Tied (15 page)

I ready my hand to block the glass that I’m pretty certain is about to come spiraling at my face. But nothing gets thrown at me. Instead something more shocking—more horrifying—happens.

The Bitch covers her face with her hands and sobs into them.

I swallow hard. Then I look around. Waiting for that douche bag Ashton Kutcher to jump out and yell, “Punked!” Because Alexandra Evans isn’t a crier. She’s a doer—a fixer.

And throughout the history of mankind, crying has never fixed shit.

I stutter. And ask the second-stupidest question ever. “Are you . . . are you crying?”

In my head Tom Hanks’s voice echoes,
“There’s no crying in baseball!”
Did Cleopatra cry when Egypt got sacked? Did Joan of Arc cry when the Catholic Church called her a witch? They are my sister’s counterparts.

Alexandra shakes her head, but the tears keep on flowing. “It’s my fault. I’ve pushed him away. I’ve been miserable to be around. I’ve treated him terribly.”

“Well, if you know that, why don’t you just . . . stop?” Seems simple, right?

Wrong.

“I can’t help it. I’m so sad. And angry. It’s not fair. I’m too young to be a dried-up prune!”

Now she’s really going at it. Sniffling and snotting all over the place. I don’t have a tissue, so I take off my T-shirt—even though it’s one of my favorites—and hand it to her. Alexandra blows her nose into it. It sounds like a dying goose.

Even though I have no fucking clue what she’s talking about, I know I’m supposed to say something. “Well . . . prunes have their uses. A few months ago, James’s pipes were backed up. And we fed him a few of those bad boys and they did the trick. It was like edible Drano—cleaned everything out. Prunes are great.”

She stops. And looks up at me with red-rimmed, perplexed eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I have no fucking idea! I’m trying to be comforting.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t come to you for comfort often. You suck at it!” She goes back to bawling in the T-shirt.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe deep. Let’s try this again. “You said you were angry. Sad. Why are you angry and sad, Alexandra?”

She wipes at her face and talks quickly—rushed. “I could set my watch to my period. Every twenty-seven days on the dot. So when it didn’t come, I thought,
Oh, crap,
you know? And even though the test said negative, I assumed it was just too early. So I went to the doctor and I was so sure he was going to tell me I was pregnant. And even though it wasn’t planned, I started to get used to the idea of another one. I was excited. But then . . . then he told me I wasn’t pregnant.”

A cold ball of ice settles in my stomach. “You’re not . . . you’re not sick, are you?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not sick.” She takes a cleansing breath. “He said it’s menopause. Early-onset menopause. I can’t have any more children—ever. I’m infertile.”

She weeps quietly for a minute.

I rub her shoulder gently. “Did you and Steven want a lot more kids?”

Her brow furrows slightly. “Well . . . no. We’d always planned on two. After Thomas was born, I’d even talked to Steven about getting a vasectomy. He wasn’t keen on the idea.”

I try to understand the problem. That fails, so I ask, “But, if you don’t want any more kids—then why are you so devastated about not being able to have any more kids?”

“Because I’m a woman, Drew! Creating life. Nurturing—that’s what we do.”

Nope—still don’t get it. “But that’s not
all
you do. I mean,
Jesus
, Alexandra, it’s not like you’re a
Handmaid’s Tale
breeder here. So the egg basket’s empty? Big deal. You have two beautiful children—be happy with them. Maybe this is nature’s way of telling you that you shouldn’t have any more. I’ve seen what pregnancy does to your body. It ain’t pretty.”

Now she’s glaring at me. Which is a good sign. Pissed-off Alexandra I can handle.

“I
am
happy with the two that I have. It’s just . . . having the option to have more was nice . . . even if I never did. I feel . . . cheated. And old. I have the insides of a sixty-year-old woman, Drew. How long before the outside reflects that? And have you looked at Steven lately? Every year he gets more handsome—more distinguished looking. Soon some gold-digging bimbo is going to try to get her claws in him, and he’s going to be saddled with a wife who looks like Barbara Bush!”

