Beard With Me: Winston Brothers Page 9

  So why was I grinning?

  He has . . . an amazing laugh.

  Authentic and abandoned, deep, rumbly, contagious. This was friendly laughter, not the mean kind, and friendly laughter was my weakness. I swallowed thickly, strangely anxious knowing I’d be thinking about his laugh later and it would probably make me smile.

  Billy glanced at me, drawing his legs up to sit next to me. He rested his forearms on his knees, giant smile in place, his face happy and open and blindingly handsome.

  Ah! He’s too good-looking like this! Make it stop!!

  Billy Winston’s handsomeness wasn’t a discovery, not really. I’d watched him grow. He was good-looking when we were kids, he was good-looking now, and he’d be good-looking as he got older. His daddy had a black soul but was one of the best-looking men I’d ever seen. That man was made ugly by his words and actions and deeds.

  But Billy? I was a bit startled to realize I’d never thought of Billy as ugly or even plain. Despite what I thought was his apparent dislike of me, I’d never thought of him as anything but handsome. And being this close to a smiling, seemingly happy Billy Winston—especially now that he’d shown me such kindness with the food and clothes and sleeping bag and such—felt a bit like being sucker punched in the stomach.

  I couldn’t catch my breath.

  “I am so sorry, Scarlet. I did not mean to scare you,” he said, his voice quiet and close and just as warm as his grin. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, that last bit? Where I tripped on the log?” I wrinkled my nose, my smile likely gooftastic because the Grand Dame of Dorkiness had decided to show her face. “That was part of the choreography. I planned that.”

  Billy’s shoulders started to shake again, and he dropped his chin between the circle made by his arms, mostly hiding his face.

  “Next, I crawl around on the ground and act like a cat,” I added, peering at him and waiting. I wanted to see his smile again.

  But he covered his mouth with a hand, his shoulders continuing to shake. Shoot.

  “And then—and this is the best part—I tuck my ankles behind my head and walk around on my hands.”

  Now Billy buried his face in both his hands, laughing again in earnest.

  “And for the encore—”

  “Stop. Oh my God. Please stop.” He wiped at his eyes, sniffing, and blinking a few times. “No more. I surrender. I did not mean to scare you, I swear. My jaw hurts from laughing.”

  I mentally devoured this picture of him, feeling greedy for it. It was like looking at a painting or a sculpture, an intensely gorgeous piece of art. Have you ever known someone like that? Who takes your breath away when they smile? Gawd.

  “Please accept my apology,” he said, turning his face back to mine.

  Now that I know your heart, I’ll forgive you anything.

  “Of course.” We stared at each other and his smile waned over time, became a small one, and it was me who tore my eyes away, shaking my head of silly thoughts.

  “What are you doing out here?” Ugh. My voice sounded weird and I was still having trouble with the breathing thing. Knowing myself, I knew all of this—liking his laugh so much and suddenly thinking he was breathtaking—had more to do with the kindness he’d shown me than his face.

  I’d wanted to thank him, tell him how grateful I was for what he’d done, but I didn’t want to make things weird or uncomfortable by drawing attention to it.

  When he didn’t answer straightaway, I glanced at him. Billy’s smile had fallen, and the happy light in his gaze had dwindled. He looked more like himself—serious, formal—but his eyes were still fastened to my face.

  “I—uh—wanted to talk to you.”

  “Okay.” I nodded, still grinning, my heart bursting. “But before you say anything, I wanted to thank you.”

  “Thank me?” He sat taller, his eyebrows pulling together.

  “That’s right. And, I guess, apologize.” Something about being so close to him was making me even more nervous, so I pushed myself up to my feet.

  “You want to apologize? To me?”

  Untangling my headphones from around my neck, I gave him a quick smile, and placed my CD Walkman inside my tent. “Yeah, I should. ’Cause I misjudged you and I owe you an apology for that.”

  “How did you misjudge me?”

