His Custody Page 15

  She was eighteen and he was thirty-two and her guardian. No way, no how should he think of her as anything but a child whose life he was responsible for. When she pulled away, the earnest delight made it easier to remember. No grown woman would let that amount of glee shine so brightly on her face. It was like the way kids laughed, with total abandon. He promptly forgot when she came up on tip-toe and laid a hand on his chest while she kissed him on the cheek.

  A whisper of breath, the press of her lips against his skin. A far off humming sounded, the echo familiar but one he couldn’t quite wrap his head around because he was so busy willing his body to obey him. What the fuck kind of grown man gets hard from a kiss on the cheek? Maybe one who hadn’t slept with a woman in almost a year. Surely that was the reason, not that he had a specific affinity for Keyne.

  He tried to clear the gruffness from his throat but his voice was gravelly when he put a hand to the small of her back and urged her down the cracked and uneven concrete path toward the double doors.

  “Come on, don’t want to be late.”

  They weren’t. They sat toward the back and Keyne babbled about all the productions she’d seen before, not seeming to notice all the attention she, possibly they, were attracting. He heard more than one gossip speculate to their neighbor that Keyne was that famous actress, you know, the one who’d been in that movie.

  The lights went down and it was announced that the role of Michael would be played by the understudy, owing to the original Michael having come down with chicken pox. The production was . . . not the most professional one he’d ever seen. Replacement Michael forgot his lines more often than not and seemed to be taking direction from someone stage left, possibly his mother. Peter’s entrance was delayed by a difficulty with the rigging and the ticking of the alligator sounded more like an ill-behaved egg timer than a clock. He didn’t care.

  Keyne was delighted. Couldn’t take her eyes off the stage. Would lean over and whisper, her breath hot on his ear, or grab his arm when one of her favorite parts was coming up. She had a lot of favorite parts. It required an immense amount of strength to not take her chin between his fingers and turn her face to his to be kissed, thoroughly.

  It was such a waste for her not to be kissed. Someone should. He made a note to remind her she was required to go to prom, which was coming up in a few weeks. She didn’t have to have a date—she could go with friends—but she had to go.

  During intermission, he bought Keyne concession stand popcorn and a ginger ale. People stared at them and pointed. When she noticed, Keyne giggled.

  “Who do you think they think we are?”

  Most of them were probably trying to figure out if Keyne was his daughter or his lover. He’d never laid a hand on her, not like that, but even so sometimes he forgot. “At least a few of them think you’re some Hollywood starlet. They probably think I’m your manager. Or your bodyguard. Maybe your accountant.”

  She laughed and took a pull on her straw. The amber bubbles traveled toward her mouth, and a stab of envy worked its way through his chest. He’d like to work his way between her perfectly curved pink lips, too.

  After she’d swallowed, she shook her head. “You’re too hot to be my manager. And an accountant wouldn’t wear a tux. I bet they think you’re James Bond.”

  He could’ve come back with some dry retort like James Bond isn’t a real person, Keyne, but he wanted to see her laugh again, so instead he cocked an eyebrow and drew his hands into a gun shape at his chest. “Double-oh-seven at your service.”

  Her giggles were drowned out by the noise of the crowd as flickering lights announced the end of intermission.

  The rest of the show was just as fraught with errors, but it was the most memorable production he’d ever seen. He made a note to send the Keep Community Children’s Theater a sizable donation. He might not be able to recall the cringe-worthy details, but he would always remember the unadulterated joy on Keyne’s face. He would tuck that memory away in some secret place no one else could see and dig it up when things with her got hard.

  He got ready for bed straight after tucking Keyne in. His heart was full and he wanted to enjoy the sensation instead of letting his brain, full of numbers and figures and worries, take over. He was in bed about to drift off when the knock at the door came.

  Throwing aside the covers, he pulled on the T-shirt he kept by the bed and strode to the door. Had she had a nightmare? She hadn’t had one for months. At least not one she’d woken him up for. She probably did most nights, but she could soothe herself back to sleep by rubbing the star on her bracelet between her fingers.

  “Keyne?”

  She stood there in the hall, not in tears as he’d expected, but uncertain. One of her skinny legs was turned out at an awkward angle from those tiny shorts she wore to bed and she was biting her lips between her teeth, her hands twisted in front of her.

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “. . . Yes.” What was her point?

  Pain like he’d only felt once before ripped through him. She was going to tell him she wanted to leave. She wasn’t a minor anymore, she could be on her own, she didn’t need him, and she wanted out. He could see the words forming on her lips and he clenched his hands by his sides so he wouldn’t grab her above the elbow and drag her back to her room and lock her inside. She was not going to leave. She wasn’t going to leave him.

  His features worked into hard-won neutrality. Let her say it. Let her say it and he would placate her, tell her they could talk about it in the morning when she wasn’t so tired. He’d stay up all night composing speeches about why it would be better to wait until she was in college. Or maybe after college. Or, if he let himself think it, maybe never. Regardless of how long, she didn’t need to be in such a hurry. He’d talked scions of industry into all sorts of things, surely he could—

  “That means they can’t take me away from you, right?”