She buries her face in the shirt again, and I can’t help but laugh. Just a little. “Lexi . . . you’re hardly Barbara Bush. I’d say you’re more of the Christie Brinkley variety. And besides—Steven loves you.
You
. Not your goddamn ovaries. You’re the bitchy-boss center of his universe. You always have been. When the rest of us were jerking off to thoughts of Sister B, Steven was jerking off to thoughts of you.” And don’t think I’m comfortable knowing that. “He’d never trade you in for some skinny-legged twit who’s only interested in the size of his bank account. Steven is too smart for that.”

She looks up. Almost hopefully. “How would you feel if Kate told you she couldn’t have any more kids?”

I take a moment to ponder. To imagine the possibilities. “If Kate told me I could bang her all I wanted and I never had to worry about knocking her up? I’d do the Irish jig down Fifth fucking Avenue. It’d be like Christmas every day. No more PMS, no more abstaining for three to five days every month . . . unless
you let Steven go wading in the crimson tide? Which, if you do, please lie to me.”

Period sex is a deal breaker for Kate. No matter what I say, no matter what I do, she’s not interested. Which I will
never
understand. We’re hunters, ladies. We
like
blood. It’s part of the reason action flicks and war movies have so much of it. We don’t think it’s gross. We don’t think it’s messy. It’s just . . . more lubrication.

Don’t look at me like that. I’m just being honest.

The tears have almost dried up. Alexandra sniffles and hiccups. “But don’t you want more children?”

“Sure, I want more. James is the best. I’d have twenty with Kate. In
theory
. Reality’s a different story. Kids are hard.”

Alexandra nods.

“You need to talk to Steven. You’re torturing the guy. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“What if he looks at me differently?”

“He won’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

I lean forward and try to find the right words. “Because . . . because when Kate was pregnant with James? She was as big as a house—and I still wanted to fuck her every bit as much as I want to right now. Because when I look at her? I just see Kate . . . the woman who walked into my life five years ago and screwed it all up. Who shook me out, turned me upside down, and made me . . . more. So even when she gets wrinkly or gray? She’ll still be Kate. She’ll still make me laugh and make me crazy . . . and she’ll still love me more than I will ever deserve. And I know that Steven feels the same way about you.”

Alexandra wipes her eyes with my shirt one last time. She starts to look more like herself. “So . . . you’re saying I’m making a bigger deal about this than it is?”

“I’m saying if you tell Steven, it won’t feel so big anymore.”

She gives me a small smile. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

“Good.”

Alexandra stands up, leans in, and hugs me. I squeeze her back, letting her know that I’m here for her. To listen, and to kick her in the ass whenever the rare opportunity presents itself.

“And don’t go making a habit out of this falling-apart thing,” I chastise. “I have an exclusive on self-destructive behavior in this family.”

She chuckles and heads toward the house. Then she pauses and turns toward me. “Hey, Drew?”

“Yeah?”

“When did you get so smart?”

That’s an easy one. “About five years ago.”

After I finish my sandwich, I head back to the bedroom to wake Kate. But when I get there, she’s already up and in the shower. Washing the body I obsess about and singing.

Nobody does it half as good as you

Baby, you’re the best

Her voice floats around the bathroom and echoes off the tiles. It’s a cheesy song—Carly Simon—from some seventies James Bond flick. But pleasure still rises up from my gut and spreads out through my chest at the sound. Because as sure as I know Delores will one day be committed to a home for the criminally insane, I
know Kate is singing about me. I fold my arms, lean back against the door, and watch her through the steamed glass. She tilts her head back under the hot stream of water. Her rack juts out high and proud—more tantalizing than any Vegas showgirl’s set. Her long hair brushes against her ass, playing peekaboo with the butterfly tattoo on her lower back.

