Текст книги "Perfect Kind Of Trouble"

Автор книги: Chelsea Fine

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

10 Daren

When I fantasize about being handcuffed to a hot blonde, there’s usually not a balding lawyer and a last will and testament involved. But standing in Eddie’s cluttered office with Kayla at my side, I realize that perhaps I haven’t been dreaming big enough. Because unlike my other fantasies this one might end with a few dollars in my pocket—if I can handle being handcuffed to Kayla all day without touching her.

I shouldn’t have kissed her last night. I don’t regret it—not in the slightest—but I still shouldn’t have done it. I knew the moment she pulled away what a mistake it was. Because I cared.

I cared that she changed her mind and no longer wanted my hands on her. I cared that she politely rejected me. I took it personally, and I never take anything girl-related personally.

My first instinct was to do better, for Christ’s sake. To do better and earn her approval; win her affections.

I’ve made a point in life not to seek out the admiration of any one woman. Women in general, sure. I want females as a whole to like me and enjoy my company—and I strive to achieve just that. But I don’t work for the approval of any one specific girl. Not ever.

I’ve learned the hard way that wanting, or working, for such a thing is useless, and will leave me burned.

I really hope my gut reaction to Kayla pulling out of my arms last night was a momentary weakness and nothing more.

Looking at her now, as we stand in Eddie’s office, I can’t help but think back to how she felt in my arms, all supple and needy. God, she was hot. And she was honestly into it too, like a hungry wolf with a slab of meat as she moaned and wriggled against me.

There’s a difference between the whimper of a woman who’s just having fun and the sound of a woman starving for pleasure. And Kayla Turner needs to be pleased. Badly.

But not by me, apparently. She probably thinks she’s too good for me. And in reality, she is. But the truth still stings.

Eddie looks down at our outstretched wrists and chuckles. “Well I’m pleased to hear that.” He waves our hands down. “You can relax, though. First I need you to sign some documents.” Slipping on his glasses, he moves around his desk and starts fumbling through papers. “Now where… did I put… those documents from yesterday…?”

I eye the familiar pile of papers stacked behind his desk. “On the filing cabinet.”

Eddie shuffles over to the cabinet and scoops up the folder. “Aha.”

As he silently reads through it, I slide my eyes to Kayla. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a sleek knot at the base of her neck, with little wisps falling around her face. She nervously bites her lip as she watches Eddie, and the sting of rejection returns to my veins.

Oh, she’s good. Playing up the neglected-daughter act for Eddie just like she tried to play me last night. I still can’t believe she wanted to take the entire inheritance for herself. I’m broke, she said with those pouty blue eyes of hers. Yeah right. “Broke” probably means she can’t afford to summer in Europe or buy herself a new yacht. That trust fund of hers must be running low.

Well that’s just too bad. I don’t care how attractive—or how hot a kisser—Kayla is. She’s not keeping half of the inheritance Turner left to me. She didn’t even try to be a part of his life while he was alive, for Christ’s sake. Why the hell should she get to benefit from his wealth now?

From what I hear, she and her mother are used to living the high life with all of Turner’s money so Kayla would probably just blow the inheritance on something stupid, like a bedazzled Jet Ski or a pony. I, on the other hand, actually need the money. So when we find it, I’m keeping every last penny.

I look at her and try to solidify my resolve. I deserve that money. I do.

“There are a few stipulations in Mr. Turner’s will,” Eddie says when he’s done scanning the page. “The biggest being that I cannot unlock the handcuffs until you find the inheritance.” He clears his throat and reads, “ ‘Arrangements have been made with a handful of local townspeople to help Kayla and Daren complete their quest. If any of these helpers catch Kayla and Daren without the handcuffs on, they have been instructed to report to Eddie immediately.’ ”

“Seriously?” Kayla says.

“Seriously,” he says.

“Local townie spies.” I purse my lips. “Fantastic.”

“ ‘If Daren and Kayla are caught without the handcuffs on and reported, they automatically forfeit their inheritance and the money will then be donated to the charities listed on page seven of this form… ’ ” Eddie skims the remainder of the page then pushes his glasses farther up his nose as he eyes us. “Are you two sure about this?”

