Chapter Seven
You couldn’t handle my hands on you.
I groan and bang my head against the back of my seat. Since landing in Westchester two nights ago, my conversation with Phillipa—no, Miss Cartwright —has been circulating in my mind. Particularly my part of the conversation.
One slip, one stumble, one second of insanity, and I let myself taunt her the same way she always teases me. I can still hear the hitch in her breathing, picture the way her cheeks flushed, see how her eyes darkened.
Temptation isn’t a strong enough word to describe what it’s like when I’m around Phillipa.
A knock on my car window has me turning my head, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“What are you doing?” The muffled sound of Bowie’s voice filters through the pane. Unbuckling my belt, I open the door, and he steps back, giving me space to get out. His eyebrows furrow as he looks at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I reply, locking the car and walking to our parents’ porch.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
Ignoring him, I knock on the front door before trying the handle. It turns, and the warmth from inside greets us as we enter. The smell of a home-cooked dinner is a comfort as we walk into the kitchen, finding Sadie by the stove stirring something in a pot.
“Hey, Mom,” Bowie says. She squeals in delight, a huge smile taking over her entire face.
“My boys are home,” she coos, dropping the spoon on the counter and throwing her arms around my brother. Her eyes close as he hugs her tight. “I’ve missed you. How are you, darling?”
She draws back to look at her son, pride and love radiating from them as they fill each other in on what they’ve been up to since they last saw each other. An ache forms in my throat, an ache I know I shouldn’t feel, unable to take my eyes off them. Sadie never treats me any differently from Teddy or Bowie, but standing here now and watching the interaction, I feel like an interloper.
Somehow, I manage to force my feet to move, and I go to the fridge to grab two beers before popping off the caps, leaving one for Bowie on the counter. When he’s finished talking, Sadie comes over to me, pulling me into her arms, making me stiffen at the contact. But like the good stepson I always try to be, I hug her back, patting my hand between her shoulder blades before breaking away.
“Hey, Sadie, good to see you.”
She smiles, the light in her eyes when we first walked in dimming slightly. I hate that I’m the reason for that. Her hand finds my cheek, brushing her thumb over it as she says, “You are looking more and more like your father every time I see you.”
“Don’t tell him that,” I tease, and she laughs. “We don’t need that man’s ego to get any bigger than it already is.”
“Too late, I already heard it,” Dad calls from somewhere else in the house before appearing in the kitchen doorway. “My sons are the most handsome men on the planet, so if they look like me… Well, what can I say?”
Sadie tsks and tries to swat him with the towel slung over her shoulder. He catches it and tugs her toward him, snaking his arm around her and dropping a lingering kiss on her lips. “No one looks as good as you do, though, babe.”
“Can there be a day that we can come home and you two don’t act like horny teenagers?” Bowie asks, taking a gulp of his beer. “Honestly, you’re too old to be acting like that.”
“You’re only as old as the woman in your bed,” Dad replies, exaggeratedly grabbing Sadie’s ass and squeezing hard.
“For fuck’s sake,” Bowie groans.
“Miles!” She chastises with a laugh, trying to wriggle away. “No wonder your children act the way they do.”
She returns to the stove, and I wander over, looking into the pan of Bolognese sauce, the smell of oregano and garlic flooding my nose and making my mouth water. “Need any help?”
With a soft smile, she nods to the cabinet by my head. “Hand me the noodles?”
Reaching up, I grab a pack of spaghetti and set it beside her as she adds the extra touches to the sauce. “Thanks, honey. Now you boys go relax. Dinner will be ready in ten.” Just as we’re about to walk away, she whirls around and points her sauce-covered spoon at Dad. “Not you, though. You can help by setting the table.”
Dad groans mockingly but goes to join her, his hands landing on her waist as he presses against her back. Their chatter is low as they mull around each other, finishing dinner together while Bowie and I disappear to the living room.