Kate turns off the water and steps out of the shower. She smiles when she sees me. “Hey, you. Where’d you go?”

I should probably hand her a towel. It would be the nice thing to do. The bathroom tiles are cool, and if her pointy nipples are any indication, she’s a bit chilled. But you don’t really think I’m going to do that, do you?

Come on.

Like I would ever pass up the chance to eyefuck Kate Brooks in all her wet, bare-ass beauty. And pointy nipples are awesome. So, like the giggly, perverted schoolboy part of me still is, I don’t move an inch as Kate scurries across the bathroom and grabs a robe off the hook on the far wall, then covers up my favorite viewing pleasure.

“I was on the patio with Alexandra.”

Kate twists a second towel around her head in that high-crown style that only women are capable of. Then she frowns worriedly. “She really hasn’t been herself lately. I hope she’ll talk to me tonight about whatever’s going on between her and Steven.”

“Way ahead of you. It’s all taken care of.”

“What’s happened?”

I reach into the shower and turn the water back on full blast. Then I slip off my boxers. Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Kate does a little eyefucking of her own.

Nice.

“Her baby-making factory got an early foreclosure notice.”

“What does that mean?”

“Doctor told her she’s menopausal.”

Kate’s hand goes to her chest with a sympathetic sigh. “But she’s so young!”

I nod. “Yeah. She’s a hot mess about it. She’s been afraid to tell Steven, but I convinced her to talk to him later. They’ll get back on track.”

Kate’s eyes widen. “
You
convinced her to talk to Steven?”

“Yep.”

“How did you manage that?”

“She talked, bawled her eyes out, and I . . . comforted . . . her.”

Now Kate looks confused. “You
comforted
her?”

“What are you, a fucking parrot? Yes, I comforted her—why are you shocked?”

Kate folds her arms across her chest. “Well, let’s see. Could it be because your idea of comforting Mackenzie when her cat died was to tell her not to be sad because now Snowball was with all his other feline friends in hell?”

I possibly could have worded that better.

“Or maybe it’s because when my mother missed James’s christening because of that blizzard, you
comforted
her by saying that when he grows up, he’ll barely know who she is anyway?”

Some people just can’t handle the truth.

“Then there was the time—”

I put my hand over her smart-ass mouth. Her dark, deep eyes stare up at me with warmth and teasing affection.

“I admit, not everyone is able to absorb my particular brand of comfort. But in this case, Alexandra did. Because of me, she and Steven are on their way back to marital bliss. For that, I deserve a pat on the back. A hand job would also do nicely.”

Kate busts out laughing. She wraps her arms around my neck,
pressing her terry-cloth-covered stomach against my dick. She tilts her head up. “It’s nice to be the stable couple in the group for once. Go, us.” She holds up one palm. “High five.”

I glance at her hand, then shake my head dismissively. “I don’t do high fives.” I wiggle my digits. “But if you’re interested in some fingering, I’m happy to oblige.”

Kate giggles. “Such a pervert.”

I give her lips a peck. “For you? Always. Now stop trying to seduce me, and let me take a shower.”

As she turns away, I swat her ass for good measure. Then I step into the shower and close the glass door behind me. I stick my head under the searing water and let the heat relax the muscles in my neck and back.

Through the glass a blurry Kate moves around, beginning the long getting-ready ritual. “I called your parents to see how the baby was doing.”

“What’d they say?”

“Your mother sounded half-dead, but all of the kids are great.”

Just as I expected.

Five minutes later, I’m out of the shower. I towel off and slip on a fresh pair of boxers. Then I step up to the sink and lather shaving cream on my face. Kate reenters the bathroom and stands beside me, putting makeup on. Her hair is damp but the robe is gone. In its place is a mouthwatering matching bra-and-panty set.

They’re pink silk with a black lace overlay. The panties are high cut—bikini style—and the bra pushes her tits up and together, creating a sexy-as-all-hell deep cleavage line. She dusts powder onto her face while I check her out.