Текст книги "Perfect Kind Of Trouble"

Автор книги: Chelsea Fine

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

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.

13 Kayla

“Are you sure this place is still open?” I shade my eyes and squint up at the rusted sign that reads COPPER SPRINGS TRAIN STATION hanging above the old building. Cobwebs litter the corners of the sign and dust covers the windows of the station. “It looks deserted.”

Daren exhales. “It shut down a few years ago. But the people who have lockers here still use them sometimes. I guess your dad was one of those people.” He looks at me with a gleam in his eye. “You ready to claim an inheritance?”

A spark of glee shoots through me as I grin back. “Oh I’m ready.”

I am ready and excited, but I’m also nervous and filled with adrenaline. Today might be the beginning of a new life for me. Daren’s chest rises with a full breath as if he’s anxious as well and I wonder of this could be a new beginning for him too. Studying him for a moment, I realize I don’t know much about him. Nothing, really. I know about his parents’ taboo behavior and his sexual reputation, but I don’t know anything real. Anything that matters. And a part of me wishes I did.

The double doors at the front of the train station screech as we open them and step inside. Dim light filters in through the clouded windows and gives the large, musty lobby a weird yellow glow.

“The lockers are over here,” Daren says, heading right.

“I’m guessing you’ve been here before?”

He nods. “Growing up, we had a housekeeper named Marcella who was like a second mother to me. Before the station closed, Marcella would come here to pick up her family members when they’d visit, and sometimes she’d bring me along. I loved Marcella’s family.” He smiles. “They were all loud and loving and always excited to see one another. They were even excited to see me, which rocked my world. Marcella treated me like a son and her family did the same.”

“Do you still talk to her?” I ask.

His eyes shadow over. “No. She passed away a few years ago.”

I quietly say, “I’m sorry.”

I do the math in my head, tallying up the lost loved ones in Daren’s life. My father. The Charity girl. And Marcella. Empathy swims through my veins as I scan his face. He knows I’m watching him, but he continues to stare straight ahead.

“Here they are,” he says, pointing ahead.

On the side of the station stands a set of lockers. All of them old. All of them looking as if they haven’t been touched in a decade. They probably haven’t.

Our footsteps echo as we walk to the lockers.

“Twenty-three…” Daren says, perusing the numbers.

My eyes drift back and forth across the rusty lockers. “There.” I point to one on the left side. We step up to it and I pull the golden key from my purse and hold it up. It looks too large to fit in the small keyhole.

Daren frowns. “That’s weird.”

I try to insert the heavy key anyway, but it’s much too big. “Did we get the wrong locker number?” I pull the suitcase note from my purse and reread it.

“Nope,” Daren says, reading it over my shoulder. “It says twenty-three.”

I look around. “Is there another set of lockers in the station?”

“Maybe.” He glances around. “But that key looks too large to fit in any locker.”

I examine the key. “You’re right.” I blow out my cheeks and look up. “Let’s walk around and see if there are any other cabinets or storage areas.”

Our cuffs clank together as we set off to search the station. It’s completely deserted, but not in a spooky way. The high ceilings are framed with beautiful wood molding and dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows cover nearly every wall. Long wooden pews stripe the floor and a row of private phone booths line the side wall. I bet this was a vibrant place when the train was running. I can imagine dozens of people bustling about, reading the newspaper or calling a loved one while they wait for their train.

“I’ve never been on a train before,” I muse out loud as we walk past an old ticket counter.

“Neither have I,” he says, looking around. “I’ve never even been on an airplane.”

“Never?”

“Nope. The farthest I’ve been from Copper Springs is fifty miles outside of town at Willow Inn, where I work.”

“No way. Surely you’ve been farther away on vacations or something.”

He shakes his head. “My parents used to travel a lot but they never took me with them. ‘It’s not a vacation if your kid is there,’ my mom would say.”

I gape at him. “That’s horrible.”

He shrugs. “She was just being honest. My mom was never crazy about being a parent—neither was my dad. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have liked vacationing with them, anyway.” He says this with a smile but hurt flashes in his eyes.

I stare at him, half-confused and half-sad. His parents sound awful. In fact, his entire childhood sounds somewhat depressing and a little lonely.

He acts so cool and confident but a few times now I’ve noticed a ding in the armor of arrogance and playfulness he wears so easily. He’s cocky but wounded, charming but lonely, with the sureness of a wealthy man and the desperation of a pauper. I can’t figure him out, but one thing is certain.