I look at Kayla. She’d better be sure. I try to flash her one of my killer smiles—the kind that says you can trust me with your hopes and dreams and body—but I’m too anxious to pull it off. Partly because I’m still not over the fact that she doesn’t trust me with her body, but mostly because the possibility of having money in my pocket by the end of the day is just too important. My future, or lack thereof, is riding on Kayla’s cooperation.

Fortunately, her gold-digging roots have bred her to be just greedy enough to agree to this plan because she nods at Eddie without glancing at me.

“Absolutely,” she says with complete confidence.

“Well all right then.” Eddie rummages through the papers on his desk and comes up with a large, flat manila envelope. Opening the envelope, he pulls out a set of handcuffs. Not the fuzzy kind used in the bedroom, but honest-to-God police-grade handcuffs made of steel. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t hard-core manacles.

Kayla’s eyes widen. “Those look… real.”

Eddie nods. “They are.”

She shakes her head. “Of course my father couldn’t pick out a set of cushiony handcuffs. He had to choose the same kind of handcuffs that felons get marched to prison in.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose at the cuffs. “It does seem a bit harsh, doesn’t it?”

I sigh. “Well at least we won’t have to wear them for very long.”

Kayla nods. “Yeah. Thank God it will only be a few hours.” She glances at me and adds, “Tops.”

“Right.” I nod, though I can’t imagine it taking us even an hour.

Eddie hands us each a pen. “I just need you both to sign here.” He points to a paper that looks identical to the one we signed yesterday. “But this time sign saying you agree to the terms of the will and accept the offer.”

We take turns. For a moment, I feel like I’m signing my life away, but my nervousness is short-lived as I think about the overwhelming medical bills waiting for me at the county hospital and the fate of my living situation come the near future. I quickly scrawl out my name.

Kayla signs her name beside mine with the penmanship of an artist, making my signature look like a manic toddler got hold of a ball-point pen. I watch her curl the end of the r in her last name. Handwriting shouldn’t be that pretty.

“All right.” Eddie puts the pens away and looks at us. “Are you ready?”

I hold out my left wrist while Kayla holds out her right, and we watch in silence as Eddie slides the handcuffs over our hands and locks them closed with a few click-click-clicks. He’s careful to leave enough room for us to move our wrists, but the cuffs are still pretty tight.

“Wow. These things are heavy.” Kayla lifts our chained hands up and down a few times and I move my wrist to accommodate the movement.

They really are surprisingly heavy.

I turn the steel manacle around my wrist. “And uncomfortable.”

Kayla mutters, “I guess handcuffs aren’t supposed to be cozy.”

We drop our wrists and let them hang heavily at our sides. The back of my hand brushes the back of Kayla’s hand and her soft skin instantly warms against mine.

We glance at each other and jerk away like the touch is searing hot. I bite back a smile. If touching me for a split second has her this agitated, then I’d hate to think how she’s going to feel after being handcuffed to me for an hour—or longer. I might be hauling a blonde mess of irritation back to Eddie’s office later.

Taking a step back, Eddie looks us over with a raised brow. “You two look like downright criminals.”

I say, “Gee, thanks.”

“So now what?” Kayla asks.

“Now,” Eddie says, “I give you directions to the letter.”

He hands her a small white envelope. She reaches for it with her cuffed hand, aggressively yanking my wrist up.

“Easy,” I say as the handcuffs whack against my wrist.

She crinkles her nose in apology. “Sorry.” Then she carefully moves her bound wrist as she pulls a piece of paper from the white envelope. She reads aloud, “ ‘The blue suitcase in the hall closet,’ ” then looks at Eddie. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “I just hand out the papers.”

“The suitcase in the hall closet?” I frown. “That’s not directions. That’s like… a clue. Does he mean the hall closet in his house?”

“Oh! The one with all the umbrellas?” Kayla looks at Eddie expectantly.

He shrugs. “I wish I could help you folks but I honestly have no idea.”

“Okay. That’s okay,” Kayla says. “I’m sure he meant the hall closet at Milly Manor.”

“Yeah. And I know for a fact Turner used to have a blue suitcase,” I say. “There was one in his garage for like ten years.”

Kayla turns to stare at me. “Why were you snooping through my father’s garage?”

