Ginger's Heart (a modern fairytale) (3 page)

“We’ll run up and git you some!”

“No, thanks,” he said quickly, turning away.

“You can’t just
leave
!”

Suddenly, Ginger’s fingers were hot and tight on his skin, digging into the flesh of his arm, and Cain’s mind flew to the gutter with such speed, it almost made him dizzy. Those same fingers clutching the back of his neck . . . clutching at his chest . . . clutching at his—

No.

No, no, no.

Not the princess.

Absolutely not.

Besides, his cousin had already staked a claim.

Cain yanked his arm away.

“Am I missin’ somethin’ here?” His heart beat like crazy as he stared down at her lovely face. “Hell, yes, I’m leavin’. I got plans.”

Her eyes, fiery and wild and practically begging him to stay, had never affected him before today, but now they made his insides flare with heat. She looked at him like he mattered, like she needed him, like all the happiness in her world was somehow bound to him, and it made a fierce longing, like he’d never experienced before, spring up within him.

Barely aware of his cousin clearing his throat meaningfully behind her, Cain’s eyes drifted to Ginger’s pink lips before he locked his gaze with hers.

Just a taste. One little taste won’t hurt anything.

“But before I go, since you’re such a
young lady
now, Miss Virginia, I guess I could give you a birthday kiss, huh?”

Shutting out every objection, he took a step toward her, drowning in the warm bourbon color of her eyes. Reaching up, he placed his hand—his rough, unworthy hand—against the soft skin of her cheek to steady her face and leaned toward her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she tilted her chin up. Her lips, full and lightly parted, beckoned him, but at the very last moment, common sense screamed
NO NO NO
so loudly, he changed course abruptly, letting his lips land safely on her other cheek instead.

He closed his eyes and rested there for a moment, his lips pressed against her sweet, sweet skin, his heart racing, his breath held painfully in his chest.

Finally he drew away, but his voice was hoarse in his ears as he whispered, “Happy birthday, lionhearted l’il gal.”

Then, before he could think better of it, and because he had zero interest in resting his thoughts on the confusing things happening in his body, head, and heart, he dropped his hand and walked away.

***

“You’re such a jerk, Cain Wolfram!” called Mary-Louise Walker, in a serious snit as Cain rounded the corner of the massive distillery and started across the high grass toward her.

Gesturing with her cigarette and wearing a frown, she sat on the low wall of an old stone gazebo in the Glenn River Distillery complex, which had been abandoned more than thirty years ago. It was against the law to trespass on the property, but every kid in Apple Valley knew a hundred ways to get in. Hell, Cain and Woodman had been exploring the bones of the old place since they were old enough to ride bikes.

“Why’m I a jerk, now, honey?” he asked, his cock stiffening as he got a closer look at her skin-tight jeans and even tighter white sweater.

She took a long drag on her cigarette and glared at him. “You said four. It’s almost five now, and it’s supercreepy here when the sun goes down. I shouldn’t’ve waited for you!”

“But you did, darlin’,” he drawled, giving her his sexiest grin as he made his way through the last of the overgrowth that separated them. Without asking her permission, he put his hands under her arms and pulled her up on her feet, jerking her against his chest.

She pouted prettily, arching her back so that her breasts pushed into him. “I’m a senior, you know.”

“The hottest one at school.”

She ignored this, taking another drag of her cigarette and exhaling over his shoulder. “And you’re only a sophomore, Cain.”

“Think of everythin’ you’re teachin’ me, sugar. You’re the best teacher I ever met, and I’m aimin’ to get straight A’s.”

“Maybe I should just make you walk me home,” she said as she dropped her cigarette to the ground and squished it with the toe of her dirty gray sneaker. “’Cause now I ain’t sure if I want to continue our . . . lessons.”

“Aw, c’mon, baby,” he cajoled, pushing her sweater away to bare her shoulder and press his lips to her warm skin. “Educate me. I’m beggin’ you.”

