Page 18 of Plentywood
“Not gonna happen,” I stated, knowing I wanted a blow job so badly. “What would I say to your grandma if I soiled her grandson?”
“You’d tell her you wanted to marry me,” he replied. “And you’d tell her you wanted to make an honest boy out of me, sheriff.”
“You’re full of shit, Charlie,” I said. “You wouldn’t stick around a month if we hooked up again, and I fell for you.”
“I’m thirty, Hunt. I’m serious too.”
His tone had shifted and caught me off guard. If I wasn’t wrong, his eyes welled up a bit and his face appeared serious, not a look I’d ever noticed on the smart-ass punk.
“What are you doing, Charlie?” I asked. “I don’t need this shit today.”
He came around the counter and stood in front of me. My pulse raced when he got so close. Charlie and I had had a love/hate thing for years. I wasn’t blind. I recognized how attractive he was. If there hadn’t been a Mark, there may have been a Charlie.
Standing this close to him reminded me of why people saw him as handsome. He was tall and lean, with an edge about him that kept him from being called pretty. I liked pretty, actually preferred pretty, but Charlie had a cleft chin and a square jaw. The combo prevented the word pretty from being used to describe him. Buthot-as-fuckwas certainly still an option.
We both grew up around these parts. Culbertson didn’t have a high school, so he arrived in Plentywood his freshman year. Mark was a year behind him and hated him immediately. Mark swore Charlie was also gay, but Charlie never officially came out in school.
“It’s been two years since Mark, Hunt,” he whispered. “And, you know, eighteen months since our thing. And I know you think I’m a loser, half-witted horndog, but I want to make a change. I know I can’t replace Mark, but I’d like my shot.”
I stepped back and nervously reached for my change. “Stop it,” I said, stuffing four bucks and some coins into my frontpocket. “Two years. Ten years. A thousand years. I doubt I’ll ever be ready for anything again,” I admitted, revealing a bit of myself for the first time to someone I viewed as a jokester who wanted nothing in life but to be a playboy dick-tease.
“I’m serious,” he whispered, reaching for my hand. His face actually registered hurt when I jerked my hand away, catching me off guard. “I know you’re gonna end up with the new doctor if I don’t tell you how I feel right now,” he confessed.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “And you don’t know shit about me and that new doctor. This isn’t who we are, and you know it. You try to get in my pants, and then I say, “Not a chance.” That’s what we do,” I added, gesturing between us. “Not some BS about wanting a chance at something real.”
I felt full-on panic setting in. I felt unsteady on my feet and lightheaded, things I didn’t like experiencing. I’d spent the best part of two years building a wall around me and having Charlie Brewster unexpectedly chip away at it wasn’t in my well-crafted plans for survival.
“I don’t want to lose my chance if I have one, Hunt. I’m not saying I think I have one, but I guess I’m asking if I do,” he said. “And I know you haven’t forgotten about those few months.”
I looked at everything in the store but him. His words were surprising to hear, and I was certain he had to be pulling some kind of sick joke. Charlie Brewster was not a serious person. He’d never been serious about anything in his life. He had a joking response to everything and acted like a moody James Dean wannabe, at least as far as I’d ever witnessed.
Not to mention he’d suffered mightily when I stopped using him sexually a year and a half ago. He deserved better than to keep returning to my empty well of love. Last time nearly killed him. Another shot at me might actually do the trick.
“Your bullshit is not needed right now,” I stated. “The anniversary of Mark’s death just happened, and I… well… I don’t need your crap.”
“I’m not Mark,” he whispered. “I know that, Hunt, but come on for just a second. We had our time, but you were hurtin’. I get that, but I’m serious now. I got better after all that mess. Tell me you aren’t at least a little attracted to me.”
“Not the point,” I grunted, crossing my arms protectively. “I just wanted some fucking beer.”
“Yeah, I know why you’re here. And I know why you drink so much beer. I’ve been here for two years watching you, Hunt. Think I don’t know you’re lost? Think I don’t hurt watching you suffer?” he asked. “I know what folks think about me around here. Hell, my own gramma thinks I’m a fuckup.” He tapped his chest, and a tear slid down the side of his nose, startling me. “There’s another man inside here, Hunt. I know you don’t think so, but there is.”
“Don’t,” I begged, leaning against the door and beginning to push it open. “Please don’t change our roles, Charlie.”
I motioned for Bella to exit with a jerk of my head, keeping a wary eye on one of the sexiest men I’d ever seen. Charlie Brewster was sex on a stick, but he wasn’t marriage material in my mind. Maybe there was another side to him, but I didn’t want to see that other side. Currently, I preferred standing on my side. Alone.
Mark was the marrying type. Charlie wasn’t. That was the choice I’d made back then. But Mark was dead now. I knew I couldn’t start something up again with a man who had been there to help me get upright and moving again. But that was just sex. Charlie was now talking about something completely different from that.
We both knew that wasn’t in the cards for us, so why was he acting like this suddenly?
CHAPTER TWELVE: Benedict
Agnes slid a file under my nose and then stood back, her arms crossed.Charles Brewsterwas the name written on the tab.
“He goes by Charlie or Skeeter, your choice,” she said. “He’s arrogant, promiscuous, full of himself, and he’s my grandson. Make of that what you will,” she added.
I looked up from my desk, pushing one file away and grabbing her grandson’s. The file was surprisingly thick. My eyes scanned the first page and then I leafed through several more, eventually going back nearly thirty years.
“He was three months old?” I asked, shocked by the written history. The clinic had no database or computer-filed records. I’d noticed perhaps six or seven different doctors’ handwritten notes. “All of his care has been here?”