“I wasn’t snooping.” I jut my chin. “I was squeezing through all his old junk so I could put the lawn mower away every other Saturday, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” She turns back to Eddie. “So what are we supposed to do, then? Just go grab the letter, then the money, and then come back to your office so you can unlock these things?” She jiggles the cuffs.

“Yep.” Eddie holds up a set of small handcuff keys. “I’ll be here until five p.m.”

“Oh we’ll be back long before then,” I say.

“Definitely,” Kayla adds and we hurriedly exit the good lawyer’s office.

It’s not until we’re standing on the sidewalk, in the bright light of day, that the true oddness of our situation sets in.

Everyone walking past us, or seated across the street at the café, or peering out through store windows, turns to stare at the handcuffed couple standing outside the lawyer’s office.

We really do look like criminals. And with Kayla wearing that tight skirt and those high heels, we look like sexy criminals, which only draws more eyes.

Looking her over more closely, I notice she’s wearing the exact same clothes and shoes she had on yesterday. There’s a small stitch on her shirt where it’s been mended and her heels are dirty and scuffed.

Huh. Not the designer outfit I’d expect a spoiled princess to sport, especially not two days in a row. It doesn’t really fall in line with my idea of a trust fund baby.

“Everyone is staring at us,” Kayla murmurs as a faint blush spreads over her cheeks. She turns away from the onlookers and faces me, but steps so close to my chest she’s nearly buried in it.

I look down at her and cock my head. Hmm. Not the reaction of a diva beauty queen. Not at all. Her modest behavior is almost… endearing. And very confusing.

“Yeah…” I say slowly. “Well you are wearing high heels and handcuffs. You look downright sinful.”

She looks up and her mouth falls open. “Me? What about you?”

“Trust me.” I watch a group of construction workers stop what they’re doing as they eye Kayla’s ass. “No one is looking at me.” A trio of women seated at the café across the street see me and immediately start to whisper. Some scandals just don’t die. “Okay. Maybe a few people are looking at me.”

She sees the construction guys and makes an annoyed noise before stepping even closer to me. The scent of coconut fills my nostrils and a vision of rubbing coconut oil all over her body suddenly pops into my head. I try to push it away, but then she leans in, pressing her shoulder and hip against me, and the vision becomes much more explicit.

I start to grow hard against her soft body—until I see her nervously bite her lip and furrow her brow at the construction workers, and my thoughts return to reality.

She’s clearly uncomfortable with those guys checking her out, and the insecurity in her eyes tugs at something strong and unfamiliar inside me.

“Good heavens!” I hear.

An elderly couple walks past us, looking horrified when they see the glinting metal binding us together, and the old woman’s mouth drops open.

I smile at them reassuringly and explain. “We’re not felons,” I say, shaking my head. “We handcuffed ourselves together on purpose.” They look even more horrified. “Not for a kinky reason,” I quickly add. “For money.”

Kayla mutters, “Please stop talking.”

The couple hurries past us, tsking and shaking their heads as they move down the sidewalk, and I turn to Kayla. “Can you believe that? They didn’t even try to hide their judgment.”

“Gee, I wonder why.” She glowers at me. “Let’s just go so we’re no longer standing on display for the whole town.” She looks around. “Where’s that pretentious car of yours?”

“My car is not pretentious.”

She lifts a brow.

“Okay. My car is a little pretentious,” I concede. “But it’s a good car.” I think about poor Monique being towed away from me. “A sweet car. A beautiful, loyal, loving vehicle that deserves to be treated nicely.”

She grimaces. “You’re being kind of weird about your car.”

“I know.” I nod with a sigh. “I have attachment issues.”

“Clearly,” she says. “So where is it?”

“My car? Uh…” Good question. “My car is far away. Far, far away.” Poor thing. “It would take a very long time to walk to it.” Wherever it is. “Let’s use your car,” I suggest with a grin.

She hesitates and for a second I think she’s going to argue, but then she says, “Fine,” and digs around in her purse.

Pulling out her keys, she leads me by the wrist down the sidewalk and to the nearest parking lot, pulling me behind her like I’m a dog on a leash. She walks me to the back of the parking lot and over to a small green car covered in scratches, dents, and rust.