“Tell me where you were first,” she said, but her voice was gentler now, and she looped her arms around his neck, wanting more.

“Over at McHuid’s,” he murmured. He bit her gently, his teeth nabbing a pinch of her skin and holding for a moment before letting it go. She moaned softly, more and more like Jell-O in his arms.

“Didn’t know you moved in such—” Cain released her waist with one hand and slid his palm under her sweater, under her thin cotton bra, resting his bare hand against the fullness of her naked breast. “Mm! Cain!—in, um, such distinguished circles.”

Her nipple pebbled between his thumb and forefinger as he bit down on her shoulder again, then soothed her skin by licking and blowing, all the while rolling the stiff, hot nub between his digits. “Wasn’t invited to the festivities. Only went to see . . .”

“See who?” she asked in a breathy, distracted voice, her head falling back as he continued to tease her.

“The Prin—uh, my cousin.”

His second hand followed the first, burrowing under her sweater, under her bra, his palm covering the lush flesh of her other breast. Mary-Louise reached down for the hem of her sweater and flipped it over her head before reaching around to unlatch her bra in the front. She squared her shoulders and dropped her arms, and Cain watched the flimsy fabric slip down her arms, leaving her completely bare from the waist up.

He dropped his eyes to the hot fuckin’ sight of his hands on her breasts. In the dim light of the setting sun, the tall grass turned a golden lavender, and Mary-Louise moaned her approval as he plumped one breast in readiness for his mouth.

“Your cousin. W-Woodman,” she sighed.

“Uh-huh,” said Cain, bending his head to suck one bright pink bud between his lips. Mary-Louise arched against him, moaning with pleasure, and his cock, already as stiff as the stone of the gazebo, twitched eagerly behind his zipper.

“Ain’t surprised . . . the banker’s kid . . . was invited,” said Mary-Louise between gasps of pleasure. “Wasn’t it . . . wasn’t it the, uh, the little girl’s birthday today? Poor . . . little thing.”

Cain flinched, and his teeth grazed her nipple a touch more roughly than he’d intended. Mary-Louise cried out in pleasure, digging her fingers into Cain’s hair and raking his scalp with her sharp nails.

Part of the reason Magnolia McHuid had been so pissed about Ginger’s broken arm on her sixth birthday was that Ginger had only just recovered from major surgery to fix her heart. Because the McHuids were as close to royalty as anyone could find in Glenndale County, everybody had known about Ginger’s broken heart, and few, including Mary-Louise Walker, who had zero personal connection to the McHuids, had forgotten.

“That was a long time ago,” he said.

“Ain’t seen that l’il gal in an . . . age. They still . . . homeschool her, right?”

He wanted to yell at Mary-Louise to stop fucking talking about the princess because now a picture of Ginger’s pretty face was firmly lodged in Cain’s head. Thoughts of her fingers entwined with Woodman’s made his eyes narrow. And thoughts of his own lips so recently pressed against Ginger’s sweet skin made an unexpected flash of guilt steal his breath as he thought about where his lips were now: suckling at Mary-Louise’s nicotine-scented tits.

He huffed in frustration, sliding his hands from Mary-Louise’s breasts and panting raggedly as his palms skimmed her sides, finally resting on her waist.

“Aw, honey,” said Mary-Louise, mistaking his abrupt halt for concern and reaching for his face. Her eyes were soft as she licked her lips. “You’re sweet, worryin’ about that kid.”

“Ain’t worried about her,” he muttered, clenching his jaw, trying to resist the memory of Ginger’s little breasts pushed up against her sweet yellow and white dress as Mary-Louise stepped closer to rub her naked tits against his T-shirt. “Her heart ain’t broken no more. They fixed it. Probably stronger’n yours or mine now.”

“Ain’t no shame in carin’ ’bout someone, Cain,” said Mary-Louise in a meaningful tone as she reached for his belt buckle and dispatched it with practiced finesse. “In fact, I think it’s awful sweet.”

