Stalk (Hotblooded Book 1) Page 18

He grinned. “Well, I’m not a gourmet. The only French thing I can cook is French fries. But I can throw some stuff in a skillet and have it come out edible.”

  “Good enough for me. You got some dry clothes I can put on?”

  He gave her a pair of cotton boxers and a Harley tee shirt. Both swallowed her, but he found a safety pin to help hold the boxers in place. Half an hour later they sat down to a Hamburger Helper pasta mix with a few green peppers and carrots thrown in.

  “This looks like a mess, but it’s yummy.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes twinkled at the compliment. “Well, it’s not special or anything.”

  “It is special.” She smiled. “It’s my birthday dinner.”

  His jaw went slack. “This is your birthday?”

  “Yep. I’m a Gemini baby. Sign of the twins.”

  “Why didn’t you say somethin’ earlier? I would have planned… I don’t know. Somethin’ else.”

  “Why? This was the best birthday ever. I did things I’ve never done before. I rode on a motorcycle. And not just any motorcycle, a big bad black work of art.” He grinned. “I swam in something that’s not a pool or an ocean. I got river mud between my toes. Okay. That part was kind of, ew, but it was still a new experience.”

  He laughed at the way she scrunched up her nose.

  “That’s all good, babe, but what about cake? And a wish candle? More important, why didn’t your dad have a plan?”

  She shrugged and looked away for a second. “He forgets more often than not. Since my mom died, and since I didn’t have birthdays during the school year, there was nobody around to make a big deal out of it. So, you know, it’s not a big deal.” She paused. “Plus…” She made circles in the air with a finger pointed at Brant. “I got beefcake.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  Ignoring her attempt at humor, he said, “It is a big deal.” After a few seconds he got up and started looking through drawers and cabinets. He found a candle in a holder fashioned from recycled iron, and a lighter. He pulled a piece of paper out of a little spiral notebook, scribbled something quickly, and folded it up.

  Moving her plate aside, he set the candle in front of her and said, “I don’t have a good singin’ voice, but happy birthday. Make a wish for what you want more than anything.”

  Her eyes searched his for a few moments until they grew bright with unshed tears. When her eyelids closed slowly, it forced a single tear down her cheek. She opened her eyes, blew out the candle, and then swiped at the stray tear, trying to make light of the incident and cover with quiet self-deprecating laughter.

  “Hey,” he said. She felt the timbre of that one word, as he pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. He reveled in the feel of her relaxed warmth and braless body. “Your wish makes you sad?”

  “No. Well, yes. It’s just… you know I can’t tell or it won’t come true.” She dropped her head back so she could look up into his face. “When’s your birthday?”

  “October. The first.”

  “Fall. My favorite time of year. At least it is in New England. There’s always this one day when you get up and look outside and, somehow, the shadows look different and you go, ‘It’s here!’.”

  Brant ran his thumb over her cheek. “You a poet, Garland?”

  She smiled. “We’re all poets in our own way.”

  “Maybe.”

  He handed her the piece of folded paper.

  “What’s this?” She looked as excited as if it was a diamond necklace.

  She quickly unfolded the paper and read…

  Happy Birthday, Beautiful. This coupon is good for one night on the town. On me. - B.F.

  She gave him a sweet kiss that went on forever. “Thank you. And I have it in writing that you’re taking me out again.”

  “Every chance I get.”

  She placed a kiss on his bare chest as she slid both hands into the rear pockets of his jeans and gave a suggestive little squeeze.

  “You comin’ on to me?” He looked down through hooded eyes, but she didn’t miss the twitch of the corners of his mouth.

  “What makes you think that?” she said as one of her hands casually drifted around to the copper buttons on the front of his jeans.

  CHAPTER 5

  The days of summer went by faster than Garland would have imagined possible. When she’d gotten on the plane for Texas, eleven weeks had seemed like an eternity, but after Brant entered the picture, she found herself wishing it was eleven years. Or eleven decades.

  Whenever an errant thought like that surfaced, she shoved it down hard and focused on something else. Anything else.

  When her father wanted to give small dinner parties at the villa to entertain business contacts, he had Garland stand in for a wife with menu planning, table arranging, and, of course, charm. Occasionally he also “asked” her to join golf outings. She suspected that he liked to show off the fact that she was a damn decent golfer. She liked golf and wouldn’t have minded so much if it wasn’t for the fact that temps were hitting triple digits every day.

  As Brant told her, people who weren’t born and bred to heat had a hard time acclimating.

  She spent every available minute she could with Brant, which meant anytime he was off work and her father hadn’t put in a demand for her time and talents.

  Brant spent his days looking forward to seeing Garland at night. He was teaching her how to cook simple stuff, which was more fun than he would have thought. From his point of view, Garland made things fun just by being present.

  She never spent the night, but the time they had together was good. Whenever Brant thought about the probability that the end of summer meant the end of Garland, he had difficulty breathing.

  One night in late July he made good on his birthday promise of a night out. There was a particular band that he wanted to share with his girl.