  Her eyes blinked fast and she swallowed, her face twisting in anxiety.

  “Right.” He was hazy on the details, but he could get Deja to explain it to him. At the very least, they could have her declared an adult and she could come back to him. One way or another, he would honor the promise he’d made to her. She would always have a home with him, he would always be there for her. He’d never leave her alone.

  “Then can I . . . can I—”

  Her face screwed up into a mask of stubbornness and instead of finishing her question, she plowed past him into his room, shut his door and dragged him over to his bed. He was stunned into speechlessness when she pushed him onto it.

  “Move over.”

  “Keyne—”

  “I said move over, Jas. I’m tired and I’m cold. I want to go to bed.”

  Goosebumps pricked at her skin and her arms were folded over her chest. Challenge burned in her eyes, daring him to say no. What would he give as an excuse? He’d confirmed they wouldn’t take her away. Of course, he should say it was inappropriate. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t against the law, it was still wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong.

  He could count the things he wanted more than Keyne O’Connell sound asleep in his bed, making her piglet snores, on one hand. Given wishing had never brought anyone back from the dead, he’d settle for the next best thing: protecting her, keeping her safe.

  The desires warred in his head while she stood there, shivering.

  Finally the one he always knew would win out, did. He turned and swung his legs onto the bed, slid under the covers and held them open for her. Keyne crawled up, settled into him until they were nested like spoons and he laid his arm over her. All of her muscles relaxed against him and soon the strange melody of her snuffling filled the air. He breathed in the scent of her hair as he kissed the top of her head.

  “Welcome home, Tinker Bell.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  June

  Prom night. O
f all the things Jasper had made her do in the service of being a real girl—who the fuck was she, Pinocchio?—this had to be the worst. The hotel ballroom was decked out in ridiculous fashion, tons of black bunting everywhere, and silver stars dripping from the ceiling. Gavin would’ve loved it. Probably would’ve joined the prom committee and made them hang actual constellations instead of the random sprays they appeared to be in.

  Gavin.

  They’d talked about this night so many times. And in true Gavin fashion, he’d been more excited about it than her. They’d get a limo with all their friends, he’d wear a tux and she would wear a big poufy princess dress, and when the night was over . . . Well, that wasn’t worth thinking about, because she wasn’t here with Gavin, she was here with Elliott Bishop. Who she suspected has asked her on a dare, and the only reason she hadn’t refused right away was that she’d been so stunned, she couldn’t think of anything to say, and Gabby had said yes for her.

  It’s possible she could’ve taken it back, but then she would’ve been the only one of her friends with no date, and there was only so much being thought of as pathetic a girl could handle. So here she was, on the arm of Elliott Bishop. It could’ve been worse. Elliott wasn’t horrible. He was just bland, and young, stupid, and completely lacking charm.

  The best part of her evening so far had been seeing the vein in Jasper’s temple pulse when Elliott had picked her up. It was probably wrong but it had delighted her that Jasper had seemed . . . jealous? No, couldn’t be. What did Jasper have to be jealous of Elliott for? Jasper was far better looking in his craggy way. That was probably just wishful thinking on her part, linked in no way whatsoever to reality.

  Even though she could swear sometimes that the way Jasper looked at her wasn’t just protective but maybe possessive? A girl could dream. And she had. Oh, had she ever. It started out the same way each time. With her back in Jasper’s bed, him curled around her in the early silent hours, with his hardness digging into her back. But instead of running off to the shower as soon as he woke, he’d stroke her arm instead, smooth her hair away from her neck and start to kiss her, from just behind her ear all the way to her collar bone.

  Which is when she’d realize she wasn’t wearing any clothes. She was naked in Jasper’s bed, although her brain had decided not to take the same liberty with him, and he was still wearing his boxers and his T-shirt.

  He’d lick, nibble, and yes, outright bite her there, sinking teeth into her shoulder until it hurt, but only in a way that made her want to hurt more. Not in the same way she’d want to hurt when she’d cut herself, but in a strangely pleasurable way. It made her feel vital, fragile as well as strong, and possibly best—and most wickedly of all—owned. As if she was his, and he would sink his teeth into her flesh, mark her skin, perhaps even draw her blood because he wanted to and every inch of her belonged to him.

  And when he’d finally release her, he’d roll her onto her back and pin her down with a fistful of hair before claiming her mouth in a brutal kiss. She wouldn’t have a choice, she’d have to kiss him back, but the truth is, she didn’t want one.

  The thought of it made her insides swirl. With shock, with love because she loved Jasper more than anyone else alive, with embarrassment because if Jasper knew, he’d let her down easy—tell her she was beautiful and would make some guy very happy someday, just not him because that wasn’t okay. And somewhere in there were the first blatantly sexual feelings she’d had since her family had died.

  It had taken a long time for her sex drive to dig out of the rubble of depression and grief and frustration and loneliness, but there it was, and of course it couldn’t have attached itself to someone reasonable like Elliott Bishop, but instead had latched on to Jasper. Which was frankly embarrassing and she should keep her face shut about it. Because what Jasper didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and she didn’t know what she’d do if he wouldn’t touch her anymore.