His button and zipper came next. Hooking her thumbs into his jeans and boxers, she yanked them down as she dropped to her knees before him. And not a moment later, all thoughts of Princess Ginger were banished from his dirty mind.

~ Woodman ~

Two things fought for Woodman’s attention as he watched his cousin swagger away toward the old distillery, leaving him and Ginger behind despite her pleas for him to stay.

The first? Mary-Louise Walker was only “sweeter’n cake” if that cake had been licked by every member of the Apple Valley High School football team. Multiple times.

The second? It bothered Woodman to hell and back that Ginger had chosen not to jump this year, but it bothered him even more to watch her face fall as Cain walked away.

Damn it, but it had
always
been like this.

Cain was like a twister, wreaking havoc everywhere he went, without a care in the world, while Woodman stayed behind to clean up the wreckage.

After fifteen years, he was getting sick of it.

Turning his glance from his dickhead cousin’s retreating form, he looked at Ginger, placing his hand on the small of her back in a lame attempt to comfort her.

“Don’t fuss over him,” he said, his anger toward his cousin mounting as Cain walked farther away. “He’s always been a jackass, Gin.”

“He isn’t!” Ginger cried, flashing angry eyes at him.

And there was this, too. Every woman in the world—or at least at Apple Valley High School—was always so danged eager to defend him, like he was some wayward foundling angel who could do no wrong, even as he carelessly broke their hearts.

He saw the way women of all ages looked at his cousin, with a mixture of enchantment and hope, wondering if Cain would give them one of his megawatt smiles before swaggering away. Ginger was no different, and he hated it fiercely that she seemed so taken with Cain lately. He wanted her flashing eyes to look at him the way she looked at his cousin. To grab
his
arm and beg
him
to stay. To moan “oh” to his retreating form, like she wished she could keep him in her pocket and never let him go.

Patience, Woodman. Be patient
, he reminded himself.
Slow and steady wins the race. And Cain ain’t one to be kept in a pocket anyhow.

Still, some part of him couldn’t help being annoyed. Cain had just left despite her pleas. Woodman was still standing here beside her, and she didn’t even seem to notice, didn’t seem to care.

“He’s your cousin,” she said, her voice softer, her eyes filled with tears.

Damn Cain to hell and back for putting those tears there. And on her birthday, too.

“And don’t I know it,” he said, looking away at the speck in the distance that was his troublesome cousin.

As he watched Cain’s retreat, he felt some of the anger leave his body. If he took Ginger’s feelings out of the equation, he had to ask himself: what exactly was Cain supposed to do? Linger at the barn until he or Ginger could break away with a slice of cake like they used to, when he was little? Waste his whole afternoon on the outskirts of a party he wasn’t invited to while Woodman and Ginger enjoyed the refreshments and music up at the main house?

It embarrassed Woodman that Miz Magnolia hadn’t invited his Uncle Klaus, Aunt Sarah, and Cain to Ginger’s party. Uncle Klaus and Ranger McHuid were about as chummy as two men could get, but when it came to rolling out the red carpet, the Wolframs had been left off the list for years now. It bothered Woodman’s mother, Sophie, to see her twin sister slighted, though, he thought acidly, it didn’t keep her from attending and enjoying the McHuids’ many parties either.

And it bothered Woodman, who thought of his cousin as more like a brother despite his irritating behavior, that Cain was always left out.

But if Woodman was honest, he would admit that seeing
Ginger
upset dwarfed all other thoughts or concerns in his life. What Woodman wanted—more than anything else in the entire world—was to make Ginger McHuid happy.

He’d been there the day her heart had gone haywire, seven years ago. He’d been giving her a piggyback ride around her living room after an Easter egg hunt when she suddenly said she didn’t feel good. Helping her slide down his back onto the couch, he turned to find her slumped against the cushions, her eyes rolled back, her body limp. He’d touched her cheek to find it cold despite a deep flush of red, and he could see the terrifyingly rapid flutter of her pulse in her neck.