Not the vehicle I pictured Kayla Turner driving.

I expected a Cadillac. Or at least something with nice rims and tinted windows. Nothing about Kayla’s appearance or possessions or behavior makes sense anymore.

“Don’t judge,” she says as she unlocks the doors.

“I wasn’t judging.”

“You’re worse than that couple back there. I can feel the judgment rolling off of you,” she says bitterly. “Not everyone can afford to speed around in a Porsche.”

“Trust me,” I say. “I know.”

All too well.

She heads for the driver’s side as I head for the passenger’s side and we grunt as the handcuffs pull tight against our wrists as we move in opposite directions.

She sighs in frustration. “Okay. Let’s not be dumb about this. Why don’t you get in on the driver’s side and climb over to the passenger seat. Then I can get in behind you and drive.”

Heading to the driver’s door, I duck inside the car and awkwardly crawl over the center console, my elbows and knees knocking into the dashboard.

“Ow.”

“Watch it.”

“I can’t fit—”

“Ugh. Quit yanking my wrist.”

“Quit yanking my wrist.”

Her car is a disaster. Books. Socks. Bottles of hair care products. There’s crap everywhere. I carefully wade through the minefield of girl mess until I reach the other side. Then, folding my body up like an accordion, I finally manage to squeeze down into the passenger seat.

Kayla climbs in after me and says, “Real smooth.”

I flex my jaw. “I’m six feet tall and your car is the size of a marshmallow. The fact that I fit inside it at all is a miracle, let alone defeating the center console obstacle course you have set up here. What is this, a water bottle?” I hold up a giant plastic thermos. “It’s the size of a sink.” I point to the many other items she has crammed into the console cup holders draped over the seats. Sunglasses. A nursing uniform. A pair of sandals. A diner name tag. “What’s happening here?” I say. “Are you undercover? Suffering from multiple identities?”

She points at me. “Lay off my mess. I just drove eighteen hundred miles cross-country and didn’t plan to have any passengers. If you have a problem with the contents of my ‘marshmallow’ car then we can always crawl into your pretentious little Porsche.” She arches an eyebrow. “What’s it going to be, cowboy?”

“Cowboy?” I pull back. “Well that just makes no sense at all. It’s not like I was yee-hawing or tipping my hat at you.”

She moves to exit the car. “Pretentious Porsche it is.”

“Okay, okay.” I hold up my hands, yanking her attached wrist up with mine. “I’m sorry. Your messy car is perfectly fine. I happen to be a big fan of…” I look around at the clutter. “Granola bar wrappers and packing tape.” Her eyes narrow and I flash her a broad smile. “I’m kidding. Now would you please just drive?” She doesn’t move so I lift our cuffs and merrily say, “The sooner we get the inheritance the sooner you’ll be rid of me.”

She starts the car.

I hold my wrist by the steering wheel as Kayla uses both hands to back out of the parking spot. She shifts into gear and pulls out onto the main road before lowering her cuffed wrist to the center console and driving with one hand. I place my attached wrist beside hers as we drive in silence. Her hand looks small and delicate next to mine.

“So…” I say, feeling the need to make conversation and break the tension from the tangible annoyance she feels toward me. “It was a beautiful funeral.”

She inhales. “I guess.”

“I was kind of surprised to see you there.”

She keeps her eyes on the road. “Why? He was my father.”

I shrug. “Yeah, but you didn’t bother to visit him when he was sick, as far as I know, so I just figured you wouldn’t bother with the funeral either.”

She cuts her eyes to mine and something flashes in their blue depths. Something vulnerable and hurt. “I didn’t bother to visit because my father didn’t bother to tell me he was sick.” Just as quickly as it appeared, the spark of emotion melts into bitterness and she glares back at the road.

I furrow my brow. “Really?”

“Really,” she says sharply. A beat passes. “My own father didn’t care enough about me to let me know that he was dying. And as far as the funeral is concerned, I came because I needed closure.” Her voice wavers with emotion and she clears her throat. “I was surprised to see you at the funeral—alone. From the stories I heard growing up, I assumed Daren Ackwood always traveled with a flock of large-breasted groupies.”

I grin at the superiority in her tone. “Are you jealous you were never in my flock?”