Daren is not as tough or undamaged as he lets on.

“What?” He smiles at me crookedly. “You’re making a weird face.”

I shake my head. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I pictured you jetting around the world every summer in a private plane with an entourage of other rich people.”

His eyes harden. “I told you. I’m not rich. My family used to be wealthy but we—I—don’t have money anymore.” He looks away, dismissing the topic. “Let’s check by the baggage area.”

I follow him in silence, wondering how he can claim to be “not rich” when two days ago I saw him driving a Porsche and right at this moment he’s wearing an outfit that probably cost more than my car is worth. But I drop the subject, not wanting to argue with him right before finding the inheritance.

It’s not an overwhelmingly big station, so we’re able to walk through the entire place rather quickly, without success.

“Nothing,” Daren says after we make two rounds of the building. “No other lockers or storage units of any kind with the number twenty-three.”

I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “There has to be something we’ve overlooked. This is the only train station for miles. Let’s check outside on the platform.”

We pass through the waiting area to the outside where more dust and cobwebs fill the corners. The platform has no storage areas, and the old railroad tracks are rusty and covered in dead leaves. On the other side of the tracks are several empty crates and a string of out-of-service train cars covered in dirt and frozen in time on the maintenance tracks beyond.

Aside from that, there is nothing.

I rove my eyes over the area. “Maybe we should go back to Milly Manor and check the suitcase again. Maybe we missed some instructions or better directions or something.” I bite my lip. Or maybe my father didn’t actually leave us any money and this is all just a waste of time.

“Kayla, look.” Daren points ahead as his gaze zeroes in on something past the empty crates.

“What?” I follow his eyes to the old abandoned train in the distance. Five boxcars sit side-by-side on the maintenance track, and the very last car is red and stamped with two giant white numbers: a two and a three.

He gives me a wide grin. “Eureka!”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t think…”

“Oh, I think.” He nods with bright eyes. “I very much think.”

My jaw falls open. “My dad hid money in an old train car? What did he do, pack a bunch of bills in a duffle bag and toss it onto a pile of hay? Geez. Did no one ever tell him about safety deposit boxes?”

He laughs. “I don’t care where he hid it. I’m just glad we found it.”

Hurrying down the platform steps, we cross over the railroad tracks, pass the empty crates, and walk over to the red boxcar on the old maintenance tracks.

The door of the train car reminds me of a garage door, where the lock is at the bottom beneath a wide industrial handle. I pull the big golden key from my purse again and hold it up to the lock.

“Perfect match,” Daren says.

I wedge the key inside the hole and, with a few jiggles, the wide door unlocks with a loud click. Standing beside each other, we wrap our hands around the large horizontal handle and, using all our strength, pull up the heavy door. The hinges squeak and moan as it rolls up and locks into place. We peer inside and…

Nothing.

Well, not nothing, exactly. But certainly not money.

The boxcar is completely empty except for a single, folded piece of paper.

“What the…?” Daren sighs.

My face falls, speechless.

“What do you suppose it is?” He tips his chin at the piece of paper.

“A check for a million dollars?” I say hopefully.

The paper is in the very back of the train car so the only way to reach it is to climb inside. Which won’t be easy since my chest barely reaches the bottom of the car and we can’t climb in one at a time because of the handcuffs.

I lift up on my tiptoes. “How do you want to do this?”

Daren scratches his jaw. “Why don’t I hoist you inside first then I’ll jump in. Come here.” He turns me around to face him and I step into the circle of his arms.

The summer sun is now high in the sky, burning down on us. I stare at his chest where his T-shirt pulls tight against the hard muscles of his pecs, and a trickle of sweat slowly slides down the back of my neck.

The corded muscles of his neck ripple as he turns his head. “Hold on to my wrists. Then I’ll lift you up.” He places his big hands on my waist.

His thumbs slide under my shirt, grazing the bare skin of my stomach, and a warm zing shoots down my belly.

I look up at him. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“Do what?” His expression is neutral but there’s a glimmer in his eye.

“Whatever,” I say, eyeing him shrewdly as I wrap my hands around his wrists.

He glides the pads of his thumbs over my tummy again and another, more powerful, zing darts straight down my belly and between my legs as I suck in a breath.

I narrow my gaze at him and his eyes dance with amusement.

“Cut it out,” I say.

“Cut what out?” he says.

“You know what.” I try to look stern.

“I certainly have no idea what you’re talking about.” A mischievous grin spreads across his face and I can’t stop the smile that starts to play at my own lips.

