Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) (11 page)

“Yeah.” He shrugs a little. “I had some money left over from graduation, and construction pays okay… So what’s going on? Why’d you stop by?”

At his look of deep concern, I lean over and bury my face in my hands. “You saw the news today.”

He sets a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah. That sucks.”

Somehow, he knows the right thing to say. He doesn’t tell me it will all blow over soon or that my dad’s just saying this shit because he wants to be reelected. It is what it is.

“People at school were such dicks today. I hate it there. And now my soccer coach is questioning whether I should still be on the team, because parents think I’m gonna give their kids drugs.
Go
d
!
”

His hand continues to massage my shoulder.

“I fucked up. My future is over.”

“It’s not.” He gently rubs my back; it feels so good. “You can do anything you want. Unlike me…”

That’s new.

His comment makes me think I don’t know the whole story about him leaving school.

“Why’d you take a leave of absence from Cornell?” I ask. “For real this time.”

“I can’t talk about it.”

Taking his hand, I weave our fingers together. “You can talk about anything with me, Ez. You know that.”

“Not about this.”

“Why not?”

“My father…he would get pissed.”

“So what? You’re an adult. You don’t even live with him anymore.” I check out the little apartment. It’s not bad. The privacy and independence seem great. A bag of potato chips sits on the coffee table. I love the idea of having potato chips in the house.

“C’mon, tell me what’s up,” I plead.

“It’s not easy for me to talk about.”

“Hey,” I say quietly. “You can trust me.”

He cups the back of his neck, his green eyes filling with tears. I’ve rarely seen him like this. He’s always cheerful and in control. This is the opposite of the Ezra Carmichael I know. The only other time I’ve seen him so upset was the Monday after my birthday party. But I sure as hell didn’t care about him that day.

I squeeze his hand, and it must give him the strength he needs to speak.

“I’m pretty sure that I’m dyslexic.”

How could I not know this? Ezra didn’t take special classes or get any extra tutoring that I know of. Does my brother know?

I grip his hand harder, trying to show I support him no matter what. “Have you talked to anyone about it?”

“My father told me not to tell anybody.”

“Wait, so Cornell doesn’t know?”

He shakes his head.

“Is that why you were having problems with your classes?”

“Yeah.” He drops my hand and folds his arms across his stomach, looking ashamed. “I couldn’t remember what I read half the time, even after reading the material over and over. At St. Andrew’s, the teachers just let me skate by. They knew who my father was—hell, the
library
is named after him. So they passed me.”

It makes sense. If Dad had made a fuss, I bet St. Andrew’s wouldn’t have expelled me.

Ezra goes on, “That didn’t work when I got to Cornell. I couldn’t keep up with the homework, no matter how hard I tried. I’d study all night long, and I’d still fail tests. The highest grade I made my first semester was a C.”

I rest my hand on his knee, worried if I let him go, he’ll never talk to me again like this.

“You’ve never been tested?” I whisper.

“No. Dad says that there’s no way I could have dyslexia, because I’m a Carmichael. According to him, it’s
genetically impossible
. He says my problem is that I’m lazy, but I know that’s not it.”

“Of course you’re not lazy. But why didn’t you just get the tests yourself?”

“I was embarrassed…and scared, I guess. And even with doctor-patient confidentiality, you know how people gossip.”

“Why do you think you’re dyslexic?”

“My writing is fine, but I misread things…I forget a lot…and I’ve fucked up some really important things in my life because of that.”

“Such as?”

He looks into my eyes. “I missed your sixteenth birthday party.”

“What do you mean?”

He stands up from the couch, folding his hands behind his head. He pads to the front window and looks out, then walks to the kitchen, seemingly for no reason. I let him pace; he needs to work through this at his own speed.

“I misread the date on your invitation,” he says. “I know your birthday is November 15, but I got confused about when your party was. I read the invite a few times, but I wrote down the 25th on my calendar instead of the 12th. I made a stupid mistake.”