  She arrived in a red sundress pretty enough to wear to a cocktail party. She parked next to the Camaro and noticed that it was shined to sparkling perfection.

  Brant saw her from the window and walked out to greet her wearing his sexy smile, a black AC/DC tee shirt he’d gotten at a concert in San Antonio the year before, and black jeans. Garland thought he looked perfectly scrumptious, and would have been okay with skipping birthday night.

  “You look gorgeous.”

  “That’s my line,” he said as he drew her into his arms.

  “You’ll be sorry if you kiss me. This dress-matching lipstick will give you a permanent case of punch mouth.”

  “Hard choice. The lady or punch mouth.” She smirked. “I’m thinking you wearin’ that could be a spankable offense.”

  “Not unless you want that to be the last time you touch me.”

  “Uh oh. Hit a nerve. Let’s get back to kiss talk.”

  “Tell you what. Give me drinks and feed me. I won’t reapply, which means that after dinner I’m all yours.”

  “Likin’ the sound of that better.”

  “So where are we going?”

  “Your coach awaits.” He gestured toward the Camaro.

  “I’m thanking the birthday gods that you don’t expect me to ride the hog in this dress.”

  “No, baby. The only hog I expect you to ride in that dress…” She stopped him in mid-sentence by slapping at his stomach. ”Ow.”

  She laughed. “Do not pretend that hurt, Mr. Steel Body.”

  “Garland, you say the damndest things.”

  He shut the door after she’d tucked her skirt in.

  “So where did you say we’re going?”

  As he pulled out he glanced back and forth between the road ahead and his beautiful passenger.

  “There’s a historic hotel downtown, The Driskill. It’s got a grill and it’s only a couple of blocks from the best live music in the world.”

  “Nice. So what makes it the best music in the world?”

  “This is where the innovators come to be heard before they either make it or get broken to bits by suit-wearing accountants
who don’t know the first or last thing about music.”

  Brant spent a big part of dinner entertaining Garland with tales of colorful events that happened in the hotel.

  She laughed. “Do you believe this stuff?”

  He smiled. “Just because it’s folklore doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  She sat back. “Whew. I’m stuffed.”

  “Too bad.”

  “What do you mean, too bad?”

  “You’re about to find out.”

  Right on cue, the waiter set a plate in front of her with the biggest piece of fudge cake she’d ever seen. In the middle was one red candle, which he lit, saying, “We hope you enjoy your birthday, Ms. St. Germaine. It’s been a privilege to have you as our guest for your special occasion.”

  “Thank you,” she told him, cutting her eyes to Brant.

  “Happy birthday, baby. You don’t have to make another wish if you don’t want to, but if you have one that makes you happy when you think about it…”

  She blew out the candle without taking her eyes away from Brant and gifted him with her most radiant smile, the one that made his heart swell so big it felt like it would break his ribs.

  Brant took her hand as they left the restaurant, making their way across the lobby to the door that led out to the street. Garland’s eyes were sparkling with that special light he treasured, when Brant heard someone behind them call her name. She froze, stopped walking, and her grip bit down on his hand like a vice.

  A middle-aged man was coming straight for them with a scowl on his face. Brant put it together in a heartbeat. It was the dick who confused fatherhood with slaveholding.

  David St. Germaine stopped in front of the two of them and gave Brant a once-over that couldn’t possibly have conveyed more contempt.

  “So this is what you’ve been doing with your spare time?”

  “Dad. This is Brant Fornight. Brant, this is my father, David St. Germaine.”

  Normally Brant would have extended his hand, but decided to make an exception.

  Since he was three inches shorter than Brant, St. Germaine tilted his head in a practiced way that gave the illusion he was looking down anyway. “You’re out with my daughter. What? On a date? And what do you do, may I ask?”

  “Well,” Brant drawled, “I like watching “The Price is Right” and going for long moonlight skis on the lake.”

  Garland’s father gave him a look dripping with disdain.

  “You’re being rude, Dad.”

  “I don’t need etiquette lessons from you, Garland. Go home. I’ll talk to you later.” He walked away, leaving the impression that there was no question his command would be obeyed. They’d been dismissed.

  “Garland?”

  She glanced at Brant. “Well, there went a perfectly lovely evening. I’m so sorry it was spoiled.”

  “It’s not spoiled unless we allow it. Let’s go do what we came to do and forget him.”

  Garland hesitated. She looked more than doubtful. She looked worried. “Okay. You’re right. He’s not ruining my birthday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “At least not until later,” she murmured.

  “Baby. You afraid of him? Does he hit you?”

  She shook her head. “God no. If he did then maybe I’d have the courage to… Never mind. Let’s go find some music suitable for slow dancing.”

  “We can try, but that’s asking a lot for 6th Street on a Saturday night.”

  Garland did her best to appear like she was enjoying a lighthearted night out. She didn’t want Brant to be disappointed, but she never stopped thinking about the run-in. It was around midnight when they pulled into Brant’s drive.

  When the car stopped, neither one moved to get out.

  “Comin’ in?” he asked, but had a sinking feeling that he already knew the answer.