“Miz Magnolia!” he’d screamed toward the dining room, cupping his trembling, clammy hands over his mouth. “Somethin’s wrong with Ginger!”

An ambulance was called, and later that evening five-year-old Ginger was airlifted from Central Baptist Hospital in Lexington, Kentucky, to the Vanderbilt Medical Center in Tennessee, where there was a doctor who specialized in pediatric heart surgery.

She was diagnosed with SVT and underwent a catheter ablation procedure to permanently eliminate the dangerous racing of her heart. After a week at Vandy, she was discharged, and Woodman was waiting on the front porch of McHuid Manor the day she came home.

As soon as she exited the car that day, Miz Magnolia pulled Woodman into her Chanel-scented embrace and kissed the top of his head over and over again, blessing him for being “my baby’s very own guardian angel” and thanking him for saving Ginger’s life. Exiting the car behind her mother, Ginger beamed up at him like he hung the moon and all the stars, and from that moment on, Woodman had made it his personal mission to protect, love, and serve Miss Virginia Laire McHuid.

Their parents were best friends, so Woodman checked up on her at every family dinner and party, celebrating Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter with the McHuids and spending lazy summer afternoons at barbecues together. Miz Magnolia heartily approved of his affection for her daughter, and throughout his childhood, Woodman had preened whenever he overheard her say to one of his parents, “God blessed this family when he gave our Ginger your Josiah.” He was her protector, her watchdog, the big brother she’d never had.

But recently, so
very
recently, Woodman’s feelings for Ginger had taken a turn. Not that he loved her any less than he always had, but he started loving her . . . differently. Not so much as a brother loves a sister, but more how a boy loves a girl.

And yes, he knew she was only twelve and he was barely fifteen, and no, of course he wouldn’t do anything about his feelings until she was ready to return them, but he couldn’t help the way he felt. He couldn’t help it that he wished Ginger would stop seeing him as a big brother figure and look at him with the same yearning she reserved for Cain.

She frowned up at him now and said, “He’s gonna catch somethin’ nasty from Big Tits Walker.”

Huh. He’d been careful, as a boy three years older than Ginger, not to use vulgar language around her, but apparently she’d picked up a few choice words from someone else. And he had to admit, hearing something so sexual and naughty escape from her sweet lips was a little bit of a turn-on.

He chuckled softly. “I guess that’s possible.”

She turned back to watch Cain go, and Woodman felt his fleeting smile fall.

“You should go after him and . . . and, I don’t know, ask him to go for a joyride on Daddy’s tractor or—”

God damn it! No! We don’t need him, Gin! We got all we need right here, just bein’ alone together!

“I’m
not
goin’ after him,” he said firmly, reaching for her hand with the practiced ease of someone who’d been reaching for her hand all his life, and led her back toward the party. “First off, wouldn’t do any good. You know Cain as well as I do. He’s goin’ where he’s goin’, and nothin’s goin’ to get in his way but God or weather.”

Now, she had just made a fairly sexual observation about Mary-Louise Walker’s bosoms, hadn’t she? What if he employed the same crude style of sexual observation? Would it be okay or make things awkward between them? “Second? Pardon me, Gin, but I’m not cockblockin’ my only cousin. He might be a jackass, but that don’t mean I don’t love him.”

When she didn’t flinch at the crassness of the word he’d chosen, he realized that they’d just a cleared a new level of communication in their relationship that now included observations of a sexual nature, and a tremor of sweet awareness made his heart thrum. “And third? Your momma’s fixin’ to bring out the cake any minute, and there’ll be hell to pay if you’re not there to blow out twelve pretty candles.”

She walked beside him, but Woodman still felt her pull to the road, to follow Cain, wherever he was going.

“Christ! You’re so quiet. Quit fussin’ over Cain!” he said, feeling impatient. Instantly regretting the sharpness of his tone, he gentled his voice and added, “It’s your birthday, and I still haven’t given you your present yet.”

