52. Kaitlyn
FIFTY-TWO
Kaitlyn
After enduring an hour of wedding talk with Brock’s mother while he smiled and squeezed my hand in his like a vice, he finally got his fill of torturing me.
“Let’s go mama—I think we’ve bothered these ladies enough. Kaitydid’s had a long day of riding and I’m sure she’s worn out.” Standing, he drags me to my feet along with him by the tether of his hand. “She rode that fool horse of hers so long and so hard she had to stop at Northpoint for an icepack for the ride home.”
Cheeks burning while Brock’s warm hazel eyes glitter with malignancy, I shake my head at the two older women who’re watching us with puzzled expressions.
“There was a rattler on the trail. Two-tone got spooked and threw me.” Looking up at Brock, I give him an apologetic smile while I imagine spitting in his face. “I’m sorry I lied. I just didn’t want you to worry.” Dividing my smile among the three of them, I shake my head. “Especially after what happened Friday night—with the deer.”
When I say it, my mother visibly blanches while Mrs. Morris clucks at her son, surveying the damage our run in with the imaginary deer caused. Brock is the only one who doesn’t buy it. “That’s alright, Kaitydid. I forgive you, he tells me, his hazel eyes hard while he lifts my hand to his lips to kiss the back of it. “I’ll see you soon.” Even though his tone is soft and damn near melodic, I hear it for what it is.
A threat.
“Friday morning—10:30AM at the courthouse.” I smile up at him while my stomach churns. “I didn’t forget this time.”
“Fair warning…” He squeezes my hand so hard the bones of it grind together. “I might not be able to wait that long—I just might sneak out here to see if I can catch you by surprise.”
Before I can answer him, Brock drops my hand and it’s immediately snatched up by his mother. “I hope you recognize my son’s forgiveness for the gift that it is, Kaity,” she tells me, her lips pursed in a tight smile. I’m not the only one pretending to be happy about this marriage.
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a tight smile of my own before pulling my hand free of hers, as gently as I can.
Before I can pull it all the way free, she tightens her grip, turning my hand to look at the back of it. When she sees that my ring finger is bare, her gaze narrows. “You’re not wearing your engagement ring.”
Yanking my hand free, I open my mouth to let some random excuse fall out but before I can think of another plausible lie, my mother saves me. “I have it.” Patting the pocket on her apron, she smiles. “Silly girl tried to go out and muck stalls this morning with that beautiful ring on her finger—can you imagine?” Looking at me, she gives me an exasperated sigh. “You can have it back as soon as you wash your hands.”
Swallowing hard, I give her a nod. “Yes, ma’am.” The ring Brock gave me isn’t in her pocket. It’s in my nightstand drawer where I dropped it the second I got home from church on Sunday. I pulled it off as soon as I could, and I haven’t so much as looked at it since. Turning toward Brock’s mother again, I give her a bright smile. “Thank you so much for stopping by and for planning the rehearsal dinner. It sounds like it’s going to be everything Brock’s been dreaming of.”
Catching the gently lobbed barb, Mrs. Morris’s lips thin for a moment before she reaches for me. Sure she’s going to slap me, I brace myself. Instead, she gently pats me on the arm. “We should meet for lunch before the wedding, dear.” She gives my arm a squeeze before letting her hand drop away. “I think it would do us both some good to get reacquainted.” Turning away from me without waiting for an answer, she reaches for her son. “You’re right, son—I think we’ve bothered these ladies enough.”
Still standing on the porch, my mother and I watch while Brock leads his mother to his truck and helps her in before carefully climbing into the drivers’ seat. I can’t help but smile a bit when he presses a hand to his rib cage in obvious pain.
“Two-tone would follow you into a burning building,” my mother says without looking at me, smiling and waving while Brock starts his truck. “There’s no way that horse bucked you over something as trivial as a snake on the trail.”
Sure there’s a lecture coming about propriety and the expectations I’ll have to live up to as Mrs. Brock Morris , I nod. “And that gaudy ring Brock gave me isn’t in your pocket.”
For a few moments, neither of us says anything. Finally, I lean into her to drop a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’ll go get dinner started. It’ll have to be something quick or else we won’t eat until midnight.” Turning toward the front door, I leave her on the porch, to watch Brock and his mother drive away without me.
I made chicken salad from the leftover chicken my mom roasted for Sunday supper and we had sandwiches and iced tea—something my father never would have tolerated. As much as he loves and dotes on our mother, there are certain standards she has to live up to. A full spread dinner in the dining room every night is one of them. Without a husband to cater to, she fussed for a few minutes before she said I guess it’s okay since your father’s not here before she sat at the kitchen table with a nervous smile. Calling Abbey down for dinner, the three of us sat at the kitchen table, talking and laughing, long after our sandwiches were eaten and our iced tea glasses were empty. It's the best thing I can remember happening to me in this kitchen.
Flicking a look at the kitchen clock, my mom finally lets out a tired sigh. “It’s getting late.” Standing, she drops a kiss on top of Abbey’s head. “I’m going to take myself to bed.” Rounding the table, she drops a kiss on my head too. “You should do the same—you’ve got another long day tomorrow. You need all the rest you can get.”