“How’s work?” he immediately says when we’re out of earshot. His question is loaded, the same topic of conversation that always seems to be brought up whenever we’re talking.
“Fine.”
He brings his beer to his lips, pausing to ask, “Just fine?”
I flop down onto the sofa and thread a hand into my hair. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Bowie.”
“Maybe that you’ve got your head out of your ass and asked that girl out.”
My eyes slam shut, frustration seeping into my veins at my brother not letting go of a subject I’m trying so hard to ignore. Plus, the secondhand embarrassment that washes over my body whenever I hear my voice inside my head say, “ you couldn’t handle my hands on you,” doesn’t help .
“Since when have you been so obsessed with my dating life?”
Bowie lands beside me and shrugs. “Since it’s almost as much of a clusterfuck as my own. And it’s nice to hear about someone else’s problems.”
That catches my attention. “Okay, spill.”
He hesitates. “Mason told me he’s attracted to me.”
“When?”
“Remember the night we went to the bar?”
I nod, thinking back to a couple of weekends ago, a rare Saturday night when we’d gone out for a few drinks. We’d bumped into Bowie’s most recent client, a young hotshot billionaire who was having his first-ever photoshoot done for the cover of Forbes. Since coming home from the Amazon, Bowie has had his fair share of rich and famous clients. Taking shots for GQ , Rolling Stone , Vanity Fair , and other massive magazines. And, like me, he’s never crossed the line of fraternizing with a client.
Bowie looks sheepish as he continues. “Well, when I went to check on him to make sure he was alright, he sort of blurted it out.”
“ Shit,” I mutter. “What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? He’s straight, Wyatt,” he snaps, his fingers strangling the beer bottle. I pull it from his grip and place it on the side table beside me. He leans forward, a long exhale leaving him as he rests his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. “I can’t do that again. I can’t get involved with another straight guy.”
“I know, man,” I say, touching his shoulder. If I could track down Bowie’s slime ball of an ex-boyfriend and hurt him the way he hurt my brother, I’d take any punishment handed to me with a smile on my face. There’s a special place in Hell reserved for guys like him who play with people's hearts and toss them to the side when they’re bored.
“Were you a dick about it?”
He itches the back of his head. “I don’t think so. I mean, I told him that I was sorry, but I wasn’t the guy for him.” I’m quiet, which causes him to glance at me from the crook of his arm. “What?”
“Do you—” I pause as I try to get a read on my brother. He’s different, no longer the fun-loving man he once was before he’d left for the jungle, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to have him back. In his place is this brooding, grumpy photographer who doesn’t see the world through the same lens anymore. I palm the back of my neck. “Do you wish you’d said something different?”
He sighs again and shrugs, his silence speaking volumes.
“Boys, dinner,” Sadie calls, interrupting our heavy moment.
Bowie goes to stand, but I squeeze the hand on his shoulder, keeping him seated. “I’m here if you ever need to talk, Bowie. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he grunts. Giving me a half-hearted smile, he disappears into the kitchen.
Bowie rinses his plate in the sink before putting it in the dishwasher. Leaning against the side of the counter, he rubs his stomach with a groan. “I swear she gets better with each meal she makes.”
“I know,” I agree, knocking his hip with mine to get him to move over, allowing me to duck my empty bowl under the tap. “I forgot how much I love Sadie’s cooking.”
“You eat here at least once a month, the same as me. How can you forget?” Bowie asks.
“When you live on take-out and basic-as-fuck home-cooked meals, it’s easy.”
“Why don’t you ask Mom to teach you how to do it properly? You know she’d love it.” He looks at me contemplatively until he gasps, clicking his fingers like he’s just remembered something. “That’s right. You can’t because you only have one pan.”
“I have more than one,” I grumble at his mocking, mentally picturing the small saucepan I somehow acquired sitting in a drawer next to…my other single pan.