  I wiped my hands on my new jeans and tucked my hair behind my ears, standing in front of him and having trouble meeting his eyes. “So, I thought, when your momma first talked to me, telling me that she knew I was camping out here because you told her, I thought you told her ’cause you wanted me gone. You wanted to get rid of me.”

  I’d been thinking about him all weekend, reframing my mental image of Billy Winston, replaying the sparse moments between us in my head from the last few years. He cared so much about his family, I saw that now. He loved them something fierce, and I’d been seeing only the ferocity, not the love.

  Billy’s head turned to the side slightly, like he was giving me his chin. His cool eyes moved down and up my person. “You thought I wanted you gone?”

  “I did.” Now I laughed, crossing my arms and looking anywhere but at him, his handsome face felt like too much.

  I officially had another harmless crush. Lord help me.

  But how could I not notice how beautiful he was on the outside knowing he had a heart to match? After his surprising compassion, how could I not have warm feelings for him?

  “I’m so sorry I thought that about you,” I went on. “And I wanted to thank you for talking to your momma on my behalf.”

  “She told you I spoke to her on your behalf?” He sounded disbelieving.

  “Oh, don’t feel weird about her telling me. I know it doesn’t mean anything, other than you being a good, kind person. And I don’t expect anything from y’all, or that we’ll be friends or anything.” At this I lowered my chin, giving him my very best expectationless smile, feeling like I was fudging this up with my weirdness and over-honesty. “I have no expectations of that. I just—well, I wanted to say thank you. It’s important to show gratitude when folks treat you—me—with compassion instead of pity. There’s a difference between the two, and I’m appreciative is all. So . . . thank you.”

  All through this last bit, Billy watched me patiently from where he sat, his gaze seeming to focus inward, and then outward, and then inward again, like he was searching my words for hidden meanings and intentions.

  I thought maybe he was worried I didn’t mean what I’d said about having no expectations. Maybe he needed more assurances that I’d keep my distance at school.

  So I blurted, “Really, Billy. I promise, I won’t tell a soul. I’ll keep outta sight, like I always have. I don’t talk to anybody anyway, not really, so you don’t have to worry. I’ll keep my distance. You won’t see me, you won’t hear me, it’ll be like this never happened.”

  His eyebrows pulled together as I tripped over the words and his lips pulled at the corners with a frown. He stared at me, good and hard, like he was trying to figure out if I was telling the truth.

  For good measure, I trailed my thumb and forefinger along my lips and turned my wrist, like my mouth was sealed with a lock and I was throwing away the key.

  Billy sighed, like it pained him or something. And then he closed his eyes, his chest expanding with a giant inhale as he stood and dusted off his hands on the back of his jeans.

  “Scarlet . . .” He sighed again, looking torn. He shook his head, and then leveled me with a direct stare. “I am not a good, kind person.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him, another of my goofy grins—I’m sure—in place. “What? Of course you are.”

  “No. I’m not.” He continued to frown at me, his gaze—somehow both warm and cool—moving over my face, and his lips were parted like he hadn’t decided whether or not to say the thing he was thinking.

  Now I was worried. “Have you . . .” My heart was bouncing around my chest, not knowing whether to climb or plummet. “Have you changed
your mind?”

  At that, he smiled, all soft like, and huffed a laugh, looking lost and not at all like himself. “I guess I have.”

  My face fell and I stumbled back, twisting my fingers and dropping my gaze. “I said I promise I won’t bother you at school. What else can I—”

  “No. No, no, no.” He rushed forward, but then stopped short of touching me. “No. You should stay. Stay here. You’re right. My momma is right. No one will find out. It’ll be fine.”

  I lifted my eyes, searching his. “But you just—”

  “You were right. I wanted you gone,” he said, blunt as a spoon. “That’s why I told my mom you were here last week.”

  My mouth fell open.

  But just for a second. I closed it quick enough and grit my teeth, absorbing this blow and feeling like a complete and utter fool. And he let me go on and on, apologizing, thanking him, promising to stay out of his way.

  What. An. ASSHOLE.

