Beard With Me: Winston Brothers Read online

  “Mental health day? She was gone two days. Not one.” Still frowning, Cletus’s eyes darted between us. “Wait. Upstairs? You and Scarlet?”

  His older brother gave him a patient look, but also one that warned not to ask any more questions. “Yes, Cletus. Scarlet and I are going upstairs. If you want to tell Momma that Scarlet is here, go for it.”

  Cletus removed his hats, pushing his fingers into his hair in a quick combing motion. “No. I won’t. Momma, Roscoe, and Ash are enjoying their quiet time in the library and I don’t want to interrupt. I just didn’t know—uh—you two were friendly is all.” His big eyes came back to me, concern carved between his eyebrows. “But when you’re done, will you come talk to me? We have things to discuss.”

  I nodded, making sure the smile I wore looked relaxed. “Sure, Cletus. We won’t be too long.”

  “Really?” His voice came out hoarse and he gulped in an overexaggerated manner. “How long you figure?”

  “Cletus—” Billy tugged on the arm of my coat “—don’t be a dummy. Whatever you think we’re gunna do, it’s not that.” Then to me, he motioned with his head. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Giving my friend another unconcerned smile, I turned and walked up the stairs. Billy followed, and I saw Cletus move to the banister on the lowest step and grip it as he watched us go. He looked forlorn.

  Suddenly, he called up to me, “Whatever you do, Scarlet, don’t take candy from him.”

  I paused, scrunching my face and glancing between Billy and Cletus. The former shrugged, looking like he was on the verge of rolling his eyes.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I want that candy. And if you eat it, then there won’t be much left for me.”

  Billy chuckled and shook his head. “Come on.”

  I climbed the rest of the stairs, grinning at my silly friend. When we reached the top, Billy stepped on ahead, leading the way and opening the door for me to his room. I walked in. He closed the door. He locked it.

  Now I gulped, suddenly roasting in my coat.

  Without sparing me a glance, Billy said, “Take off your jacket,” and moved to a dresser while he unbuttoned his shirt. It was dirty from carrying the logs.

  Usually I would’ve bristled at him, bossing me around like that, but I suspected he was just trying to get this done quickly before we were interrupted. I took off my jacket. Then I took off my sweater, which left me in one of the nice shirts Mrs. Winston had bought for me, a tank top, my bra, and my jeans.

  Walking to the bed I knew he didn’t sleep in, I hovered next to it.

  “Take that shirt off too,” he ordered, pulling his flannel from his shoulders.

  Nodding silently, I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans, feeling silly at the depth and breadth of my nerves. I told myself a joke while I removed the outer shirt. What did the turkey on the dinner table say to the deer head on the wall? Hey, we’re both stuffed.

  Billy turned, clutching supplies in his hands—gauze, cotton, disinfectant, that ointment he’d used last time—and marched to the bed, placing the items on the night table. His features already intense with concentration.

  While he unloaded his burden, I lay on the bed, stomach down, my face toward the room. I tucked my hand under my chin, folding my arms close, and waited. Billy frowned at the big clear bottle of rubbing alcohol as he began unscrewing it, but then he stopped.

  “Shoot. I need to go wash my hands.” He made a face, almost like he was sorry. “I’ll be right back.”

  Billy unlocked the door and left in a dash, not quite closing it. I waited. I allowed myself to enjoy the warm fluffiness of a real bed and pillow beneath my body. I waited some more.

  Snuggling deeper into the softness, I closed my eyes and sang softly, “Hello bed, my old friend. I’ve come to lay on you again. Because you’re softer than the ground, and help me sleep without a sound,” to the tune of “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel.

  I heard a footstep, or some other sound making me think Billy was back, and I opened my eyes. Lifting to my elbow very carefully, I turned. Billy stood there, looking at me, all tall and big and strong, his white T-shirt a tad too small for the size of his shoulders and muscular chest. His dark jeans hung low on his hips and he wore a questioning expression on his handsome face. Also, that mysterious, barely there smile curved his lips.

  My goodness, he’s just . . . too ridiculously pretty.