Bowie snickers. “Whatever you say.” Pushing away from the counter, he opens the fridge door, looking over his shoulder to ask, “Are you staying for another beer?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’m going to head home. Need to catch up on a couple of things before flying tomorrow morning.”
“See you soon?” Bowie pulls me into a hug before pressing his ice-cold bottle to the back of my neck. I shove him away with a hiss as the bastard laughs, jogging to the other side of the room.
“Dick,” I mutter, wiping away the condensation with a smile. I turn to grab my keys from the counter, pausing when I see Dad in the kitchen doorway.
“You alright, old man?” I joke, but my smile falls as he awkwardly shifts from foot to foot.
“Wyatt, can I have a word before you go?” Dad asks, his expression more serious than I’ve ever seen.
I glance at Bowie, who shrugs before sneaking past him and out of sight. “Sure.”
He nods toward the backdoor, and I follow him in silence out onto the deck. The sound of crickets fills the quiet, and the yard dances with fireflies as he takes a seat on an Adirondack chair, gesturing to the one beside him. Sweat lines my palms as I sit, the food in my stomach slowly churning as worry infuses with it, making it turn sour.
“Is everything okay?” I ask as different scenarios flood my mind. Is he sick? Is there something wrong with Teddy? Sadie? Should Bowie be here, too?
“It’s your mom.” He gets straight to the point. I frown and glance over my shoulder at the backdoor, noticing Sadie through the kitchen window, her focus on the sink in front of her hidden from view.
“No, Son,” he continues, drawing my attention back to him. “Fiona.”
My entire body turns to lead at the mention of my birth mother, a name that hasn’t been uttered for almost thirty years. At least not on purpose. Abruptly, I stand, wood angrily scraping against the deck as the chair careens backward, nearly toppling over.
“Wyatt,” Dad snaps, but my name barely registers as my blood thunders in my ears.
“No.”
“Son…”
“No,” I say louder, raising a hand and cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear whatever you have to say about her, Dad. I don’t care.”
“Wyatt, this is diff—”
“Different?” I huff, finishing for him, the word nasty and dripping with venom. One name, and I’m on fire. One name, and I’m ready to detonate like a volcano that’s been overdue for far too long, ready to cause devastation to anything around it. One name that turns me into the little boy, crying, hands pressed to the cold windowpane, staring outside, watching as taillights disappear, wondering what he did wrong, why his mommy doesn’t want him.
Again.
“Nothing is ever different with that woman,” I snarl. “It wasn’t different when I was only days old. It wasn’t different when I was five, and it’s not fucking different now.”
My breathing is ragged, shoulders rising and falling with each inhale-exhale, balled hands shaking by my sides. Dad’s blue eyes shine with sadness as he stares up at me, and his face looks older somehow. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything else, I turn on my heel and storm to the door, yanking it open so hard it smacks against the outside wall.
“Wyatt? What’s wrong?” Sadie gasps, rushing toward me, but I barrel past her. “Baby, wait.”
Dad’s heavy footfalls sound behind me, but I don’t stop. She calls my name, following me to the front door as I thunder through it and down the steps.
“Sadie,” I hear Dad say, his voice soft in the way that’s reserved just for her, and I know he’s stopped her from coming after me.
Unlocking my car, I throw myself into the driver's seat and turn on the ignition. The lights blink on and illuminate my family, all with worried expressions, watching as I back out of the driveway. My hands strangle the wheel, the leather biting into my palms uncomfortably as I tear down the road.
I welcome it. I welcome the rage that pulses through my veins.
Fiona isn’t my mom. She never was from the second she birthed me and didn’t even care enough to give me a goddamn name. She wasn’t the moment she left me to be found by my dad on his parents’ stoop hours after her discharge from the hospital. She still wasn’t the day she turned up at our house, begging Dad for another chance, only to leave two years later without saying goodbye. And whatever reason she’s reached out now, that sure as fuck doesn’t mean I need to listen.
For all intents and purposes, Fiona Breacon is dead to me.