“You got me somethin’?” she asked, finally turning to him, her voice considerably warmer for the first time since Cain had left them.

“Course!” he said, grinning down at her. “You’re twelve. Hell, next year you’ll be a teenager, Gin, and then . . .”

“And then?”

. . . and when you’re a teenager like me, maybe you’ll let me take you to the junior prom, or let me be your first kiss, and—please God—let me be your first everything else, too.

Carried away by the thoughts in his head, he abruptly stopped walking and cast his eyes down so she wouldn’t see the longing there.

“And then you’ll be . . . well . . .”

“Woodman?” she prompted, the edge of a held-back giggle in her voice.

He looked up at her, at her smiling brown eyes and wide smile
.

I love you,
he thought, his fifteen-year-old heart threatening to beat out of his chest.
I love you so much, Gin.

“Nothin’.”

“You’re actin’ weird,” she said with a light smile, smacking him on the arm. Her eyes twinkled with anticipation. “Now, ’bout this present . . .”

The little pink velvet pouch had been burning a hole in his pocket all afternoon. Fishing it out of his starched khakis, he offered it to her on his outspread palm.

“What is it?” she demanded, reaching for it with an excited giggle.

“Open it and see.”

She pulled the drawstring and opened her hand to catch whatever was inside, sighing “Ohhh!” as a silver charm bracelet caught the setting sun behind them and made the shiny metal sparkle in her palm.

Woodman lifted his gaze quickly to her face, watching with undiluted pleasure as her lips turned up into a surprised smile. She flashed happy eyes at him. “It’s just darlin’!”

His heart thrilled. “You like it, Gin?”

“I love it!” she said, surprising him by throwing her arms around his neck.

Woodman sucked in a surprised breath and held it while the world stood still.

While holding hands was run-of-the-mill for him and Ginger, full-body contact was not. He had noticed her breasts this summer—small and rounded beneath her T-shirts and Sunday dresses, but now, pressed flush against him, he couldn’t help his body’s reaction to her. It took all his self-control not to drop his lips to her bare shoulder and rest them there, as he silently prayed that his johnson wouldn’t stiffen so much that it poked her in the tummy.

But even the prospect of that mortifying brand of humiliation wasn’t enough for him to consider letting her go. Exhaling in a soft hiss, he wrapped his arms around her tightly and leaned his head down to whisper in her ear, “I wanted you to have somethin’ special.”

As if on cue, the banjo picker on top of the hill at the party finished a bluegrass lullaby and started playing “Sweet Virginia.”

Woodman’s eyes fluttered closed as he held her, this child–woman whom he had loved for as long as he could remember, on whom he’d staked a claim today, letting Cain know—in no uncertain terms—that Ginger was his. Their hearts pressed against each other’s, and Woodman imagined them recognizing each other, silently communicating, agreeing to beat together. Reaching up, he smoothed his hand over her light blonde hair and sighed, trying to memorize how it felt to hold his girl in his arms.

Without warning, Ginger stepped away from him, and though he wished he could see her expression—to know if she was as affected by their embrace as he was—she kept her eyes down, staring at the bracelet in her hand.

“What all’s on it?” she asked, her voice a little shaky.

Despite his prayers, his body hadn’t entirely listened, and Woodman needed a moment to recover from having her so close. He hoped to God she wouldn’t look at the slight bulge in his crotch as he cleared his throat.

“Uh, um, well, a little barn there . . . to remind you of the annual jump. And, uh, an apple. For Apple Valley. That there’s a little banjo, ’cause your pickin’ sure is gettin’ good. I thought that little silver horse looked like Heath. And then there’s . . . a, um…”

His face flushed with heat as he looked at the last charm.

He’d chosen the other four quickly—a barn, an apple, a banjo, and a horse—all important parts of Ginger’s life. But was
he
? He knew he was a friend to her—a brother figure, too. But could he be important in her life in a different way than he’d always been before?

“A heart,” she said, looking up at him, her brown eyes deep and searching. “Yours or mine?”