Dangerously Broken (12 page)

“I have to get in the shower in a minute, anyway. I’ll just . . .” Her hands fluttered at her sides. “I’m going to put some coffee on and get ready for my day.”

“Don’t work too hard.”

“You, either.”

He dragged her in and kissed her, but even the soft press of his lips on hers was missing something.

After he left she stood in the kitchen, mentally shaking her head and her hands literally shaking as she put the coffee on. What the fuck had happened? Were they both so classically screwed up that the intensity they’d felt the night before had shaken them this much?

Yes. That was it exactly. There was no way to deny her emotional crash or his distance. Her instinct might be to run, but Jamie had beaten her to it. Just like she’d been afraid he would.

Madame wandered in and demanded treats. Summer absently opened a drawer and grabbed a few out of the bag she kept there, scattering them on the floor. Madame crunched busily.

“This is exactly why I shouldn’t get involved with anyone,” she told the cat. “Especially Jamie. This was never going to end well. I knew it. You knew it. What was I thinking? That he was hot? Okay, yes, he
is
hot. Jesus. Like no other man on the planet. You’ve seen him.”

Madame looked unimpressed.

“But I think this proves I was right. The ‘taking care of me’ stuff—it’s what I always knew to expect of him. That doesn’t make me special, except that I’m Brandon’s little sister so he has to be especially careful with my feelings. He wanted me, but he didn’t expect it to come with intimate talks about our childhoods—even if it was his idea—or Holy Grail–level sex. I think we both overdosed on closeness.”

Tears pooled in her eyes and she dashed them away with an impatient hand, then grabbed one of her big coffee mugs from the cupboard. “See? This wasn’t a good idea, Madame. A few days of mind-blowing kinky sex and a lifetime of regret. This is not good for me.” She squatted down and stroked the cat’s snowy fur. “Except it sure felt good for a while,” she whispered quietly so she wouldn’t have to hear the words herself.

She pulled in a deep breath as she got to her feet. “Okay. Enough of that. I have to get ready for work and . . . I think I need to take a step back and reevaluate things. Good idea? Yes?” Madame ignored her. “Yes,” she said decisively. She wanted to think she was decisive, anyway.

In the bathroom she turned on her iPod speakers and blasted the most upbeat music she could find to keep her mind busy as she showered, but the act of washing his scent from her skin was almost painful. And Goddamn it, even her favorite violet-scented soap reminded her of him now! She might have to pick up something else at the lingerie shop today. They had rose and lily of the valley and jasmine. She could do jasmine.

“God, what am I thinking? I am not changing myself for him!”

She stepped from the shower and dried herself, then ran the towel over her wet hair. Today she would focus on work. Tonight she would wallow in whatever unbearable muck this was.

But work brought no relief. Luxe was slow, as Tuesdays often were, and the only other task she had was checking in a new shipment, which was mindless work. Too mindless, offering no escape from the endless loop in her head, reviewing her morning with Jamie over and over. She wasn’t close enough with any of her salespeople to confide in them—not that she wanted to talk about it, anyway. Which was why she went for drinks with the girls from the shop after work rather than calling Dennie. She limited herself to two margaritas so she wouldn’t get too sloppy. That would have been all she needed. By ten she was home again.

She changed into her pajamas and fed Madame, who expressed her displeasure at her late meal by meowing plaintively even after she was done eating. Summer ignored her and Madame started a thorough cleaning of her paws before slipping out the back door into the garden.

Summer found herself at loose ends. She sank down onto the sofa in the living room and flipped the television on, but she rarely watched TV and after trying to get into a movie, then a late-night talk show, then another movie with little success she finally turned it off and went into the bedroom, intending to get a good night’s sleep. But the scent of Jamie and sex from the pillowcases hit her too hard. With a curse she stripped off the sheets, stuffing them into her wicker laundry basket and making up the bed with fresh ones. But once undressed and in bed, all she could do was stare through the curtains at the moon rising through a dark, misty sky and think of him.

“Goddamn it, Jamie,” she muttered, flipping onto her side. “Why do you have to be so . . .
you
!”

She wished he’d been mean about it. That he’d been lousy in bed. That he couldn’t make her laugh the way he did. That he hadn’t known exactly how much pain she could take with her pleasure, or what to say to make her feel special.

