The First Time Again: The Braddock Brotherhood, Book 3 (22 page)

Was it truly mere coincidence that all these years later, she’d chosen him for her long-awaited first time?

Or had she simply been waiting for
him
?

“You’re overthinking this, Baylee,” she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she patted her face dry. She smoothed on moisturizer and turned out the light.

She crawled into bed and pulled her pillows around her. They were a poor substitute for a hard male body, but tonight they’d have to do. They didn’t stop her from thinking about Trey as she fell into a deep, satisfied slumber.

When Matty woke it was almost one a.m. Most nights he left around nine thirty and was home by ten. But tonight Mama had been uncomfortable and restless, moaning and thrashing in her sleep until she’d finally settled down around eleven thirty.

He peeked into her room to make sure she was okay before letting himself out and locking up.

It had been warmer earlier in the day, but the night was cool and pleasant. There were hardly any cars on the road. He crossed the railroad tracks and coasted down Marshall Avenue where the pretty Victorian homes stood behind their tidily manicured lawns. Along Palmer Street, the porch lights glowed and the wide verandas of the B and Bs beckoned visitors to relax.

Matty’d never been on vacation, never been anywhere really, except the occasional trip to Asheville and once a trip to Atlanta to see the Braves play the Yankees.

Back when he’d first come to live with the Westrings, they’d signed him up for Little League. They’d come to every game. He and Dan played catch almost every night. Matty had no natural athletic ability, but he’d tried his hardest, sensing his success on the ball field was important to Dan. Perhaps Dan had appreciated the effort even if he’d been disappointed in the results, couching the trip to the Braves game as a reward of sorts.

Matty took a right at the red light on Benson Street, pedaling easily past the hodgepodge of small businesses and residences before he became aware that lights were flashing behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a sheriff’s department patrol car. He hadn’t done anything wrong as far as he knew. Except violate his probation. Again. He told himself the cops in Hendersonville couldn’t possibly care one way or the other about a kid like him breaking curfew. Maybe Jack Frost had them on the lookout for him.

Maybe the cop wasn’t even after him, he told himself as he slowed and braked and came to a stop in front of a car parked on the street near the corner. No. He couldn’t be that lucky. The cop car pulled to a stop and the door opened.

Matty crossed his arms and waited. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, but he had a sick feeling inside. Something bad was about to happen.

“Out kind of late, aren’t you?” the deputy asked.

Matty turned toward him. He knew enough to show respect whether it was genuine or not. Cops despised teenagers, and he’d never found mouthing off to one beneficial to his cause. “I’m heading home, sir.”

“Got some ID on you?”

Matty took a better look at the guy while he reached in his back pocket for his wallet. The cop was tall and looked like he was in fairly decent shape, but there was something about him Matty didn’t like. A meanness in the set of his mouth, that look of dissatisfaction or disgust with his lot in life. It wasn’t the first time Matty had seen that look.

“Did I do something wrong, sir?” Matty inquired, forcing politeness into his tone as he handed over his driver’s license. He hardly ever got to use it, but his dad had taught him how to drive and taken him to get his license the day he’d turned sixteen. Matty thought he’d have a future as his dad’s designated driver, but Dan preferred to walk to the bar only a few blocks from home. He usually found a ride home with a drinking buddy or with the owner of the bar on the nights he closed the place down.

Since Matty hardly ever had any cash, he couldn’t afford gas. He wasn’t allowed to hang out with the few friends he’d gotten into trouble with, so he had no reason to borrow his dad’s truck, and he hadn’t exactly proved himself trustworthy to use anyone else’s vehicle.

“We’ll see,” the deputy said as he shone a flashlight on the license.

J. Spoley
his nameplate read. Matty filed that away in his memory.

“Stay here,” the deputy told him. He returned to his car.

Matty thought he knew what would happen next. He supposed his record and probation would show up on the cop’s dashboard computer. He’d get nailed for violating his curfew. The cop would take him down to the jail, inform Jack Frost, and call his dad to come get him. Matty would have to go before the judge again and explain himself. At the rate he was going, he’d be on probation until he was twenty.

Straddling his bike, Matty realized how tired he was. He leaned over and rested his arms on the handlebars. If he hadn’t been stopped he’d be home by now. He’d have brushed his teeth, stripped down and fallen into bed. No one would have known or cared what time he got home. They only knew or cared when they were inconvenienced by him
not
coming home when he was supposed to.

Although it was probably only a few minutes, it felt like half an hour before the cop exited his vehicle and came back with Matty’s license. He held it by two fingers and extended it to Matty. “You’re not by any chance related to Baylee Westring, are you, son?”

It wasn’t what he’d expected the cop to say. “She’s my sister,” he answered cautiously.

“Thought she might be. I s’pose you’re aware you’re violating your probation being out this time of night?”

“Yes, sir. I was heading home. I know I’m late.” Matty made himself stop talking before he said any more. If he got in trouble, he might not be able to watch over Mamacita for Des.

“I can take you in. Notify your probation officer. Your family.”

Matty tried not to show his panic.

“But I’m going to let you off with a warning this time. You go on home now, all right?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Matty slid the license back into his wallet and took off, desperate to put as much distance as he could between himself and Deputy J. Spoley. It wasn’t until he got home that he began to wonder why he’d been let off the hook. He was pretty sure it wasn’t because Deputy Spoley was a nice guy. Why had he asked about Baylee?

The sick sense of dread returned.

Chapter Sixteen

Trey woke up viciously early the next morning with an excited, anticipatory kind of feeling that energized and unsettled him at the same time. He couldn’t wait to see Baylee again.