  My mouth went dry. Again. Maybe because there was something invisible abruptly lodged in my throat, an UOO!

  “Well, go on,” he said, shutting the door with his shoulder. He didn’t lock it this time. “I’ve never heard this version before.”

  I suppressed the odd, flustering emotions, and twisted my lips to hide a renewed flare of nerves. “Did you, uh, wash your hands?”

  He nodded, his eyes moving over my body on the bed, sending goose bumps rising in their wake. “Are you ready?”

  I gulped again, my heart hammering in the aftermath of his inspection and question. What the hell, Scarlet? You are injured.

  I’d been cut up by my father about a hundred times—legs, back, stomach, feet—the before and during parts were now way worse than the aftermath. I was darn good at moving on from it, pretending it never happened. I never looked at the parts of my body with scars. I didn’t own a mirror. No use wasting time feeling sad or sorry for myself or dwelling on it, right?

  Yeah, you’ve been cut up by your daddy before, you’re old hat at this, but Billy is bandaging your wound. Your. Wound. He’s not about to . . . whatever. Get a grip.

  “Do I look ready?” My words sounded strangled.

  “Oh? We’re doing this again?” His voice deepened and, dammit, he grinned for real again, again sending my wits scattering.

  I felt funny, out of breath, like my body was buzzing, and it made absolutely no sense. What is this? What is this reaction? Why can I barely think straight? Is it PTSD? Maybe it’s PTSD. Yes. It’s PTSD from Tuesday. I need to calm down.

  And then he was there, kneeling next to me, his eyes warm and so very alluring in his extremely beautiful face perched on top of his ridiculously gorgeous body. AND WHY AM I NOTICING HIS BODY??

  “What?” I asked, because I—like a wackadoodle—suddenly didn’t have any idea what we’d just been talking about. My nonsensical thoughts and feelings and flutterings were crushing. But then, everything about Billy was heavy, crushing. Even his attractiveness. I’m being crushed by Billy Winston.

  “Are we only answering each other in the form of a question?” Billy’s warm gaze settled on my back, his hand moving to the hem of my tank top, hesitating. “May I?”

  I sucked in a breath, held it, nodded quickly, and scrunched my eyes shut.

  I waited. Nothing happened. I waited some more. Still nothing.

  Opening one eye, I found Billy’ face right in front of mine, his forehead wrinkled with what appeared to be intense—and I do mean intense—concern.

  “Scarlet, honey—” His fingers pushed into my hair at my ear, making me jump. Immediately, he withdrew his hand. “Hey, are you okay? We don’t have to do this now.”

  My heart did a big old flip-flop—like a thunk ka-thunk—and I sucked in another breath. I exhaled it on a light laugh. The laugh definitely sounded zany, off-kilter. Biting my lip, I closed my eyes again. I couldn’t look at him and think.

  Maybe it was PTSD, or maybe all the food had gone to my brain and was making me act like a turkey. Whatever.

  Whatever.

  But this, all my insane noticing of Billy Winston, needed to stop.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine,” I said, saying the words so I could hear them.

  “You don’t sound fine. I can—”

  “Please change the bandage. I’m fine.” I made myself smile, opening my eyes, and placing a healthy amount of mental distance between us. The mental distance was surprisingly easy as soon as I reminded myself of all the actual, factual distance between us.

>   Yeah. Billy Winston was crazy beautiful and could be sweet sometimes. But we weren’t friends. He didn’t care about me. He was Mr. Popular and I was Smelly Scarlet. He hated the Wraiths and I was the president’s daughter. He’d wanted me gone less than a week ago.

  Fact, fact, fact.

  Billy had caught me off guard on Tuesday, that was all. His recent kindnesses—then and now—had snuck up on me.

  You don’t have to go all softhearted and boy crazy every time a cute guy treats you like a human, Scarlet.

  True. Very true. And very well said, Scarlet.

  Thank you, Scarlet.

  You’re quite welcome, Scarlet.

  “Go ahead,” I said serenely. Other than a bizarre sinking sensation in my stomach, I was now completely calm. “I’ll lie still.”