She rubbed at her forehead, which had started to ache.

She would spend the next few days—or whatever it took—obsessing over it, trying to come to some sort of peace with the situation. But the fact that he hadn’t called or texted her all day made it pretty likely he was having exactly the same ideas.

“Damn it, Jamie,” she said into the dark for the tenth time that day.

She had a feeling she might be cursing him for some time to come.

B
RANDON
WAS
SCOWLING
at him and Jamie knew why.

“Brandon, I’m trying.”

Brandon raised an eyebrow at him—honey-gold brows and hair,
just like Summer’s. And his eyes that same baby blue. Summer’s eyes. Or maybe hers were Brandon’s. Either way, he couldn’t stand that his friend was pissed at him. Even worse, disappointed in him.

“Okay, okay. I know I fucked up.” He paused, searching his friend’s eyes, but he found them empty. Blank. Just like that day at the hospital. His last day. “Did I fuck this up?”

Suddenly it was that last day and Brandon lay pale against the white, white sheets of the hospital bed and the smell of antiseptic was making Jamie feel sick to his stomach, but he had to hold on for his friend. He’d do anything for him. Except, apparently . . .

Brandon’s voice was a low hiss. “
This
is your version of taking care of my sister?”

“Brandon, no. No. It’s not. It’s . . . I’ll get my shit together. I’ll figure it out. I’ll take care of her the way I’m supposed to. I will.”

“I will!”

Jamie bolted upright in bed, the sheets a damp tangle around his waist. His heart was a hammer in his chest. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

It was the same dream he’d had the other night. Twice in one week. Twice since he’d left Summer Grace’s house the other day and hadn’t so much as called her since. Sure, he’d sent a few texts, but she’d answered in the same short, meaningless sentences he’d used with her. “How are you?” “Fine.” It was all crap.

Managing to escape the twisted sheets, he got up to stand by the bedroom window that overlooked the empty street below. He folded back the heavy plantation shutter. It was early, the sun barely beginning to rise in a shimmering glow of pink and gold, the streetlamps still lit. He flattened his hand against the glass, absorbing the coolness left from the night air and thinking about the dream.

Today was Saturday. July twenty-fifth. The twelfth anniversary of Brandon’s death. Which could be the reason for the dreams, but he knew that wasn’t the whole reason. He was being fucking haunted for screwing things up so completely with Summer Grace. Either by starting this with her in the first place or by taking off the other day and hardly giving her the time of day since. He really could be an asshole sometimes.

But maybe the worst thing he’d done had been to encourage her involvement in the kink life. Maybe if he’d left her alone her curiosity would have run its course and eventually she’d have left kink—and his club—behind.

He scrubbed a hand over his buzz cut. No. That wasn’t how this shit worked—not for the people who were serious enough to play at the clubs. Or rarely, anyway. And she’d taken to it all too easily. She was made for this life. Or maybe that was simply more of his own selfish desires clouding his judgment.

Selfish because he still wanted her. Wanted to be with her.

He wasn’t entirely comfortable with that idea. But when had he done anything in his whole adult life other than make sure things were fucking
comfortable
? It had been years since he’d really been involved with a woman. Certainly not anything long-term. Not since the woman he’d—foolishly—married when he was almost twenty, less than a year after Brandon died. And she’d left him six months later. He’d never told a single soul what the real reason was. They’d both told everyone it was because she wanted to go to grad school in California. And that part had been true, but . . . no, the rest was his secret to carry.

He heard the low rumble of a diesel engine and looked down to see his downstairs neighbor, Astrid, drive off to her Saturday morning nursing shift at the hospital. The same hospital where Brandon had died. Which brought him back to the fact that it was this particular Saturday. Which meant he’d see Summer Grace that evening at the cemetery.

He pulled in a lungful of the damp morning air, blew it out, trying to clear his head. Summer Grace and Brandon and guilt were too heavy on his mind. Guilt around Ian and Traci, too, but that was always hanging over his shoulder, tangled up in everything else. But there was no way around it. Not today.

Today they remembered.