  “But she was right to let you stay,” he added evenly, taking a step back as he surveyed me, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You should stay.”

  You should stay, he said.

  But what I heard was, I feel sorry for you, so I guess you can stay.

  A breath tumbled out of me, all those warm feelings falling to the dirt, replaced with swirling artic winds of resentment. I turned away from him, staring at the campfire, and wanting—again—to scream.

  Because, what could I do? My options were: accept Billy—asshole—Winston’s pity, or leave. My mind warred with itself, random thoughts flying around my head.

  Always trust your instincts about people. You thought he was a jerk. Guess what? SURPRISE! He’s a jerk.

  “Scarlet?”

  I could move camp closer to the school. That’s Principal Sylvester’s property, and if he found me, I’m pretty sure he’d have me arrested.

  “Hey. Did you hear what I said? You don’t have to go.”

  But anything is better than staying here . . .

  “Scarlet—”

  “Well.” The word came out rough, garbled. I cleared my throat. I faced him. He flinched back at my expression, his eyes darting over my face. “While I appreciate your very generous offer of pity, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

  He lifted an eyebrow while also frowning in an impressive show of broody superiority. “You’ll have to decline?”

  “Yes. Thank you, but no thank you.” For some reason, I gave him a curtsy. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to do.”

  Billy’s mouth fell right open at the same time his eyebrows shot high on his forehead. “You’re—you—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll leave all your stuff. Maybe it’s not too late to return it. Except, you know, the underwear I’ve got on. But I have some money saved up. I’ll pay you back. I wouldn’t want to put y’all out.” I ignored the hard, sharp ache around my heart, knowing I was cutting off my nose to spite my face.

  But I couldn’t.

  I can’t.

  I could not accept Billy Winston’s pity. No way. NO DAMN WAY.

  “Now hold on—” He reached for my arm as I turned and I shrugged him off roughly, glaring at him with every ounce of disgust and pride I had left.

  Which, apparently, was more than I thought. Go me.

  He looked frustrated. “I said you should stay.”

  “And I said no thank you.”

  He exhaled, the sound sorta like a rumble. “Scarlet St. Claire, you are being stubborn and stupid.”

  I laughed, glancing around the campsite, taking mental stock of everything that was mine. Walkman and batteries and headphones, blanket from that last visit to Goodwill, pillow, food from school, protein bars, bottle of water, rope from the junkyard, backpack, my old clothes . . .

  Huh. Well. On the bright side, shouldn’t be too hard to carry.

  I lowered to my knees in front of my backpack and forced my hands to move slowly as I folded my clothes, carefully placing them inside. I also had a canvas bag around here somewhere, maybe under the Winstons’ blanket?

  Billy, meanwhile, watched me. I wished he would leave, but I couldn’t force him, so I ignored his odious presence (I’d just learned the word odious this last week and now I loved it). I folded the beautiful new clothes Mrs. Winston had given me, gently returning them to their bags. I rolled up the sleeping bag and secured it with the ties. I took down my clothesline, looping it around my arm and hand.

  But when I pulled the first stake from the tent, Billy made a loud growling sound, like an angry bear. Or a mountain lion. Or a really pissed off sixteen-year-old boy who wasn’t getting his way.

  “I swear to God, Scarlet. You are the most stubborn, infuriating, irritating person I have ever met.” He placed himself between me and the tent, as though protecting it from my destruction. “What is it going to take to get you to stay? What do I have to do?”

  I didn’t believe he was sincere, so I asked for something ridiculous. “Apologize.”

  “Fine. Sorry. I’m very, very sorry. I’ve never been so sorry in my entire life. Happy?”

  I looked at him, surprised. Well. That was easy. Too easy. Folding my arms, glowering, I worked to determine what percentage of his apology was sarcasm and how much was genuine remorse. Or, I could just ask for something else ridiculous.

  “And I want you to stop acting like you’re so much better than me.”

  He blinked, frowning, like I’d surprised him or struck a nerve.