He mixed up the numbers? He wanted to come to my party? “Wait, but didn’t you go to Chattanooga that night? With Mindy Roberts?”

“I did.”

“I heard you hooked up with her, and that’s why you didn’t show.”

He shakes his head. “We were just friends. I never hooked up with her. She was helping me pick out a birthday gift for you… I wanted it to be just right.”

He wanted my gift to be just right.

I place a hand over my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. For nearly two years, I’ve thought the worst of him.

I slowly get to my feet. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t admit I’d messed up the dates. Dad told me never to tell anyone about my…
problem
…and it was a lame excuse. The day before, Oliver had even mentioned he was heading home for the weekend, and I still didn’t put two and two together. I was so mad at myself. How could you forgive me?”

I slide my fingers onto his hip and look up at him. “I would have forgiven you then. I forgive you now.”

He smiles sadly. “Stay right here.” He turns to jog down the little hallway to what I presume is his bedroom. When he returns, he hands me a box wrapped in silver paper. “Happy late birthday. This is what I meant to give you that night.”

“Thank you.” I open the card first. It’s a picture of a golden retriever.

Happy Birthday, Tease.

Love, Ezra

I rip off the paper and slide the box open. Inside, I find a pair of soft, pink, silk pajamas—a tank top and shorts with a delicate strawberry print.
How intimate.
I understand now why he took Mindy to buy my gift. He wanted a girl’s help in picking out a present that would show he was interested in me.

Tucked under the pajamas, I find a bunch of notepads, pens, and pencils decorated with cartoon soccer balls and dogs, and a homemade “gift certificate” written on an index card.
One coffee on me!
it reads.

He knows me so well.

“Thank you,” I say, running my fingers over the pajamas.

“You like it?”

“I love it…” I pause for a long moment. “Ez, you could’ve told me you mixed up the date on the invitation. I would’ve forgiven you.”

“I wish I had. I was just too embarrassed. And ashamed. I had been planning to ask you out the night of your birthday.”

“I would’ve said yes.”

An angry tone fills his voice. “If you had said yes, maybe you wouldn’t have dated Ben.”

I loved Ben while we were dating, but I’d be a lot better off if we had never gone out. I wouldn’t be living with a terrible secret that’s my shadow.

Ezra just told me his big secret. I should tell him mine. But what if I tell him I covered for Ben and then he spills the news to Oliver? Oliver might tell Dad. I can’t even imagine how upset my family and friends will be that I lied. Especially given how it’s affected Dad’s campaign. Unraveling this mistake might cause more trouble than just staying silent.

Bad news is only interesting for so long. The press will get over it soon.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts—I came to Ezra’s place to get my mind off the media, not to rehash what happened. I look down into my box of birthday gifts. “I can’t wait to use my soccer ball pens.” When I gaze up at him to say thank you again, his eyes are low-lidded and filled with longing.

Without a word, I set the birthday box down on his coffee table and gently press my lips to his.

When I was younger, I imagined that kissing him would be like an electric shock. But the spark I once dreamed of turns out to be
lightning
.

I pull away, and we stare at each other for several heartbeats. Then he crushes his mouth to mine.

Our lips are warm, full, and hungry. His hands trail up and down my arms, caressing my skin. My hands are everywhere. I pull him hard against me, leading him to the couch. We land in a tangle of arms and legs. I kick off my boots, and he lifts me onto his lap so that I’m straddling him. He continues to kiss me as he wraps his arms around my waist.

“Tee,” he says breathily. “We need to talk.”

“So talk.”

But he doesn’t. He’s too busy using his mouth for other, more important things. I sweep my tongue between his lips, loving this. Kissing Ben was always good, but kissing Ezra feels
vital
.

The first time I set foot in the Louvre in Paris, saw its grand passageways filled with art and history, I thought,
This is it. Now I’m alive.
But that was just a precursor for this moment, because it feels as if my heart is beating for the first time.

