12. Liam
Chapter 12
Liam
A surge of protectiveness ignited inside me the moment that pretty boy dipshit stalked over to Brooke and pawed her like he’d earned the right. His eyes glowed with desire when my asshole sister dragged Brooke into the cesspool of sweat and hormones like she belonged in that wasteland. God, I hate nightclubs.
Inundated with Erin’s handsy invitations, I redirected her to the bar with the intent of dumping her off with Shana, but my sister was gone by the time I got there. Just my luck. She’d led Brooke into a pit of horny vipers.
Preening like a fool, the dipshit gestured stupid innuendos to his group of buddies a few feet away. He laughed and motioned suggestively, like Brooke was some mattress meat to conquer for the night. Screwed his face up and mimed humping her as his friends spurred him on.
That level of assholery signaled nothing but trouble.
Brooke hadn’t clocked it, blissed out and distracted by her newfound boldness as the dipshit danced behind her. She remained oblivious to that jackass until I carted her away, and I had no regrets about it. Fuck that guy’s salty glare.
Tough shit, fuckwad.
Brooke hated dancing, yet here she was, doing it surprisingly well. Who was I to stop her when she’d otherwise been having a splendid time? Probably best to join in. She could huff and puff indignantly all she liked, but she didn’t push me away when I moved us to the beat of the music.
My hands curled around her full hips, and I resisted the urge to dig my fingers into her soft flesh. I’d admired the curves of her body over the years, but I had never been allowed to touch her like this.
That was probably for the best because now that she let me, I didn’t want to stop.
Guiding her body with mine, we rolled and swayed, and I didn’t give a shit that I hated dancing, too. At that moment, it seemed pretty fucking great to me.
I was close enough to hear her breathy voice, even with the heavy thrum of the song blasting through the speakers.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” she murmured. “I just wasn’t doing what you wanted.”
“Which was what?” My nose brushed against her temple, and I inhaled the subtle floral undertones of her perfume. Where did she spritz it? On her neck and wrists? Behind her knees? On the inside of her thighs? I imagined exploring every inch of her to find out. “What do you think I wanted?”
“You wanted me to give in to you. You wanted me to beg you to take me, to save me, to kiss me.” She released a sweet giggle, the kind that only slipped after a few drinks. “You want control, and you assume I’m going to let you have it.”
And it was there, right there, that I found what I wanted from her. Not her begging for a kiss or her admitting an attraction to me—okay, I mean, yes, please to those—but that fire. I wanted the heat that danced in her eyes, the audacious smile painting her lips, and the confidence that freed her from inhibitions.
We’d grown up together and shared countless childhood memories. Yet something shifted, like a lens adjusting to reveal a more nuanced picture of her—a new depth with the melody echoing in her laughter, a shine in her amber eyes, or an unfamiliar sparkle in her smile.
I’d missed her complexity, blinded by petty bickering and one-upmanship. The shift in trying to prove I deserved her attention rather than demanding it with antagonistic taunting also freed me to be more of myself.
I wondered if more of myself would be enough.
Her head dropped against my shoulder, exposing the long column of her neck. “That’s not me anymore,” she said. “This is the New Me, and I’m in charge. I told you to do your worst, but I’m at my best, baby—impervious to you and everyone else.”
My grip tightened as I flooded with warmth. Being responsible for some of her fire stoked a heat in me .
It was pathetic how significant that made me feel. For years, anything I touched withered. But Brooke? She was flourishing suddenly, blooming with pride and confidence.
I ached to scrape my teeth along the nape of her neck, nibble and lick and kiss and suck until that milky skin bloomed red with my marks.
“It seems that way.” I hummed, my palm smoothing over her bare arm and enjoying the goosebumps breaking over her heated flesh. “Dancing with strangers, teasing.”
“Careful, Liam. You almost sound jealous.”
Reaching behind, she draped her arm around the back of my neck. She gave a heavy sigh, her head lolling over my shoulder as she relaxed. My knuckles skimmed along her ribs, dragging back up when I reached her hip. It took all my self-control not to drop my hand lower… low enough to inch up her skirt and allow my fingers to wander.
“Would it surprise you if I am?” I murmured in her ear.
Brooke laughed, grinding her ass into me. I sucked in a breath, praying I stayed half hard at most, the closest to decency I would manage in this precarious state.
She was drunk, and though dancing seemed above board, rutting my erection against her ass fell into questionable territory.
“Please,” she huffed, sagging slightly in my arms. “You’re the one teasing tonight. You just want to win your bet. You don’t care who I dance with.”
“Both correct and incorrect, Brooke. I want to win the bet. I want you to beg and admit what you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge,” I growled in her ear. “But I care who you dance with.”
She spun to face me, her arms around my neck again, and her legs spread over my thigh to undulate without missing a beat. I held her waist to give extra inches of space between us when my body added extra inches of its own. Christ, this helped nothing.
Her eyes gleamed beneath the club lights, a rainbow of color washing over her. “I’m in control.”
Her unflinching smile told me all I needed to know—she didn’t believe me; didn’t believe I could want her for the sake of my desire and not my ego. I had to find another way to get my point across.