“Miss you, buddy,” he said quietly, pulling his palm away from the cool glass, swallowing hard as he went to get a quick shower in before heading to the shop for the day.

*   *   *

J
AMIE LOVED THIS
cemetery after dark. Quiet but dangerous, full of memories and mementos, life and death. In New Orleans loved ones weren’t buried beneath the dirt and forgotten—they were celebrated and enshrined. It may have originated out of necessity, but now it was a point of pride with the locals as well as being a tourist attraction. Particularly this cemetery.

St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 had always been Brandon’s favorite. He and Jamie and their group of friends from high school had gathered here back in the day to drink beer and hang out in the shadows of the ornate marble mausoleums, following tradition by spilling drops of beer on the infamous Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau’s tomb as an offering. It was their spot whenever they needed to discuss the really deep issues, like the true definition of getting to third base with a girl and their dreams about the future.

Now the ones left behind met here every year on the anniversary of Brandon’s death.

That first year after Brandon died it had simply been where they’d all gathered, showing up one by one, as if they’d ended up there purely by accident. Maybe they had, at first. But Jamie didn’t quite believe that. This was New Orleans, and no one could live here for any amount of time without believing at least a little that there was more to life than random chance.

The evening air was moist on his skin, hot even in his cotton wifebeater as he walked down the row past the stone and brick and marble structures with their low, ornate iron fences, past the statues of weeping angels. The scent of old stone and plaster was strong in the air, mixing with the aroma of decaying flowers and the hint of exotic spices that lingered everywhere in the city.

He saw them as he approached their usual meeting place—at the end of the row that housed Marie Laveau’s tomb. Even in the dark he could make out Mick’s tall, lanky form, his arm around Allie’s shoulders. He could see the long curl of Marie Dawn’s hair, her husband Neal—Mick’s brother—at her side. Then he saw Summer Grace and every muscle in his body went tight.

He knew it was going to be difficult, but had no idea it would be this gut-wrenchingly hard to see her. No, that was total crap. He’d known it—he’d simply kept himself too busy all day to think about it. But it had always been hard to see her. He should be used to it. Every single time he ran into her over the years his resolve had been challenged. Summer Grace Rae had grown up to become the embodiment of temptation, pure sex in a doll’s body. And now he
knew
that body. Maybe even more, he knew
her
. The woman she’d grown up to be. The woman he’d left after having the best sex of his life. The kind most people read about and called bullshit on because nothing in reality could be half that good, that damn life-changing.

He was well and truly fucked.

He watched the silhouette of her delicate figure as she moved in to hug someone. Watched her long, pale hair catching the moonlight as he walked up to the group. So damn pretty, that hair. And everything else. Beautiful.

Don’t look at her too closely.

As if she were Medusa, about to turn him into stone.

Oh, she’d make him hard, all right. Always had. Always would, he suspected. Not that he planned to do anything about it tonight. No, they had to talk first. If she even wanted to talk to him. Fuck, if it were any night but this—the anniversary of her brother’s death—he’d
make
her talk to him.

But it
was
this night. July twenty-fifth. Damn it.

“Hey, Jamie.” Mick greeted him, coming up to slap him on the back. “I see you made it over the wall. Wish they didn’t shut this place down like fucking Fort Knox at three in the afternoon.”

Jamie shrugged. “It doesn’t keep us out, though, does it?”

“Never.” Mick grinned and bent to retrieve a beer from the six-pack on the ground, tossing it at him.

“Thanks. Hey, Allie.” Jamie bent to kiss her cheek. He was damn happy to see the two of them back together after all their years apart. And pleased with himself that he’d had something to do with it. It had been a few months and he’d never seen either of them happier.

“Good to see you, Jamie,” she said, smiling at him.

“Marie Dawn, Neal. How are you two?”

“We’re good,” Neal answered. “Just . . . you know . . . we’re here.”

Marie Dawn grabbed her husband’s hand, shooting Jamie a look that told him Summer Grace had confided in her friend about the two of them. Great. Now everyone would know he was an asshole.

“We all still miss him,” she said, putting voice to the one thought Jamie knew they all shared. “Especially this year, with Allie home again. It’s like we’re all back together again except for Brandon.” She paused, shaking her head. “It just feels wrong to be here without him.”