“Daren…”

His eyes lock on mine and the twitching low in my belly starts up again. Then his gaze drops to my mouth and I absently part my lips.

Hunger lights his eyes as he leans in and whispers, “Now do you want to kiss again?” His words flutter over my ear like soft, warm butterflies beating their wings against my sensitive skin and a shiver runs through me.

The answer is yes. I do want to kiss him again. It felt so good to have his mouth on mine last night. To feel him up against me. To give in to the wild passion inside me.

When I don’t answer, he brushes his thumbs over the naked skin of my stomach again, but this time dips them inside the waistband of my skirt and skims the lacey top of my panties.

I inhale sharply, tightening my fingers around his wrists as my nipples harden and heat builds in my core. I rub my thighs together, trying to alleviate the ache slowly building between my legs, but it’s no use. I’m already a tight puddle of need.

How come this beautiful man, who smells like clean citrus, can make me melt with just a simple touch? And how come it’s always so difficult for me to snap out of his sexy gaze?

I blink away from Daren’s pretty brown eyes and playfully whisper, “No,” before shifting back a few inches.

His eyelids, which were heavy with desire just moments ago, open fully as he scans my face and throat.

“Liar,” he says with a smile.

I smile back, grateful he doesn’t try to convince me otherwise. I’d surely give in if he did. Because Daren affects me.

Every other guy on the planet is just that: a guy. But Daren is a force. And I am a feather.

“Ready?” he asks, getting back to business as he moves slightly away from me.

My body protests and disappointment washes over me, but I pull it together and try to look unfazed as I nod and brace my hands against his wrists. “Ready.”

Bending his knees, he easily lifts me up and sits me on the boxcar’s open frame. Then he steps back and hoists himself into the car beside me. He carefully stands up, and offers me a hand to help me to my feet.

My high heels waver on the uneven metal floor of the train car but Daren keeps me upright until I’m standing on my own.

Good God. I’m never wearing high heels again.

We walk to the back of the boxcar to retrieve the paper. I’m still hoping it’s a check. Or a savings bond. Or a money order. Daren swiftly picks it up, unfolds it, and both our faces fall. Another note.

Daren mutters a curse and I groan.

“Why couldn’t I have had a normal father?” I say.

Daren reads the letter out loud. “ ‘Congratulations on finding this clue. Lesson number two: Always bring the heart. Wherever you go, however you get there, bring a loving air with you and leave kindness in your wake. Life is too short to keep your heart to yourself. Now I’m sure you’re frustrated and wondering where the money is, but not to worry! The money is very real and will soon be yours. The next place you’ll need to go is the thing Kayla liked more than stickers and the thing Daren looked forward to every February. Ask for the Turner key.’ ”

“Another clue?” My mouth hangs open. Oh my God. This really is another one of my dad’s quirky scavenger hunts. I can’t believe he thought a scavenger hunt would be a good way to share his money with me. Ugh!

I throw my arms up in exasperation, accidentally whipping Daren’s wrist against the wall of the boxcar with a loud bang.

“Hey now,” he grunts. “There’s no need for violence.”

“This is all just a big game, you know.”

He blinks at me. “What is?”

“This!” I gesture around wildly, accidentally thwacking his hand against the train car. Again.

He rubs his banged-up hand with a scowl. “Okay first of all, cool it with the hand gestures. Second, what do you mean this is a game?”

“This thing that we’re doing?” I hold up the note. “It’s all a big scavenger hunt that my dad must have orchestrated before he died.”

“A scavenger hunt?” He screws his face into a befuddled look.

I nod. “He used to make scavenger hunts for me all the time when I was little. And now he’s sending me on another one and giving us clues to find the inheritance.”

He bobs his head. “Cool.”

“No. Not cool,” I say, pointing at him. “Annoying.”

He scoffs. “So we follow some clues, so what? Why is that annoying?”

I let out a sigh. “Because scavenger hunts were something my father used to do for me back when he still cared and was all involved in my life. Being sent on one now just feels… insulting. Like I’m a puppet in his little game—a game he didn’t bother playing with me for years, mind you—and now he thinks he can just handcuff me to strangers and send me out on wild-goose chases whenever he pleases. Don’t get me wrong, I’m beyond grateful that he left me money in his will. But by wrapping this inheritance in a scavenger hunt and asking me to play along, he’s destroying one of my favorite childhood memories.” I rub a hand down my face, my heart twisting. “It just hurts, that’s all. I don’t want to be his puppet. I want to be his daughter.”