  His eyes searched mine, like I confused him, or the expression I wore was troubling. I thought maybe he was going to ask me something else, but after a moment he shook his head, and then he went to work. Lifting the shirt, exposing my back, peeling off the bandage, cleaning the wound. He even blew on it after he applied the alcohol, his eyes darting to mine.

  “Sorry if it stings. I don’t have hydrogen peroxide, only alcohol.”

  “I have peroxide at the camp.”

  He set back to work, blowing on the spot again before saying, “Next time we’ll change it there.”

  I nodded. And then stopped nodding, realizing what he’d just said. Next time.

  I gulped for a third time, but I refused to believe there would be a next time. He didn’t owe me anything, and I expected nothing from him.

  Billy picked up the ointment and placed some directly on the wound. I watched him and noticed when his eyes strayed to the rest of my exposed back. Though his expression didn’t change by much, I could see he was tallying up the marks, thinking, debating weighty matters. I braced myself for questions, my mind working to come up with ways I could deflect and distract. I didn’t want to answer any questions.

  “You know . . .” he started, sucked in a slow deep breath, and began again, “When I was twelve, I went after my father with a baseball bat.”

  I blinked, surprised by the unexpected turn of the conversation. “You went after Romeo—I mean, Darrell—with a bat when you were twelve?”

  He nodded, the side of his mouth hitching but his eyes held no smile.

  “Why on earth would you do that?” My voice pitched higher because I was shocked and I couldn’t control it.

  “Someone had to do something to get rid of him.” His tone grew hard, making me understand what folks meant when they said a voice like steel, and his gaze grew hazy, like he was within a memory.

  Unprompted, he said, “He still lived here most of the time back then. But, sometimes—not often enough—he’d disappear for a while. We’d all breathe easier when he was gone, even though each passing minute seemed like a tick tick tick of a countdown clock.”

  “I get that,” I said, and his stare refocused on mine. My breath caught. He looked so raw, unguarded, untamed.

  “I know you do,” he said, low and quiet and rough. But also solemn, like these words we were sharing, or about to share, were sacred.

  My heart quickened.

  He glanced down at the ointment container in his hands, and then placed it on the night table. “He didn’t beat my momma all the time when he was home. Sometimes, when I was real little, it even seemed like he loved us, loved her. I used to get mad at my mother for making him angry, thinking—if she’d just be nicer to him—he’d stop hitting her.” Billy chuckled lightly, a sound completely without humor. “But by the time I was eleven and twelve, I knew the truth. And I hated him.”

  Each rapid thud of my heart felt painful, the blood too thick. “What did you do?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  He smirked. “She was never going to leave him. No matter how bad he hurt her, she was never going to do it. I had to do something to make her leave him.”

  “Oh God, Billy.” A stinging rush of tears pricked my eyes. Unthinkingly, I reached my hand out and covered his. He fastened his attention to where we touched, grabbing my fingers and holding them tightly.

  “The day it happened, the day I provoked him, my mother was out. She was picking up everyone from school. Roscoe was somewhere, I don’t recall where. I remember thinking I could do it now that neither Ashley nor Roscoe were home. Jethro was in the backyard, feeding the goats and rabbits. I’d just finished with the chickens. It was just me and Darrell in the house. He was sitting in my grandmother’s chair, drinking beer.”

  I squeezed his hand tighter, bracing, my heart hurting so bad.

  “I don’t remember my mother coming home, he’d knocked me out. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. My mother told everyone I’d fallen out of a tree.” The side of his mouth hitched again, a glint of perverse satisfaction in his eyes. “She’d made a deal with Darrell: he would leave us all alone, and she wouldn’t press charges. She wanted a divorce, but he wouldn’t accept it, refused to sign any papers. They’re still married.”

  “Why didn’t she have him arrested?” The question shot out of me—the level of my anger, my outrage startling me—and he brought his gaze back to mine.

  “You know why, Scarlet.”

  I breathed out, distressed, restless, not wanting to accept this gross injustice. Except, he was right. I did know why. The Wraiths. They would’ve seen it as a betrayal by Bethany Winston against all of them. They would’ve considered her a traitor. She wouldn’t have known any peace.