She gives me a sugar-sweet smile. “I pity all the brainless hens who were.”

I let out a small laugh. “Sure you do.” My smile fades. “But with the funeral… I didn’t exactly feel like company. So no hens for me.”

She glances at me and I look away, my chest tightening as I stare out the window. Turner and I didn’t grow close until after he and Kayla were estranged, so there’s no way she’d understand how important he was to me. Not that I’d try to explain it to her. I doubt any explanation I gave would do justice to my relationship with him anyway.

I wouldn’t know where to begin. His importance in my life grew so slowly, so quietly, that pinpointing the exact moment he became a crucial part of who I am is impossible. My first memory with James Turner was when I was eleven and I tagged along when he and my dad were golfing together. Turner accidentally hit a ball into a tree and asked me to go get it because, and I quote, he was “an old man.” I teased him for that and addressed him as Old Man Turner for the rest of the day. The name sort of stuck and I continued to call him Old Man Turner as I got older, even though he was always very youthful and energetic. I think he liked the nickname because it made him feel special. And he was.

He was like a father to me—a good one, which is why I hold so much resentment for Kayla turning her back on him.

“Can I ask you something?” I scratch my jaw as we drive along. “What happened with you and your dad? Why did you stop talking to him?”

She furrows her brow. “I didn’t stop talking to him. He stopped participating in my life.”

I let the silence hang between us and wait.

Marcella once told me that the best place to have a conversation with someone is in a car or in the dark. Because when no one is required to make eye contact, people feel safer and are, therefore, more honest.

I never gave much thought to Marcella’s claim. Until now.

“He was supposed to come out to Chicago for my sixteenth birthday,” Kayla continues, spilling her story. “I was ecstatic and couldn’t wait to see him. But he didn’t come,” she says simply. “He didn’t call or write to tell me he wasn’t coming. He just didn’t show up. There I was, waiting by the door in my yellow birthday dress, and he was back here in Arizona not giving a damn about me. I cried for days.”

I open my mouth to speak but can’t find anything to say. It’s hard to believe James Turner would miss his only daughter’s sixteenth birthday. Especially since he remembered mine and gave me a present—and not just any present; an old pocket watch that had belonged to his grandfather. A family heirloom.

This is valuable to me, Turner had said, handing it to me. Be careful with it.

It looked expensive with a bronze chain and a turquoise centerpiece, and the face smoothed over with age.

I shook my head at him. I can’t take that. I don’t deserve such a gift. And besides, it belongs to your family.

He locked eyes with me and waited until he had my full attention. Then he smiled. Gifts are not things that you earn or deserve. They are a way for the giver to show their appreciation for you. And Daren—his eyes glimmered—you are a part of my family.

His words held more weight than any others I’d ever heard but I was too young and foolish to come up with any reply other than Thanks.

I took the watch and carried it in my pocket all the time, showing it off to my friends at every opportunity. I had a lot of things that money could buy but Turner’s watch was more important than anything I owned. It was a gift from the only man in my life who gave a damn about me, which made it priceless.

But a few months into my junior year of high school, I accidentally dropped it. Horror filled my eyes as I watched the antique watch plummet to the ground and shatter into pieces. It was the only thing of value I was ever entrusted with and I had been careless with it. The pocket watch never worked again and I felt so ashamed.

I had broken something that was precious to James Turner.

I never had the balls to tell him about the watch, though, fearing the disapproval I’d surely find waiting in his eyes. But I kept it, broken pieces and all, because it was the greatest birthday gift I’d ever received. I still carry it in my pocket to this day.

I glance across the car at Kayla. I can’t believe that the same man who entrusted me with his family heirloom would abandon his daughter on her birthday.

“There must have been some kind of misunderstanding,” I say. “I’m sure your dad wanted to be there for your birthday.”

She sets her jaw. “Oh yeah? Then maybe you can explain why, after my birthday, it just got worse. He never called—or returned my calls. He never answered my e-mails,” she continues, no longer talking to me but sort of ranting at the windshield as she drives. “I mean, he stopped sending me birthday cards, for God’s sake. The smallest of gestures and he couldn’t be bothered. Then he cut my mom and I off, so we had no money. But the worst part was that he no longer wanted me to come stay with him over the summer. He didn’t want me around.” Her voice cracks. “It was like he was trying to erase me. And in a way, I guess he did.”