“Yes.” It was Summer Grace, her voice small but with a raspy edge that let him know how upset she was. It would be arrogant of him to assume it was all about what had happened between them. What he’d done to upset her.

God fucking damn it.

He took a breath. “Good to see you, Summer Grace.”

“
Summer
,” she said stubbornly.

She’d always hated that he called her by her full name. He did it partly to annoy her, he had to admit to himself—never to her, of course. But also partly because he’d known her forever and that was who she was to him. It was what Brandon had called her.

“Jamie,” she said more softly, and went into his arms for a hug he hadn’t offered.

Well, hell—he
had
to put his arms around her, didn’t he? Offer her some comfort on the anniversary of her big brother’s death? And pretend in front of their oldest friends that nothing was going on between them, good or bad. But if Marie Dawn knew then Allie knew, which meant Mick knew, and hell . . .

He held on to her as long as he could, trying not to feel every soft curve of her small body, the press of her breasts right up against him, for God’s sake. He pulled in a breath and gritted his teeth, waiting for her to pull away. She didn’t, which made him feel even more like an ass. Maybe she really did need some comfort from him.

Finally, he pulled back. “You get a beer?”

“I’ve had two already,” she answered. “Could probably use a few more tonight.”

“Yeah, we all could,” he agreed, thankful she was talking to him at all.

“So,” Mick began. “Who wants to start?”

Jamie popped his beer open and took a long swallow. “I will,” he said. He was always the first one to talk about Brandon. Mick asking was a formality.

He glanced at Summer Grace but Allie had pulled her aside and looped an arm around her shoulder. He was glad to see someone was caring for her, since he couldn’t. Not tonight.

“You have the floor then, buddy,” Mick told him as some of the others sat on the ground or on the shallow steps of one of the old mausoleums with their beers.

Jamie took a long swig, swallowed, and did his best to focus on the reason they were all here. “Brandon was my best friend from the time I was eight years old, new to the country and full of fight. Even then, he was the best guy I knew. He never made fun of my accent. Never acted like he cared that I was the new kid. He taught me about New Orleans—taught me to love this place. He was more than a friend to me. He was family.” He was quiet a moment, taking another long swallow of his beer while gathering his thoughts. “When someone dies at nineteen, it’s just not fucking fair. He deserved more of life. I can’t help thinking—all the time—what would he be doing if he were here with us now?”

Mick chuckled, said quietly, “Probably making out with some girl and ignoring us.”

Jamie started to grin, the constriction in his chest easing a little. It was true. The girls had loved Brandon—there was always one or two mooning over him—and he’d loved them right back.

“He would have gone into business with you, Jamie,” Summer Grace said, the low rasp of her voice soft on the night air, “the way you two were always talking about. He would have rebuilt your muscle cars with you, spent his time covered in grease and happy as could be, doing what he loved. Happy to be working with his best friend. The man who was like a brother to him.”

Jamie took another pull from his beer. “Yeah,” he said, forcing the lump in his throat down deep, where he kept it, safe and sound, other than this one day each year. Except this year there was another reason for that lump. This year he’d broken his promise—not by being with Summer Grace, but by hurting her.

She looked over at their friends. “We all know it’s true, don’t we? I mean, everyone here loved him, but Jamie and Brandon were never happier than when they were hanging out together. Unless they were competing over a girl. Or a game of Frisbee. Or a sandwich. Two peas in a pod, my parents used to say. He was never happier than when he was with you, Jamie.” She stepped closer, grabbed his beer bottle from him and took a sip. As she tucked it back into his hand she whispered, “So was I.”

Even in the moonlight, he could see the baby blue of her eyes beneath the long lashes. Eyes that seemed to look right through him, to recognize the desire he’d felt for her since the first time she’d crawled into his bed when she was fourteen years old. He’d been seventeen at the time, a walking, out-of-control hormone factory. He’d been staying the night at the Rae house—something he’d done often. She’d woken him with a soft, wet kiss, lying on top of his prone body. No fourteen-year-old should have known how to kiss like that. But this girl . . .

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Summer Grace,” he murmured, letting the others think it was about Brandon, if they wanted to. And it was. But it was also about
them
.