“You want to be in control, Brooke?” We rocked and swayed to the throbbing bass that pounded through the speakers, my heart thumping as hard as the beat. Her defiance and power play were sexy as hell.
Her unrepentant eyes locked on mine, and she gave a firm nod.
I pressed forward, my mouth brushing against her ear. “You would feel like a queen with a man on his knees before you, reigning over him.” Her body stiffened, and she stopped dancing. I smiled into her hair, smoothing my palms along the arc of her back. “You’d be a wicked one, I bet.”
Undoubtedly, Brooke would enjoy being worshiped, but she might very well send me to the gallows. “You enjoy pushing me,” she whispered. “Are you that desperate to win a bet?”
“Well, I certainly don’t intend on being homeless, but I think you like my taunts, and I like your fire.”
My answer seemed to surprise her. She backed away and rubbed her hand along her throat. “I need water,” she rasped.
Brooke wobbled toward the bar, unsteady. I escorted her with my hand on her lower back, flipping off the handsy dipshit as we left him behind with his new dance partner.
Flagging the server, I ordered her water.
“How much did you drink tonight?” I pulled out a barstool and patted for her to sit.
She collapsed ungracefully with her knees splayed wide. I nudged them closed with my legs, standing beside her.
“How much did you drink tonight?” she mocked, rolling her eyes. She suddenly looked a lot like that hostile teenager I once knew.
“Three glasses of water. I suggest you do the same. It’s important to hydrate in this humidity if you’re going to be sweating all over second-string strangers.” I smirked, but quickly dropped it. This wasn’t the direction I wanted things to go. With a deep breath, I amended, “You should have some water. Tomorrow will be rough otherwise.”
“Why only water? You drink, right? Let me get the next.” Grinning, she waved her hands wildly above her head to catch the bartender’s attention.
I caught her by the wrists, lowering her arms. “Thank you, but I rarely drink.”
She blinked her glassy eyes. “You did your first night home, but you didn’t drink when I shared my whisky with you. Why not?”
The observation made me uncomfortable, both because of the interwoven impact of my actions that night when I drank—proving abstinence was the right call—and because Brooke referred to the condo as home as if I belonged there, even though she intended to kick me out.
“I like a clear head.” An honest answer, though only part of it.
My head had been muddled with depression off and on since my sophomore year in college when I destroyed my elbow and playing prospects and learned of my mother’s terminal cancer. My life fell apart, and I clung to the moments of clarity in the rare instances they presented themselves. Alcohol only clouded my perspective.
“Okay.” Brooked studied my face intently, forcing me to divert my gaze elsewhere. I didn’t want her to see the ruins of my past, let alone the debris that remained. “What about college? Did you go wild? All the cleat chasers buying you drinks? The frat parties? Things that I never did, but rumor has it, are normal college experiences?”
I snickered and shook my head. “No, not really.”
“Oh.” She pursed her lips. “I just assumed…”
“A lot about me, I’m sure,” I interjected, smiling softly. Brooke had made plenty of comments about the kind of guy I am, unconcerned with fact-checking.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes flickering over mine.
I nudged her with my shoulder. “Good god, Brooke. I had no idea you were this shit-faced drunk. I should have recorded the apology. Shana’s never going to believe me.”
I signaled the bartender again. He smacked his forehead and held up a finger, then appeared with Brooke’s water a moment later.
“Thanks,” I told him. “Here.” I slid the glass to her. “This will help.”
“I’m not drunk.” She hiccupped, focusing intently on picking up the water glass and bringing it to her mouth.
“Okay. What’s your favorite candy, Brooke?”
Her cheeks went pink. “Shut up. You know.”
I smirked. “Sour patch kids?” She glared at me. This had been a sobriety test since we were eighteen and raided my grandma’s wet bar during graduation weekend. “Twizzlers?”
She blew her hair out of her face and hiccupped again. “Reese’s penis brothers cups.” Frowning, she tried again. “Pieces renus smothers butts.” Her hands flew over her mouth, and she shook her head, laughing. “Oh dear.”
“Right. Home we go.” I helped her up and led her out of the club after a brief stop to let Shana know we were leaving.
Unable to walk in a straight line, Brooke stumbled along and bumped into bodies on the dance floor. Decreased inhibitions left her bolder and more impulsive, and rather than apologize for her impaired coordination, she told several people to “Fuck off.”
It was uncustomary to witness Brooke disregard social norms or personal boundaries, and the enormous smile on my face indicated exactly how I felt about it.
“What’s your favorite candy?” Shana interrogated, in no rush to leave before closing.
Brooke grinned proudly. “Penis butter pieces cups.”
“Goodnight.” My sister waved and resumed dancing with Sergio.
My head cleared once outside. A refreshing breeze blew from the water, and the chill was a reprieve from the club’s swelter. The ache to touch Brooke was more manageable in the sober reality of regular life. Distance and fresh air worked wonders.
But she was having none of it.
“My toes fell off,” she whined, coming to a dead stop as I headed toward home.
“It’s only half a mile. Ten minutes.” Likely twenty in her sloppy state, but the perception of time when drunk was unreliable, anyway.