  She turned toward him. “Not tonight. There’s going to be an argument when I get home and I want to get it over with.” She paused. “I’m so sorry about the way he acted.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re not responsible for the fact that your old man is an asshole. You’ve got my number. Call me if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  When she reached for the door handle, he put his hand on her arm. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Tomorrow’s Sunday. We always spend Sundays together.” The words caught in her throat when she realized that over half their Sundays together were gone, and the rest were going to be threatened since her father knew about Brant.

  He pulled her in for a quick kiss. “Countin’ on it.”

  Garland’s father was sitting in the living room with an ankle resting on one knee and a highball glass resting on the other.

  Waiting. For her.

  She decided that the best course of action was to take the offensive.

  “You were rude to my friend tonight, demonstrating exceptionally bad manners. What you do reflects on me, you know.” She loved having the opportunity to turn those phrases around on him.

  Unbothered by her feeble attempt at independence, he smirked. “I brought you down here to keep you out of trouble this summer and you decide to use the time to go slumming?”

  “Do you even hear yourself when you talk?”

  “I do. That’s why I’ll remember telling you that you will not be seeing that garbage again.”

  David St. Germaine rose and was almost out of the room when he heard her say, “Yes. I will.

  “You said I had to come here for the summer. Nothing was ever said about choosing my friends or specifying how I’d spend my time. I’m an adult. It’s time to let me make a few decisions for myself and, if I make wrong ones sometimes, it doesn’t make me bad. Just human.”

  “You don’t have the luxury of being ‘human’.”

  “Do you think Mom fought to stay alive? Or do you think it just got too hard to not be human?”

  His face was devoid of all emotion, his eyes hard and cold. He left the room without another word. As far as he was concerned, he’d made his desires clear and that was all that needed to be said.

  By noon the next day Brant was getting worried that she wasn’t coming. When he heard engine noise outside, he closed his eyes with relief and felt his shoulders relax. He wasn’t happy to see how tired she looked when he opened the door.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You look like shit.”

  That got a little smile. “Thanks a lot. You look incredible. Like always.” She stepped into his waiting arms and let him rock her back and forth on her feet. “Hey. I finally got my slow dance. You’re pretty good at this.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Sure. He said I’m not to see you again. I said that wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “That’s it.”

  “You don’t really want a reenactment.”

  “I want whatever will make you feel better.”

  “You make me feel better.” The words were out of her mouth before she thought about the ramifications. That was not the kind of thing you said to a casual summer fling.

  Brant knew it, too, and he didn’t want to leave her alone in her confession. “I feel the same way, baby. When you didn’t come this morning…. Well, you’re here. That’s what counts.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “What do you want to do today?”

  “Just stay here exactly like this.”

  “Okay. If you get tired or hungry or thirsty, let me know.”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I could use a slow hot screw and a fast frozen Margarita.”

  “It just so happens I know where to get both those things.”

  They started their Sunday with unhurried, thorough lovemaking. Brant insisted she keep eye contact with him. The combination of that and his excruciatingly slow thrusts made emotion bubble to the surface. It broke free in the form of big hot tears. He rocked her through sobs, murmuring sweet nothings about how he was right there with her, how every
thing would be alright.

  “Brant, I…”

  “What, baby?” When he could see she wasn’t going to finish the sentence, he said, “There’s nothin’ you can’t tell me.”

  She nodded, but didn’t say more.

  Mid-morning on Monday the shop phone rang and somebody yelled that it was for Brant.

  “Mr. Fornight, you’re needed at H.R.”

  “Right now?” He looked over at the electric maintenance vehicle he was working on.

  “Yes. Mr. Fornight.”

  Brant wiped his hands and hopped in one of the golf carts. When he walked into the air-conditioned offices, the receptionist pointed him to the right.

  “In there.”

  Brant didn’t remember ever seeing the guy who sat down across the desk.

  “Please, sit down.” He gestured for Brant to sit across from him.

  “Getting right to the point. I’m afraid we have a breach of policy to bring to your attention. We strongly discourage fraternizing with guests, Mr. Fornight.”

  He gaped. “Fraternizing with guests?”

  “It has come to my attention that you’re seeing one of our guests socially.” He stopped to wrinkle his brow as if he was remembering what face to make when. “So I’ll be honest. You’ve done good work for The Yellow Rose and we don’t want to let you go, but we will have to insist that you curtail any plans to see our guests on your off time.”

  Brant gave the guy a hard look. “Look,” he pointedly looked at the nameplate on the desk, since no introductions had been made, “Doug. What I do on my off time is my business. What guests of The Yellow Rose do on their time is their business.”

  Doug pursed his lips. “It would be a mistake to take that stance. We won’t have any choice but to dismiss you.”

  Brant clenched his teeth. “Do your worst.”

  “You sure about that, son? Jobs like yours don’t grow on trees.”

  “Anything else?”

  Doug shook his head like he was a principal who was disappointed in a student demonstrating bad behavior. “Two weeks’ severance. One month insurance. You can opt in for COBRA if you want, but you have to let us know now.”