  And yet—

  “But—but she could’ve moved. She could’ve taken you kids and left. They’re not all-powerful.”

  “A single mom, with no college degree, and seven kids,” he said flatly. “With no other family? No. Scarlet, no. I’m pretty sure she has money left from our grandparents, but not much after Darrell. And definitely not enough to sustain us for years without a good job. Do you know how much childcare costs? Healthcare? A lot. She gets good benefits at the library, flexibility. Folks here know her, look out for her. I understand why she never left Green Valley.”

  “She could’ve sold the house for money,” I said accusingly, knowing I sounded belligerent and childish.

  He gave me a small grin, lifting his hand to my hair, tucking it behind my ear, and moving it off my neck; I didn’t flinch this time. “That wouldn’t have been enough either.”

  Huffing, I frowned at him, my nose still stinging. “This is a terrible story.”

  “Yeah. It is.” He smiled at me, just a little one, his eyes all soft. “But Darrell hasn’t stepped foot on our property since. He’s left us alone.”

  The tenderness of his lingering gaze sent a surge of restlessness to my limbs. Suddenly, I felt caught, like he’d been spinning a web while I listened to his story, and I hadn’t realized until it was too late that he’d just irrevocably bound us together.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Now my heart was thudding for a completely different reason.

  I was afraid.

  I was afraid because good sense told me I didn’t want to be bound to Billy Winston. I didn’t want a connection with him, I didn’t want to understand him better or at all; I didn’t want to know his history, his struggles; I didn’t want to look at him and see anything other than the broody kid who I’d argued with as a child, or the broody and gorgeous, cold and aloof star quarterback of Green Valley high school.

  I didn’t want to know him.

  . . . Too late, Scarlet.

  Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his hand returning to the hair he’d just moved. He gently pushed his fingers into it, stroking and petting and—in that moment, after everything that had just been said—the action paralyzed me.

  I got the sense he needed the connection after the story he’d just told, to touch me, to feel something soft. And, DAMMIT, the reckless, nonsensical part of me—the part of me I was forever denying in order to survive and stay sane—wanted to be that something soft for him.r />
  And you know what? It felt so good. It felt more than good. It felt like the beginning of something terrible and beautiful and dangerous and wonderful. The more he touched my neck and hair, played with it, the more he seemed to draw strength from the gentle action, the more I felt myself slipping and falling and surrendering.

  His eyes followed the progress of his hand. My heart flip-flopped again—another thunk ka-thunk—and again I was noticing how gorgeous he was. But this time I didn’t want to look away, because this time it was more than just the outside. I was seeing Billy’s strength and vulnerability, and amazingly they were one and the same.

  “After, when I woke up,” he started again, his cadence lulling. “I didn’t regret what I’d done, but I was inconsolable. I did it on purpose, knowing what would happen, but I didn’t feel like myself. It wasn’t just the bruises. It was like Darrell had taken my sovereignty away, my autonomy. Like he’d taken away my trust in myself.”

  Now my heart stuttered, stopped, and my eyes stung like I’d been slapped. These words hit a bullseye within me, a secret one, an emotional target I’d never admitted existed, even to myself. My chin wobbled. I stopped it. My vision blurred. I blinked furiously.

  He was trying to catch my gaze, but I wouldn’t give it to him, looking everywhere but. Billy’s palm came to my upper back, rested there. The heat of it seeped through my shirt.

  “Scarlet, I don’t know how long this has been going on, but it needs to stop.”

  I pressed my lips together, closing my eyes before tears could spill. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Damn him! So this is why he’d told me his story. My mind was frantic. I couldn’t think.

  Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

  “I know you don’t want to talk about it, Scarlet. I know what you’re feeling. Maybe not all of it, maybe not exactly how you feel it, but I got a pretty good idea.”

  I tried to snatch my hand back from where our fingers entwined, my palm now cold and clammy. He wouldn’t let me retreat. Instead, he brought the back of my hand to his chest, pressing it against his heart such that I felt the steady, strong rhythm of him, and that hurt. Everywhere—behind my eyes, my stomach, my chest—it hurt.