“How long does it take to crawl?” she asked, kicking off her heels, revealing angry, red toes.
Goddamn. Why’d she do that to herself?
I sighed, bending over to pick up her shoes—borrowed from Shana’s collection, judging by the height of those heels. Brooke squealed when I picked her up next, tossing her over my shoulder with a grunt.
“Liam! Put me down! You neanderthal!”
I lowered her, sliding her slowly down my body until we stood face to face. She thrust a finger into my pectoral muscles.
“You’re not an Uber!”
I grinned, leaning against the brick building. “I’ll still give you a ride.”
Brooke burst into laughter, shaking so hard she went silent, and tears fell down her cheeks. She was a mess—a glorified mess with her damp and tangled hair, smudged lip gloss, and now, streaking mascara.
But god, was she gorgeous.
I rolled my eyes and patted my shoulder. “Perv, I meant a piggyback ride. Hop on.”
Wheezing and trying to catch her breath, Brooke stumbled over, climbing onto my back. She strangled my neck with one arm and held her skirt down with the other.
“Can’t have anyone seeing the goods,” she said solemnly.
I wondered what panties she had on tonight, if any. Lacy and sheer? Silky and skimpy? A thong, snug in her?—
“At least I wore my best Fruit of the Loom. Wedgie free!”
Somehow, I liked that so much more.
“I’m going to be so embarrassed in the morning, aren’t I?” Brooke’s cheek rested against my shoulder as she mumbled sleepily.
Digging the keys out of my pocket proved more difficult with Brooke on my back and I almost dropped her while climbing up the stairs to the third floor, but thirty minutes after exiting the club, we arrived home.
We would have made it in twenty, but Brooke took a pit stop to vomit in the bushes in the garden bed three blocks over. I held her hair back, grateful she had the wherewithal to warn me with enough time to put her down.
“It’s highly likely.” There was no point in lying. She would be mortified tomorrow. I eased her down from my back. Rolling my neck and stretching felt heavenly. “Let’s get you to bed.”
She gave an exhausted nod, tripping over a raised corner of the rug. I caught her, and she mumbled a thank you. “You’re not so incorrigible,” she added quietly.
I escorted her to the bathroom and waited by the door. “What a compliment. Keep that in mind as an inscription on my tombstone because I just might drop dead with your sweet nature.”
She slugged my shoulder before closing the door.
I remained on standby as she brushed her teeth—for five minutes straight—and washed her face. She pulled her hair into a messy bun and stumbled out with blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes after scrubbing off her makeup.
She looked exhausted as she clumsily stomped into her room, hitting her shoulder against the door when she bulldozed inside. I followed and loitered in the doorway. Brooke flopped face-first onto her bed, groaning. The motion hiked up her dress, and she’d been telling the truth. A baby blue pair of full-coverage cotton briefs peeked out.
I roughly scrubbed my face, holding in a laugh. I’d been jealous of Brooke growing up, not because she was smart, capable, witty, and accomplished—okay, not only because of that—but because she was so unapologetically Brooke. She didn’t crumple under the pressure of other people’s expectations the way I did.
“Can I come in?” I rubbed the back of my neck and focused on the carpet between us.
She mumbled something incomprehensible but seemed to be an affirmative because she shot me a thumbs up.
I grabbed the throw blanket and draped it over her, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. I wouldn’t dare go through her drawers in search of pajamas. Though I wondered what she might think of me if I did. Would she find me considerate? Or creepy? Antagonistic?
Probably that one.
“Tonight was so much fun. I like it when you’re nice.” She lifted her head to squint at me. “But chivalry will not get me to beg to kiss you, Liam Porter. Not even Sir Arrick’s noble decorum at the Harvest Ball could warrant begging.”
But what about Groundskeeper Murphy’s sinful seduction?
I sighed and flipped off the lamp on the nightstand. “Okay.” Any other answer would be forgotten by morning or fall flat anyway.
She gave a satisfied nod and dropped back onto the pillow, murmuring, “Good. Because I’ll have you begging.”
I tucked the blanket tighter and chuckled. “I’m sure you will.” I paused for a moment, studying her silhouette in the glow of the moon. “I had fun, too, Brooke.”
I didn’t realize my hand brushed absentmindedly along her spine until she moaned softly. I stilled, but she whispered, “Keep going. That’s nice, too.”
I traced up and down her back, and within minutes, she was snoring quietly. Rather than leave, I watched her a little longer and listened to the soft hush of her breath. Could it have been like this years ago? If I had pushed against my pride and assumptions sooner? If I had tried to impress her, rather than antagonize her? What if I put in the effort to be someone she wanted, not someone she regretfully gave in to?
What might happen if I put effort into the rest of my life? Would it bring just as much peace?
After another minute, I reluctantly left Brooke’s room and closed the door. I shuffled to the kitchen to grab her a glass of water and a couple of aspirins for when she woke. In the dark of the living room, a flashing light from the coffee table caught my eye. My laptop battery blinked a green charge, full of life.
Effort. One of the few things I could control.
I bit the inside of my cheek and took a seat on the couch.