  So instead, here she was in the middle of the dance floor, swaying awkwardly with Elliott, who couldn’t seem to decide what to do with his hands and who’d stepped on her dress more than once. He was holding her, awkwardly, and it made her want to go home to Jasper, and be held by someone who meant it. Maybe if she left right now, they could do some crosswords together after Jasper set an unnecessary but comforting fire.

  She tried peeking over Elliott’s shoulder to see if there was a clock anywhere in sight, but there wasn’t. Noticing her distraction, Elliott leaned down and spoke in her ear, trying to make himself heard above the too-loud music.

  “Want to get out of here? Some place quieter?”

  Keyne nodded without thinking, and his face lit up. Ugh, what had she just agreed to? She’d just meant to maybe take a walk out into the lobby, away from all the finery-clad bodies and their enthusiastic dancing, all of their goddamn teen spirit. But no teenage guy looked that excited about the prospect of chilling in a hotel lobby. He’d clearly—

  “Cool.” He slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his tux, and Keyne had to keep from rolling her eyes when he extracted a hotel keycard. Because of course he’d gotten a room. And of course he was expecting something to happen that was worthy of the few hundred bucks he’d likely shelled out for it. “I got a bottle of champagne, too.”

  Could he be any more cliché? If there were rose petals on the bed, she was going to vomit. Although maybe if he’d gotten some chocolates, too, they could sit on the king-sized bed he’d no doubt sprung for, eating sweets, drinking champagne, and watching something stupid on pay-per-view. It wouldn’t be so bad. Even lackluster Elliott couldn’t ruin a Marvel marathon.

  “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

  ***

  The door creaked open. He’d sent Ada away, told her he’d wait up for Keyne himself. Partly, he wanted to see her in her dress again. She’d been so fucking gorgeous it had been all he could do to not drag her to her room and lock her in there until she was of an age he could reasonably and respectably have his way with her.

  The answer to that question, however, was never. It would never be okay for him to pursue her the way he’d come to want her. So he’d smiled instead, and wished her and that smarmy fuck a good time.

  He hated thinking about that kid’s hands roaming over her as they danced, or in the back of his car. What high school senior needed a Porsche, anyway? He should’ve insisted Edwin drive them. Fuck that, he should have told her she wasn’t allowed to go. But prom was a rite of passage and damn it, she was going to experience every single motherfucking last one of them. It was the least he could do.

  And coming home after midnight on prom night was one of them. Hell, if Gavin were still alive, he and Keyne would’ve been holed up in a hotel room right now, going at it like bunnies. Joyful, innocent, sweet, cotton candy sex. For the ten millionth time, he wished he could take Gavin’s place in that crypt. Hurt for his brother and all the things he’d never get to have. Far too soon. There were still so many things he’d wanted to tell Gavin, so many things he’d wanted to say, so much wisdom he’d wanted to impart. And if Gavin could’ve seen Keyne tonight . . .

  The puffy green skirt of her dress came into view before the rest of her did and Jasper looked up over the book he’d been pretending to read. “Hey, sweetheart, how was—”

  She didn’t look at him as she stomped past. She must’ve taken her shoes off because the hem was dragging on the ground.

  “Keyne?”

  She didn’t stop, didn’t answer, so he followed her down the hall to her room where she flung open the door and threw herself across her bed. There wasn’t any weeping or muffled sobs, but clearly the evening had not gone as planned. He sat down on the bed.

  “Elliott Bishop is an asshole.”

  His first impulse was to raid the gun safe, hunt the fucker down and kill him, but that probably wasn’t Keyne’s motivation in telling him. He took a deep breath and waited for her to say more
.

  “He got a hotel room.” No murder, no murder, no murder. “I didn’t want to fool around, but I was sick of being down there with everyone else. It’s not like we’d been dating before. I thought maybe . . . maybe . . .”

  “Maybe you could make out and order room service, call it a night?” He was teasing, but didn’t miss the pink flush that crept over the back of her neck. She had. He hadn’t realized . . .

  “Tonight was supposed to be special.” She rolled over and her eyes were red.

  “Did that fucker—”

  “No. He tried to feel me up but it was gross. Then he told me I was being a prude and tried to get under my skirt. That’s when I told him if he got much farther, I was going to put him on the ground with his head between my legs and it was going to be a lot less fun than it sounded because I’d gouge his eyes out and crush his skull like it was a grape.”

  The laugh burst out of Jasper. He wanted to high-five her so badly he could taste it, and god he wished there were someone he could tell this to who wouldn’t think it was entirely inappropriate. Leisl would appreciate it and wouldn’t look at him like he was some pedophile. “You said that?”

  “Yeah.”

  She was silent and stared up at the ceiling. It might be hilarious to him, but it was another low for her. He flopped down beside her, laced his hands behind the back of his head and stared at the same ceiling, wishing he could see what she saw. “I’m sorry, Keyne. I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time, I’m sorry your date was an asshole. I wanted you to have fun, be a kid for a night.”

  Whenever he said stuff like that, she rolled her eyes, sometimes tried to punch him. Not tonight. She closed her eyes and then in a crackly, about-to-cry whisper, said, “I wish Gavin were here.”