8. Brent
8
Brent
I gasp awake, hard as a steel rod and sweating despite the air-conditioning. I haven’t come this close to…well, to coming in my sleep since high school. I close my eyes to hold on to the dream images that wisp through my consciousness.
Joey and I were standing in the hotel room, facing the mirror, like we did the morning of her hangover. I was telling her how beautiful her body was, how beautiful she was. But this time, in my dreams, we were naked, and I was moving inside her while my hands played over her body. She was hot, wet, and tight around my cock.
I watched our image in the mirror as I cupped her breasts, my thumb and index finger rolling the tips. Her lips were slightly parted, and I had to kiss her. I turned her head so I could reach her mouth and kiss her deeply, my tongue tasting her sweetness. The dream had morphed so that we were lying on the bed, my head between her spread legs. I kissed and tasted her until she cried out in climax. The sound I imagined her making woke me, ready to burst with my own release.
Thinking of how incredible it had felt, I groan. I want to touch and taste her for real, certain it will be so much better than the dream. I need to figure out how, now that she’s retreated into her shell again.
Maybe a workout will help me clear out my thoughts enough to come up with a plan. I roll out of bed and get ready for a run in the park. When I enter Central Park from the northern edge, the sun is just rising above the trees of the North Woods, promising to raise the temperature to unbearable by midday. But this early in the day, the tree-shaded paths are empty of tourists, and the temperature is just right.
When I return, an icy-cold shower helps to cool me down, but it’s the run that cleared my head and helped me reaffirm my decision. I’m going to take her up on her request, and I’ll do so by following Niko’s advice—with an honest and straightforward conversation.
I’m going to introduce her to the wonderful world of sex, and still make sure her friendship with my family, and me, never changes. And why should it change? One has nothing to do with the other if expectations are managed from the outset.
In fact, the two of us would probably get along better when she becomes comfortable around me. I’ve caught glimpses of her humor, and I want to see what else she’s hiding underneath her demure exterior, literally and figuratively.
I just have to wait for the opening to bring up the topic again. Now that I’ve made the decision, I can’t wait to get my hands on her, to do all the things I’ve tried so hard not to imagine. Like having her naked in bed, her long, dark hair spread over the pillow, her cheeks flushed with satisfaction, not just shyness. Call me old-fashioned or maybe a chauvinist, but I love her blushes, and I’m glad I’ll be the first man to make love to her.
Make love? What the fuck am I thinking?
I laugh at myself. I’m not thinking, at least not with the head that has a brain. It’s the one below the waist that does all the thinking for me when it comes to Joey.
As I drive to my childhood home in Connecticut, my thoughts are not on Joey for the first time since last Saturday. I’m on my way to spend the weekend with my family, as I do every year, to honor the memory of my father and older brother. What started out as a time to comfort each other has turned into a celebration of their lives. This is the fifteenth anniversary of their deaths, and the memorial gets bigger each year.
I pull into the driveway and am bombarded with the usual mix of churning emotions. Nostalgia for my happy childhood, sadness and pain for the loss of my two heroes, and the crushing responsibility of taking care of my mother and sisters.
I take a deep breath to release the tension, reminding myself that I’ve done my job. My family is financially secure. I focus instead on the happy memories of playing one sport or another in the sprawling yard with RJ, the loud dinners in the eat-in kitchen, the teasing laughter during family game nights…
The house looks nothing like it did when I lived here full-time. What used to be a crowded three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bathroom ranch has been transformed into a spacious six-bedroom, five-bathroom mini-mansion, complete with an indoor pool and gym.
I laugh without humor at the irony. Only my mother and two of my four sisters currently live full-time in this sprawling two-story structure. Back then, our home had felt too small for five active kids. We would all live in that old house again in a heartbeat, without complaining about bathroom time or lack of space, if only we could have our father and brother back.
Just as I’m about to go into the house, a black SUV pulls into the driveway. I grin when my sister Stevie, the eldest of my little sisters, jumps out and comes running toward me.
“Brent!”
I drop my overnight bag and hold out my arms just in time for her to plow into me. I return her fierce hug, lifting her off her feet and making her laugh. Putting her down, I kiss her cheek.
“Good to see you, mermaid.”
She rolls her eyes at the old nickname.
“I could have picked you up at LaGuardia,” I tell her.
She steps away. “You can help me with my bags instead.”
I go with her to the battered suitcases the driver has deposited on the driveway before leaving.
“And I landed at JFK. You can thank Niko for having his helicopter pilot drop me off at Danbury, so you didn’t have to drive through hours of traffic to pick me up.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Why is Niko offering you rides on his helicopter? Am I going to have to have a talk with him?”
Stevie rolls her eyes. “No, because we’re just friends, and even if we were more, I’m a grown woman who has traveled the world alone. I don’t need you playing the protective big brother.” She takes the smallest bag and sprints up the front porch steps two at a time to rush through the front door.
I take my time going into the house when I hear the screeching and squealing only women can make when greeting one another. Stevie hasn’t been home in months, and the effusive greetings reflect it.
I put the bags in the entryway, then walk into the kitchen just in time to hear my mother say to my sisters, who are standing with arms around each other’s waists, “Absence does make the heart grow fonder.” She turns to me, her arms opening in welcome despite the words that take me to task. “Though in your case, it seems to be out of sight, out of mind.”