I watch the pain in her eyes and shake my head. “That… doesn’t sound like him.”

The pain morphs into icy contempt. “Well neither does stealing a little boy’s baseball cards, but hey. Sometimes people suck.”

I want to ease the hurt in her voice and assure her that her father wasn’t the jerk she thinks he was, but the sharpness of her tone warns me off. She doesn’t want comfort. She wants to be angry. So I stay silent.

Turner never really spoke about Kayla. And the few times her name came up, a look of sadness would cross his face before he’d hurriedly change the subject. Back then, I figured it was because Kayla was some kind of tyrant teenager. But now, seeing the heartbreak on Kayla’s face, I wonder if maybe there was more to it.

But how could a good man like Turner call me family and neglect his own blood? It doesn’t make any sense.

Kayla and I don’t speak for the rest of the trip. When we finally turn onto Milly Manor Drive, I sit up and look out the window. I haven’t been here for almost a year, but everything looks the same. The same cracks in the sidewalk. The same trees.

Kayla slows down and parks in front of the large estate.

Staring up at the impressive home made of red bricks and trimmed with white, I can understand why the town of Copper Springs takes such great pride in the place. Rich ivy coats the outside of the house, sprawling up to the pitched roof and around the brick chimney. And bright green grass blankets the front yard, crawling up to the wooden white steps of the wraparound porch. The grounds are unkempt and heavily overgrown, an obvious sign that Turner never hired a replacement when I stopped caring for his yard, but even with all the unruly vegetation it’s a nice place. And with its location being so close to the town square, I’m sure it will make a great museum—or whatever else Copper Springs might make of it.

“Home sweet home,” Kayla mutters dryly.

I glare at her. “God, you’re bitter.”

Her hardened gaze drops to the steering wheel and becomes soft as snow in an instant. “Not usually,” she says quietly. Then she looks back at me with raw honesty in her eyes. “I’m sorry. This whole thing is just… hard for me.”

“Right. No. I get it,” I say, nodding as, once again, my defenses drop to the floor at the vulnerable look in her eyes.

Why the hell does this girl affect me like she does? One minute, I’m pissed at her for hating her father, and the next I want to comfort her and feed her cookies and shit. I’m a nutcase around her.

She turns the car off and we exit the vehicle the same way we got in, but this time I follow her out of the driver’s door. I can’t help but grin as I watch her butt wag in front of me as she tries to clamber out of the car with a grown man attached to her. She really does have a perfect ass. And the way it’s bobbing up and down in front of me is enough to make a man beg.

She catches me eyeing her and glowers. “Pervert.”

“You’re taking up my whole line of vision.” I grin. “What am I supposed to do, close my eyes?”

“Yes,” she snaps.

I snort. “Right.”

With a huff, she turns and drags us up the front steps of the porch. At the front door, she stops. Her gaze bounces around the doorknob, the mail slot, and the potted plant beside the welcome mat with sentiment and anger warring in her eyes, but she swiftly masks the battle with a look of indifference.

“Do you have a key?” I ask.

“Crap. No.” She puts a hand to her forehead. “I didn’t even think about the key. I should have asked Eddie back at the office.” She curses. “Now we have to drive all the way back.”

“No we don’t.” I walk back down the steps, pulling her along through the side gate. She fumbles after me, trying to keep up with my long strides, and more blonde hair falls loose around her face.

She swats a bug away from her face with a scowl. “Where are we going?”

I lead her to the garden against the back wall, where dozens of white roses grow. “Here.”

The red dirt at the base of the plants sticks to my shoes and I smile. When I first started taking care of the rose bushes, I hated the rare red topsoil because it got everywhere. My clothes, my shoes, my skin. But Turner insisted on using it, year after year. I inhale through my nose. Damn, I’m going to miss him.

I crouch—forcing Kayla to bend down a little—and pick up a small boulder at the base of the plants. Then I start digging through the red soil beneath.

Kayla’s cuffed hand flops around beside mine as she stares at me like I’m crazy. “Why are you clawing through the dirt?”

“Because…” I pull out a shiny silver key and grin. “I know where the spare key is.”