One look at the clock told him he had a couple of hours before she’d arrive. She’d be there to work. She’d expect to work. Sort through the mail, balance the checkbooks, help him stay organized. She’d vacuum and do laundry and make the bed. He hated the idea of her cleaning up after him.

Well, isn’t that what you’re paying her for?
his brain inquired.

Yes, but.

But what? What do you want to do? Pay her to have sex with you instead?

Yikes! He shied away from the thought. Maybe he could pay her
not
to clean. But to spend time with him instead.

So she’s a paid escort?

That wouldn’t work. She’d be insulted if he suggested such a thing, and he’d feel like a pimp sampling from his own stable. He’d hired Baylee to do a job. They had an agreement. He’d have to stick by it.

He did his PT exercises followed by a light workout. His knee did seem to be responding to the PT. The swelling was down. The pain was manageable. Maybe he’d walk without a limp one day soon.

In the kitchen he brewed coffee and retrieved his current journal from the dining room table. He’d take his coffee out to the back porch, journal and then meditate. Maybe today he’d find that elusive center, the calm he was always searching for.

He’d read the books and followed the practices. Maybe the breathing helped. The journaling. The meditation. But he never felt at peace. He was always chasing after…something. Something more. Something less. Something different. He didn’t even know what it was. But he had a feeling he’d know when he found it.

Settling himself in the chair, propping his leg up on the one next to it, he took a deep, satisfying sip of coffee and opened his journal. He never read back through his entries. The one time he’d tried, it had been too depressing. Had he really felt that way? Had he been that miserable? He’d come a long way since and he didn’t plan on going back. Move forward. One day at a time. One step at a time. That was his mantra now. His new therapist agreed journaling was a helpful tool in recovery and had encouraged him to continue.

He stared at the first word he’d written without even thinking about it.
Baylee.
What was there to say about Baylee? Hell, he could probably fill page after page about her. The scent of her skin, her direct manner, what it felt like being inside of her. Well, why not? The journals were to put down whatever was on his mind. Whatever was bothering him. Baylee bothered him a lot.

Trey wrote. About all of it, starting with the Collin Cassidy in New York, about following Baylee, rescuing her from the apartment. How it felt to have her head on his shoulder on the plane, seeing her in his bed. He spilled his guts onto the page, knowing no one would ever see the pages but him.

When he put the pen down and flexed his fingers to uncramp them, he thought maybe he’d discovered part of Baylee’s appeal. She renewed him.

He went into the kitchen and tossed his cold coffee down the drain. He poured more and leaned against the counter to reanalyze the thoughts that had come to him during his journaling session.

After leaving the NFL, surviving rehab, losing any chance he ever had of reconciling with Hayley, and then moving back here, he’d been like a blind man feeling his way along in unfamiliar territory.

Living without the buffer zone created by booze and pills, dealing with physical and emotional pain, he had to face himself in the mirror every morning. There were too many days when he saw himself as a washed-up former pro athlete, alone and lonely with no one to blame but himself.

Except when Baylee was around. Something about her presence made him think starting over wasn’t so bad. After being with her in bed, he had to wonder if it wasn’t the first time he’d been fully present with a woman. The first time in a long time, that was for sure.

Baylee had been hurt, certainly, but she wasn’t jaded. Regretful, perhaps, of what she’d been through with her ex-husband, but she wasn’t bitter.

He heard her car pull up outside. Damn. He hadn’t showered. Hadn’t even looked in the mirror. His hair was probably stuck up in six different directions. He thought about hightailing it into the bathroom, but he realized what his accelerated heartbeat meant. He couldn’t wait to see her.

He’d left his journal on the table outside. Had he closed it? He couldn’t remember. What if she saw everything he’d written? About her? About his feelings?

He took a step toward the door as she opened it. She stopped short when she saw him. They stared at each other across the expanse of linoleum floor for a few seconds. Her hair was in the ponytail. He wanted to release it from the elastic and let it tumble around her shoulders so he could run his fingers through it. He tightened his fingers around the handle of his mug instead.

“Good morning,” he managed.

“Hi,” she breathed. She gave him a small, uncertain smile and set down her bucket of supplies and bag of rags.

Neanderthal thoughts ran through his head while arousal pushed against the fly of his pajama bottoms. Could he seriously pick her up and drag her back to his bed and have his way with her? That’s what he wanted to do.

She was dressed for work, in shorts and sneakers and a T-shirt, ear pods from her MP3 dangling around her neck. He ought to get out of her way and let her work. Except it was his house, his kitchen, and he didn’t want to leave. He wondered if she’d mind if he watched while she cleaned? If she’d talk to him while she worked? Or maybe she’d let him help.

He smiled at the thought. He’d never done housework and had absolutely no inclination to start now.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Sure. Why?”

“You’re staring.”

There was that disarming directness again. Trey grinned. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from Baylee. “That’s because I like looking at you.”

“Oh.” Baylee glanced down at herself, then back at him, a glimpse of uncertainty in her eyes. “Really?”

Her tone somehow combined both bravado and innocence. He lifted the carafe of the coffee pot. “Want some coffee?”

“O-okay. Sure.”

He poured her a cup and walked it over to her. He set it on the counter. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

They continued to regard each other. Trey caught a whiff of the scent she wore that made him think of ripe fruit and fresh-cut flowers. Raw need tore through him, and he didn’t think about what he was going to do before he did it.

“Can you take this thing out of your hair?” His voice sounded husky even to his own ears, as he indicated the elastic band of her ponytail.

She kept her gaze steady on his as she reached up and, with one motion, pulled the band away, allowing her hair to tumble free.