  His eyes seemed to gentle by the barest degree and the muscle at his jaw ticked giving me the sense my words frustrated him but didn’t irritate him. “If I do that, then I apologize. I do not believe I am better than you.” His tone was plain and firm and direct.

  I examined him and this latest apology. So formal.

  And yet, if it hadn’t been formal, it wouldn’t have been sincere. I wouldn’t have believed him. Taking a deep breath, I continued to swap stares with him, not sure what to do next.

  He waited for a time, and then he gave me a grim smile, more like a baring of teeth. “Am I forgiven?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Billy’s eyelids drooped, his stare not quite a scowl. “Fine,” he said through a clenched jaw. “Will you stay?”

  Hmmm.

  “I’ll think about that too.”

  Now he did scowl, taking a silent, quick deep breath. “What else do you want?” he asked very slowly, his voice dark, deep, and communicating infinite levels of frustration.

  For reasons unknown, that made me want to laugh. I turned away, deciding it was best he didn’t see me fighting a delighted smile at his obvious annoyance, and debated what to do next. My attention snagged on the thing he’d placed on the ground earlier, when he’d surprise-scared me and I took a tumble backward over a log.

  It looked like . . .

  “What is that? Is that a guitar?” I pointed to the black case sitting on the ground, turning a questioning frown on Billy.

  “Yes. That is a guitar.”

  I looked between him and it. “Why’d you bring it?”

  His eyes flashed, full of frigid ire. “I’d planned to teach you how to play it.”

  “Teach me?” I’m sure my eyes were big as quarters.

  “Yes,” he ground out.

  “To play the guitar?”

  Despite myself, and who he was, and the emotional roller coaster I’d just been on, this idea excited me. Therefore, my voice had pitched higher, betraying my excitement. Before, when he asked me what I wanted from him, I couldn’t think of a single thing, not really.

  Not until now.

  Billy nodded, the side of his mouth tugging upward the barest fraction of a millimeter before he firmed his lips. I couldn’t tell if that trace of a smile was amusement or sinister or what. I didn’t know Billy Winston’s smiles.

  “But why?” I was still excited by the thought of learning how to play—as I’d always desperately wanted to learn a musical instrument—but offeri
ng to teach someone when you just wanted them gone didn’t make any sense. “Why would you offer to teach me the guitar?”

  “Because I . . .” he hesitated, looking torn for just a split second. But then, all doubt—and feeling—cleared out of his expression. He began again, using that voice of his: plain and direct, calm. “The truth is, I thought maybe if we did something fun it wouldn’t hurt your feelings as much when I asked you to leave.”

  I shivered, just a little one. Gosh, he was so cold. This is Darrell.

  I swallowed at the thought. This, right here, how emotionless and unfeeling he came across, that was what Darrell Winston was like when he thought no one important was watching. But when he was around people he wanted to impress or con, Darrell was a master charmer, which was how he got his club name, Romeo. The man’s charisma felt like a tractor beam.

  Jethro had that charisma in spades. I’d never seen Jethro aloof though, only friendly. And his friendliness never seemed like an act to me.

  But Billy, obviously he’d inherited the glacial gene.

  “You don’t want to teach me anymore?” I asked, just as direct.

  “No reason to.”

  I squinted at him, crossing my arms. Asshole. “What if I’ll only stay if you teach me how to play that guitar?”

  His eyes also narrowed, just marginally, but he gave nothing of his thoughts away. He’d be a fierce poker opponent. I bet on the football field he was scary as hell.

  “If . . .” he started, letting the word hang out there like steak sauce with no steak (pointless) for a good while. Drawing himself up to his full height, which was very high, he lifted his chin. “I’ll teach you, if you promise to stay.”

  Biting the inside of my bottom lip to keep myself from agreeing too fast—because I wanted to yell YES! and be done with it—I forced myself to think his offer over.

  “No other stipulations? You teach me, I stay?”

  He nodded once.

  “And you have to teach me more than once. You have to follow up.”