We kiss, each of us unleashing years of pent-up attraction, until he suddenly pulls back. His gaze grows heated as his fingers gently caress my breast through my shirt. Having a guy’s hand there has never done much for me, but with him, it’s different. I unbutton my shirt so he can have full access. His lips part in breathless excitement when I reveal my bra, baring myself to him. His warm hands send sparks scattering through me. I push my hips into his. Pull his T-shirt off over his head. Cup his cheeks. I can’t get close enough. I need him to touch me
everywhere
.

He slowly unzips my jeans. If I’d known this would be happening, I would’ve worn something sexier than my white underwear with the little blue dogs on them.

He laughs, gently tracing the waistband, making me shiver. “I love these.” He leans his head back and stares up at me. “Have you considered becoming a vet?”

“I’ve never thought about that.”

“Maybe you should. I bet you’d enjoy it.”

“Like how you enjoy working with your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Use those hands on me.”

With a relaxed smile, he kisses me again and flips me onto my back, then edges my jeans down and onto the floor. He discovers the bluebird tattoo on my ankle, kissing it once before his lips begin working their way back up my legs and between them.

His hand joins his mouth, and together, they fly me out of this world.

• • •

In bed with Ben, I spent a lot of time worrying about whether my stomach was flat, if my boobs looked awesome, if I was making him feel good and doing the right things with my hands.

It is not like that with Ezra. There’s no time for thinking. I’m too busy kissing his neck. Too busy exploring his chest and abs. I make noises that should be embarrassing, but they’re not, because I’m not self-conscious like with Ben. All I care about is giving him the same pleasure he gave me. He threads a hand through my hair, and his eyes flare as they meet mine.

When we’re finished, we lie crushed together on his couch, staring at the ceiling, silent except for our heavy breathing. I’m in my bra and panties, and he’s in his boxer briefs. I’ve never gone from zero to sixty with a guy in one day. I figured I might feel guilty or maybe a little naughty, but I just feel good. Happy.

Grinning, I reach out to pull him in for another kiss and maybe round two, but he suddenly sits up and leans over, putting his elbows on his knees.

“You okay?” I ask.

Ezra drags a hand through his dark hair. “Oll is going to kill me. He told me that if I ever fuck with you, he’d fuck me up.”

I smile at my brother’s protective nature. “It’s none of his business what we do. That was great, by the way.” Ezra’s still looking away from me, so I get up onto my knees, press my chest against his back, and wrap my arms around him. I kiss his ear and neck. “Want to go to your bed?”

“This was a mistake.”

I stop breathing. “What?”

“Look, I was just trying to be there for you as a friend. I thought I could keep my feelings under control.”

I give him a little smile. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I don’t want to lead you on. I’m not right for you.”

We can’t end now. We can’t. “Why don’t you let me decide who’s right for me?”

He twines and untwines his fingers nervously. “Your life isn’t right for me.”

The air conditioner rattles on, blasting cold air over my body. I shiver. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not going back to college. I won’t ever take over my father’s company. I’m never going to fit in at our families’ parties again. People will talk about you like they do Jack Goodwin, wondering why you’re slumming it with me.”

“
Slumming i
t
?
”

“Yeah.”

“That’s ridiculous. And rude toward Savannah. Screw them. Who cares?”

“I care. You’re gonna go to college and do whatever you want with your life, and all I’m ever gonna be is a construction rat.” He finds his jeans on the floor, steps into the legs, and zips them up.

I start rasping for breath. I just went down on him—I would’ve slept with him if he’d asked. And now he says
this
?

I grab my jeans and yank them on. My foot gets caught in the fabric, and I have to sit down to jerk it free. “This sucks. You care more about what other people think than about giving us a chance.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies quietly. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just want something different for both of us.”

“You don’t get to decide what I want,” I snap. “I’m sorry I’m not worth suffering through a little gossip at parties. Not that I give a shit about those things.”