Thinking about the way I spent today, I feel a flush start to creep its way across my chest. “Yes, ma’am. ”
If she can tell how mortified I am, my mother doesn’t show it. Giving my shoulder a squeeze, she wanders through the kitchen doorway and down the hall to the downstairs bedroom she shares with my father. With a last, goodnight girls , her bedroom door shuts, leaving Abbey and I alone.
As soon as she’s gone, Abbey stands and begins clearing the table. “She’s right—go on up and take a shower and get ready for bed. I’ll clean up down here.” When all I do is sit in my chair and stare at her like she’s a pod person while she stacks dinner plates, she gives me one of her exasperated Abbey sighs. “Just because I’ve never washed a dish before doesn’t mean I don’t know how,” she tells me while she walks her stack to the sink. “I’ll be fine. I’m spoiled, not helpless.” Setting the plates in the sink, she turns around, making a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on.” Hands stacked on her hips, she blows a strand of silky blonde hair out of her face. “As soon as you show me how to run the dishwasher.”
Standing up on a laugh, I make my way to the dishwasher. Showing her what buttons to push, I do as I’m told and go upstairs to take a shower.
Stepping under the hot spray of the shower head, my thoughts immediately turn to Went again and the shower we took together this morning... and why we had to take one .
I want you to see how fucking beautiful you look, covered in my cum…
The memory of it, sends a shot of heat rocketing down my spine and my pussy gives a hard clench that nearly takes my breath away.
Have you ever touched yourself?
When Went asked me, I didn’t want to answer him because I was embarrassed that the answer was no and at nearly twenty-one years old, it’s something I should have at least attempted. Embarrassed because being with Went made me realize that I’ve never even wanted to before. Never wanted anything good or pleasurable for myself.
You deserve to feel good… to be with someone who wants to make you feel that way.
Sliding my hand across the top of my thigh, I widen them slightly, letting out a small gasp when I feel my own fingers slip between my soft folds to skim between the seam of it to my pussy.
Later.
I’ll teach you how to make yourself come later...
Remembering the promise Went made me, my hand goes still.
“Kaity.”
It’s Abbey, my name accompanied by a quick knock on the bathroom door.
Ripping my hand from between my thighs on a startled yelp, I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah? ”
“When you’re finished, I need to…” She hesitates like she’s debating if she wants to finish her sentence or not. “I need to show you something, okay?"
“Okay.” Forcing my eyes open, I reach for the shampoo. “I’ll be right out.”
Ten minutes later, I’m out of the shower and wrapped in my bathrobe. Pushing my way into our shared bedroom, I find Abbey sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting for me. Next to her is a pile of celebrity tabloids nearly a foot tall. When she sees me, she flicks a quick look at the hallway behind me like she’s making sure no one followed me. “What’s going on?”
“Shut the door.” She makes an impatient motion with her hand and even though it’s just her and me up here, I do as she says.
Door shut, I turn around to look at her again. “Okay— now , what’s going on?”
As soon as we’re shut into the room together, Abbey springs up. “Okay…” She nods while she bounces on the balls of her feet. Obviously excited, she begins to pace the narrow strip of space between our beds, hands gesturing wildly. “So, I knew he looked familiar. I mean hot, yes —but I knew that I’d seen him before and then you brought me my magazines and—” She stops midsentence and drops her hands. “Do you look at my magazines at all?”
“No.” I shake my head while something starts to gnaw and chew, deep in my gut. “I don’t look at your magazines.” It’s true. Even when I’m picking up her weekly stash from the store, I leave them in the brown paper bag they’rewrapped in because celebrity gossip has never interested me. I live in a small town in Northeastern Montana and I’ll more than likely die here. I’m almost old enough to legally drink and I’ve never even seen a movie in a real movie theater. Nothing that happens in Hollywood or anywhere else has ever held much interest for me. “Why?”
“You really should,” Abbey tells me earnestly. “Keeping up on current affairs is important.”
Ignoring the fact that she thinks what Emma Stone wore to the Oscars counts as current affairs , I shake my head. “Abbey— get to the point .”
“Right.” Stopping mid-pace, she rifles through the pile of magazines on her bed before she finds the one she’s looking for. Thrusting it at me, she gives it an impatient jiggle. “Here. Look.”
That thing chewing away at my guts starts taking bigger bites. Reaching for the offered magazine reluctantly, I pull it close and look at its cover.
WHERE IN THE WORLD IS WENTWORTH FIORELLA
The headline is splashed across a grainy, long lens photograph of a man walking down a city sidewalk in a pair of worn jeans, boots, and a dark T-shirt, carrying a gym bag. If his size didn’t give him away immediately, the Sox cap he has pulled low over his face and the pair of dark aviators he has on to cover his eyes would have told me who he is immediately. The Koi fish tattoo on his forearm all but confirms it.
The man in the picture is Went.
He looks annoyed. Even though I can’t see his eyes, I know they’re aimed at whoever’s taking the photograph of him and it’s obvious he doesn’t appreciate the intrusion.
It’s exactly the kind of look he gave me on the day we met.
Under the headline is a caption.
CEO OF HAWTHORNE INTERNATIONAL GOES INTO HIDING AFTER A BOOZE-FUELED NIGHT OF CLUBBING TURNS DEADLY.