal training sessions. All of them. I’m done with you.
Done.
”