He looks out his window. Through the front windows of my house, all you can see are green grass and lush trees. From Ezra’s windows, you get asphalt.

“If you didn’t want this,” I say, “why have you been hanging around? Meeting me for coffee?”

“I told you… I was lonely.”

“Then why don’t you go make new friends at your construction site?” My voice is mean. Rage-y. He deserves it.

I tug on my shirt and try to button it as quickly as I can, but my fingers are shaky and feel clumsy, like bloated sausages. When he sees I’m having problems, he helps me. His fingers make quick work of the buttons.

Angry as I am, I can’t help but tell the truth. “Ez, I don’t care what people think. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“But you were with Ben.”

“Because I was heartbroken after I thought you hooked up with Mindy.”

“Still, you were into him.”

“Yes, I was, but I’ve
always
wanted you, Ezra.” My words make his lips part. I set my hands on his bare waist. His skin is soft like satin. I find his eyes. “Honestly, I can’t say I want a relationship right now either. It’s not smart after what happ—” I shut my mouth quickly.

Ezra’s eyebrow shoots up. “After what happened?”

How could I be so stupid as to almost let the truth slip? I regroup. “Breaking up with Ben was hard, and I told myself I wasn’t going to get involved with anyone else…but I care about you.”

“I care about you too.” He leans his forehead against mine. “You’ve really always wanted me?”

I can tell he’s scared, that he doubts himself thanks to his parents. That’s why he tried to push me away. “Yes, I want you more than anything. Now don’t make me beg.”

A smile edges on his face. “Why don’t we see where this goes?”

“Finally.” I reward him with a long, slow kiss. Then, “Can I see your room already?”

“Sassy.”

He leads me there by a hand. His bed is neatly made with a comfortable, navy-blue quilt, which we promptly mess up in a kissing storm of the century, and later, when we’re cuddling between his sheets, I whisper to him, “Thanks for telling me what happened that night.”

He links his pinkie with mine. “I trust you. No more secrets between us, okay?”

I freeze. “Okay,” I say quietly. Another lie.

They keep piling up.

But it’s too late to tell the truth about Ben and the pills.

• • •

Friday morning, as I’m getting dressed for school, I’m still in a smiling daze thanks to Ezra.

All I can think about is when I get to kiss him again. Maybe this morning, at Donut Palace? What if we start and can’t stop and I skip school and he misses work and we end up back at his place, messing up his bed again—

Someone bangs loudly on my bedroom door, distracting me from my daydream.

“Taylor!” Mom shouts. “Your father and I need to see you downstairs right now!”

What in the world?
My hairbrush clatters when I drop it on my vanity in a rush. I hurry down the stairs and to the breakfast nook where my parents are sitting in front of untouched plates of eggs.

“What the hell is this?” Dad asks in a low tone, shoving a newspaper at me.

The front page features a picture of me at school, standing in front of the Swamp. It was taken yesterday. The headline reads:
Lukens’ Daughter Says Drug Use ‘Not a big dea
l
!’

“But that’s not what I said.”

“You know you should never speak to the press,” Mom says. “Never! How many times have your father and I told you that?”

“They wouldn’t let me get into my car. I was angry.”

“You
never
show emotion to these people, Taylor,” Dad says. “You know better than this. You don’t speak to the press without media coaching from my publicist.”

I crush the newspaper between my hands. “This isn’t what I said at all! I said that what I did isn’t a big deal compared with what’s happening in Yemen and with veterans’ affairs. They took it out of context.”

“That’s what the media does,” Dad says, his voice suddenly gentle. “It’s happened to me before.” Dad’s cell phone rings, and he answers. “Randy?” He listens for a moment before hanging up. “Polls went down by two points.”

Mom scowls at me. “We’ll be lucky to salvage this election thanks to you. Two points!”

She storms out of the kitchen. Part of me wonders if she’s taking this harder than Dad. It wouldn’t surprise me. His political career is her whole life too. I don’t blame her for being upset though. My actions are messing up our family’s reputation.