Perfect Kind Of Trouble

12 Daren

Well that didn’t go at all like I’d expected—and not just because I didn’t recover my box of baseball cards. Watching Kayla’s face filter through all those emotions as we moved through the house was rough.

She acts bitter and angry toward her father, but her facial expressions as we walked from room to room were anything but. She’s hurt, obviously, but she also seems sad. And lonely. Two sentiments I’m far too familiar with.

And the fact that she didn’t know about her own trust fund threw another wrench into my pile of Kayla Turner preconceptions. James wasn’t lying about setting up a trust fund for his daughter. But Kayla wasn’t lying about not having one either. Which most likely means Gia was the fibber in the family. Yikes.

I follow Kayla to the car and we climb inside, awkwardly fumbling before finally plopping in our seats.

As she puts her seat belt on and drives away, the wisps of blonde escaping her hair tie drift away from her face revealing her flushed cheeks and blue eyes, lost in thought.

Her lips are coated with some kind of clear gloss, shining against the pale skin of her chin and throat as she bites down on the bottom one. I stare at her bitten lip, now slightly swollen, and the sight of her thighs, right next to my mouth when I sat up from searching under the couch, flashes in my mind.

It was all I could do to not flick my tongue out and run it up the soft skin of her legs. And from the way her eyelids had grown heavy as she stared down at me, she probably would have let me. Hell, she probably would have grabbed my head and directed my tongue where to go.

Growing hard, I shift in my seat and try to get myself under control.

Dammit. I shouldn’t have kissed her last night. If I hadn’t pressed my mouth to hers and felt her tongue roll over mine, then I’d surely have more control over myself today. But I couldn’t help myself. Something about Kayla drew me in like a siren song, enchanting and impossible to resist. And much like the Siren’s prey, I’m now surely doomed. Because now I’ve tasted Kayla and all I want is more.

Things would have been fine if she hadn’t sunk into the kiss with such craving. If she had kissed me back with your typical strangers-kissing-in-a-parking-lot desire—you know, part curiosity, part greed—I could have been satisfied with just one kiss.

But Kayla kissed me back with the passion of a long-lost lover. Desperation on her lips. Sounds of desire escaping her throat. She kissed me back like I was something she needed. I’ve never felt needed like that before.

We come to a stoplight and the engine idles loudly. The light turns green and the engine groans before we’re on the move again. Looking out the windshield, I stare at the rusted hood of her little green car and frown.

Just another unexpected piece of the Kayla Turner puzzle.

Stitched up clothes, empty trust fund, a run-down vehicle…

Is it possible I was wrong about Kayla? Was she telling the truth about being broke?

“So,” Kayla says into the silence. “Instead of leaving our inheritance in a bank account, my father stashed it in a train station locker. Super safe, Dad.”

I quietly laugh. “Yeah, it’s not the most secure place in the world. But I guess it makes sense. He really liked the train station.”

“That’s right,” she says slowly, nodding. A hint of a smile tugs at her lips. “He used to talk about how the train brought Copper Springs to life. He’d say”—she lowers her voice—“Before the train got here, this town was just a plot of land. But the train brought people—”

“And the people brought heart,” I finish.

She smiles with a nod then glances at me curiously. “So what’s the deal with you and my dad? You guys were close?”

I inhale deeply and shrug. “My dad wasn’t the greatest. He was a decent businessman but he wasn’t a great father. Your dad, though, he was all right.” I look at her. “Did you know they used to be good friends, our dads?”

She furrows her brow and shakes her head.

“They were golf buddies,” I say. “I used to caddie for my dad sometimes. Not because I cared about the game but because I liked being around my dad. It made me feel like I was important to him, you know? So Turner—your dad—got to know me when I was a kid on the golf course. My relationship with Pop was strained and Turner saw that.

“Your dad offered me a job taking care of his lawn when I was young and at first I was like hell no. I was a rich kid. I didn’t need to work. But my dad would constantly say, ‘People without money or power are useless to me,’ and being a jobless, powerless kid, I was one of those people. So I thought if I could make my own money then maybe my dad wouldn’t think of me as useless anymore—”

“What?” she squawks, holding up a hand. “No offense, but your dad sounds like a dick.”

I nod. “Oh, he is. Trust me.”

She waves me on. “Please continue.”

I swallow. “I didn’t want my dad to think I was useless so I took Turner up on his offer and started mowing the lawn. Over the years, my relationship with Pop just got worse. He and my mom went through some shit that you might not have heard—”

“You mean the Reverend Keeton thing?”

I cock my head. “How do you know about that?”

She shrugs. “I was good friends with Lana Morris growing up and she always filled me in on the latest Copper Springs gossip.”

“How nice of her to keep you in the loop,” I say dryly. “But yeah. My mom left my dad and married Amber’s dad, and the town brought out their pitchforks for both our families. All hell broke loose and my mom and Brad got divorced. Then my mom moved to Boston and my dad sort of spiraled down a dark path of booze. So while my own parents were pretty self-involved and caught up in all their crazy drama, your dad was there for me.” I laugh softly. “Sometimes I hated it because he was always giving me advice and trying to keep me in line. But most of the time, it just felt good to be noticed, you know?” I gaze out at the road. “Then last year, someone I really cared about—a girl named Charity—died in a car accident. For a while, I blamed myself for her death. I became self-destructive and didn’t really want to live anymore. I was on the edge. But two people helped pull me back; made me believe there was something important inside of me. One of them was my boss, Ellen.” I pause. “And the other was your dad.”

Charity’s death—among other unfortunate events last year—really ripped me up. Afterward, Turner could see it in my eyes: the recklessness; the blatant disregard I had for myself. So he gave me more work. He wanted more things planted in the garden and more trees pruned around the yard. And while I was busy tending to all that, he was at my side, planting new vegetables and trimming the hedges right along with me. Most days, we worked in comfortable silence. But every now and then, Turner would ask about my life then comment on how well I was “handling” everything. I started to live for those moments—the brief exchanges between us where he would praise me and I wouldn’t feel like a total failure. And then one day, I was better. Not healed completely, but better. Because of Turner.

“So yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “He and I used to be pretty close.”

As I watch the road fly by, my chest starts to hurt. I should have kept in contact with Turner instead of wallowing in my own problems this past year. I should have tried harder to show him how important he was to me.

Kayla eyes me in silence, her free hand wrapping around the steering wheel tightly. Then she quietly and sincerely says, “Well I’m glad he was there for someone,” and returns her gaze to the road.

I stare out the window. Me too.