“Come on, Mom,” I protest, wrapping my arms around her. “You have to admit I visit more often now that I live closer. And I call you all the time.” Mom hugs me just as hard as Stevie did, but I return it with a lot more gentleness. Despite an almost full recovery from her stroke ten years ago, I’ll never forget how she’d looked in the hospital and the months after. It had scared the living shit out of me.
All that remains of the initial paralysis on her right side is a limp and some weakness in her arm. Besides that, there’s nothing weak about her. She’s the strongest woman I know, having gone through so much in a short time.
I let go of Mom and greet my fourteen-year-old baby sister. “Hey, shorty.” I press a kiss to Bobbie’s head before ruffling her hair. She gives me a death glare along with a quick hug before refocusing on her phone. She does not like being reminded that, at five-one, she is at least a half-foot shorter than the rest of the family. I give Charlie a hug on my way to the fridge. I just saw her a couple of weeks ago, but we’re a family that’s big on hugging.
“I made your favorite cookies, Stevie.” Mom nods her head toward the cookie jar, putting a kettle on the stove for tea. “Don’t ruin your appetite, Brent,” she tells me.
“What? You’re offering cookies to Stevie.” I eye the cookie jar my sister is cradling in her arms like she has no intention of sharing. She smirks at me and takes a bite out of a cookie.
“You don’t like oatmeal raisin. I made your favorites the last time you were home. And she just came from a transatlantic flight,” my mother responds.
“It’s not like she piloted the plane,” I grumble, pulling out a casserole dish. “I battled traffic out of the city.”
“Mom, look at him,” Bobbie says. “I think you forget he’s not your little boy anymore. He could eat everything in the fridge and still have room for dinner and dessert.” She sticks her tongue out at me when I take a huge bite out of leftover pasta salad and wink at her.
“Damn right. And I’m looking forward to the barbecue this weekend.”
Somewhere along the way, it became tradition for the family to host a barbecue to honor the two Hutchinson men, one a veteran firefighter and the other a junior firefighter who had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. RJ had literally followed our father into the burning warehouse where they both lost their lives fifteen years ago.
Dad had been larger than life and RJ my best friend and big brother. They’d left a huge hole in our lives. Mom had been left with her four remaining children and another on the way. The tragedy had impacted her health so much that Bobbie had been born premature. To make matters worse, she’d been born with a heart condition that required multiple surgeries.
I’d become the man of the house, a responsibility I’d taken seriously despite being only fourteen years old. And Stevie had become the caretaker of our younger siblings when our mother’s focus had turned to the ailing newborn.
“What still needs to be done for the auction and dinner tomorrow?” Stevie asks, putting the cookie jar back on the counter.
On the tenth anniversary, Stevie and I started a charity auction and dinner dance to benefit the foundation I set up in their names. Its sole purpose is to help the families of fallen firefighters with their financial burdens.
“Everything is all set,” Charlie tells her. “We have tons of help for setup tomorrow too. It’s so great to see how everyone still pitches in every year.”
Mom smiles, her eyes misty. “It’s a testament to how much your dad and RJ were loved. They were a big part of the community and are still very much missed.”
Everyone but Bobbie pauses in memory for a moment. She continues scrolling on her screen as she leans against the counter next to Stevie. The loss of her namesakes happened before her birth.
“When’s Georgie coming?” Stevie asks.
“She’s not,” Charlie responds with annoyance.
Though she and Georgette haven’t been as close as twins stereotypically are supposed to be, being too different in more than just appearance, her absence the last couple of years has strained their relationship even more.
But Charlie’s not the only one annoyed. I can’t believe Georgie is going to miss the memorial for the second year in a row.
“What’s going on with her?” I ask. “I haven’t seen her in ages. Can hardly ever get her on the phone lately.”
“She thinks she’s too good for us now that she’s married to an important man and—”
“That’s enough, Charlotte Jane.” Mom's sharp voice stops , as it had when we were young. “Marriage is complicated, and she’s married to a man with commitments to his family and to his community. She’s a part of those now.”
Despite her words of loyalty to her daughter, Mom sounds concerned and sad at Georgie’s absence.
I understand ’s anger on Mom’s behalf. Georgette married a politician, not royalty. She could have taken a couple of days for commitments to her own family. Still, I don’t want Mom to worry. “I’ll try to stop over on way back from LA,” I tell her, hoping to ease some of her burden.
“Good luck with that,” Charlie says with a wary eye toward our mother. “I asked a couple of times if I could visit her, and she always had an excuse.”
“Well then, I guess I’ll have to ‘be in the area’ and pop in for an unannounced visit,” Stevie says.
I almost feel sorry for Georgie. Stevie has learned a thing or two from our mother while helping to raise our younger sisters.
“Leave your sister alone,” Mom admonishes. “Despite being so far away, she helped out quite a lot with the auction. She wouldn’t miss this without a good reason.”
“Whatever. I have to go pick up Joey.” Charlie strides out in a huff.
I straighten in knee-jerk reaction at the mention of Joey and stare after Charlie.
“I’m going to shower off the travel grime. I’ll have the tea after, Mom.” Stevie also leaves the kitchen.
“Everything okay?” Mom asks, giving me a curious look.
“Yep. All good.” I pull out my phone and stare blindly at it while pretending to scroll, though my phone is still locked. Of course Joey would be coming, as she does every year.
When I glance up, my mother is staring at me in that way that makes me squirm, as if she knows what I’m thinking.
God, I hope not. The thought of Joey evokes images that are not meant to be shared with anyone, especially my mother.