Five Brothers
: Chapter 33

Why can’t I get it right? It’s wrong every time.

And I’ve tried following the recipe several times. Dipping my finger in again, I bring it to my mouth, sucking off the filling. It’s not even close to Mariette’s key lime pie. What the hell is she putting in it?

I pick up the note card she wrote out for me and study it. She gave me a bogus recipe. I know it. I’d keep a secret like that to myself, too.

I add more lime juice and stir.

“Are you listening to me?” Clay asks. “You can’t go through with this.”

She sits at the kitchen island of her mom’s new beach house, watching me cook. I’ve been staying here with Mars and Paisleigh for two days while I search for a more modest place. Not that we had to leave our house, but it was never a home. Not like that little cottage Trace showed us that night. I want them to live somewhere like that.

I swipe the filling with my finger, tasting it again. The nerves in my jaw joints perk up, and I shrug. It’s got more punch at least. I pour in more juice.

“Krisjen!”

I glance up and start stirring again. “He doesn’t love me,” I tell her.

I said it to him several times. He didn’t tell me once.

“Is that what you think?” she snaps. “How could he not love you?”

“You don’t know everything, Clay.” I pour the filling into a pie shell. “I’m not what he needs. I owe him.”

“Krisjen—”

But my phone rings, and I hurriedly drop the bowl back to the counter, thankful for the interruption.

“Hello?” I answer quickly.

“Hey, it’s me,” Bateman says. “The kids never showed up at your grandparents’.”

“What?”

I step away from the pie, checking the clock on the wall. It’s almost seven. They got out of school four hours ago. Mars texted me that they were there.

“Your grandma didn’t think anything of it,” he goes on. “With your parents and such, she figured wires got crossed, but I found Paisleigh’s homework in my car and called to see if I could drop it off. It’s due Monday. That’s when we realized we didn’t know where the kids were.”

I slip my feet into my flip-flops and grab my keys. “Have you called my parents?”

“Both of them,” he replies. “Your dad’s not answering, and your mom said … that they’re in the Bay.”

“What?” I blurt out, feeling Clay’s eyes on me. “Why would—”

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding breathless. “Do you want me to call someone?”

I hook my purse over my head and mouth to Clay, “Gotta go.”

I push through the screen door, jogging down the porch steps. “Not yet,” I tell him. “Keep your phone on you just in case.”

“Got it. Let me know when you have them.”

“Bye.” And I hang up.

Why are the kids in the Bay? And how does my mother know that?

What’s going on?

I hop in my car, the sky black, not a star visible. The thick air breezes through the open windows, but I let my hair fly in my face, too busy dialing the entire way over to the Bay.

Mars doesn’t answer. My mother doesn’t answer. I hesitate, tempted to call Army. I don’t want to face Macon.

But I call him anyway.

The phone just rings. No voicemail picks up.

I race toward the Bay, thunder rolling across the sky as I keep calling Mars and my mother over and over again.

Headlights flash, and I glance in my rearview mirror, seeing a car behind me. I slow, watching them drive up alongside and as soon as I recognize Army’s truck. I exhale, a little relieved.

He tips his chin at me, and I swerve to the side, slowing to a stop. He does the same, pulling over in front of me.

He hops out and heads back to me, leaning on my open window. “I was just on my way to retrieve you.”

“Where are Mars and Paisleigh?”

“I’ll take you.”

I narrow my eyes.

His gaze falls down my body, but in a way that feels condescending, not leering. “Follow me,” he says.

I open my mouth to speak, but I close it again. I just need to get to my brother and sister, and then I can figure out what the hell is going on.

I watch as he climbs back into the cab of his truck, no other figures visible inside, and I hesitate only a moment when he hits the gas.

I ride his tail, turn left, and then follow right, but instead of continuing to the Bay, he takes another left. He pulls into the marina, slowing over the speed bumps. I follow, my heart beating faster. Something isn’t right. They’re not here. Why would they be here?

He coasts into a spot, and I park next to him, shutting off the engine and exiting quickly.

He waits for me near the bed of his truck.

I look right and then left, hearing the boats rock on the water, the weight in the air heavy. “Army …”

“It’s okay,” he says. “The kids are fine.”

I follow him down the walkway and onto the dock, passing sport boats and yachts, and stopping at a deep-sea fishing boat. He steps onto the deck, holding out a hand to help me. I glance past him, not seeing anything inside the dark cabin.

I ignore his hand and hop on, walking past him and sliding open the door.

I stop.

Men crowd the living room, and I gaze around, recognizing most of them as they all turn their heads to look at me.

Jerome Watson. Garrett Ames. A lawyer named Stewart Cole. Trace. Dallas.

Macon stands in the center, wearing a dark suit with a navy blue shirt and a black tie. His arms are crossed over his chest.

“You keep the house,” he says.

But he’s not talking to me.

He’s talking to Garrett Ames.

“I keep the five years,” he continues. “Once that time is up, if the land is not appraised for at least three hundred percent above your initial offer, you get it. No argument.”

I rush in. “No.”

But they keep going as if I’m not there. “Say it again,” Garrett demands, gesturing to everyone in the room. “Say it again, in front of them all.”

“No argument,” Macon repeats.

What the fuck? Does he have any idea what I went through to protect him?

Macon shifts his gaze to Jerome Watson. “Stop looking at her.”

I glance, seeing Jerome turn away from me.

Garrett Ames holds out his hand, and Macon shakes it, the gesture by no means friendly. They both know Macon won’t break his word. Garrett is making sure everyone sees it.

In a moment, they’re gone, leaving only the Jaegers still on the boat.

I charge up to Macon. “What did you do?”

“Bought you back.” He tips my chin up. “You weren’t yours to sell.”

I shake my head. He took me off the table and put every person living in the Bay on it instead. How could he do that? Five years to make the land valuable is something, but it may not be enough. What if he can’t pull it off? I’m not worth that.

“Where are my brother and sister?” I ask.

He picks up a cigarette and lighter. “Making up their new beds and decorating their new room.”

His mother’s art room …

I back away, toward the doors. “I’m taking them home.”

“They are home.” He lights the cigarette. “I have power of attorney. Do you?”

“What?” I breathe out.

Power of attorney. He could’ve only gotten that from one of my parents.

He slides a document across the side table. I walk over, pick it up, and read it as he waits.

My mother is the grantor. She’s given him authorization to act on Mars’s and Paisleigh’s behalf in her absence. It doesn’t mean he has custody, but he has more than me. I haven’t gotten around to making this legal with my parents yet.

“I just paid a lot for you,” he whispers. “Come here.”

How much money did he pay her for this? On top of what I got her from my father, my mom has to be sitting pretty fucking well right now.

I hear Dallas in the background. “The whole Bay paid for her.” I drift to Macon. “How much?” I ask him. “How much did you pay her?”

The smoke curls toward the ceiling, his eyes locked on mine.

I pull the ties on my cover-up, letting it fall to the floor. I stand in my two-piece swimsuit that I wore on the beach earlier today. “Enough for all of you to get your uses out of me?”

His chest rises and falls in heavy breaths, and I reach behind my back, tugging the strings of my top. Pulling it away from my body, I stand in the middle of the room, topless. The guys are silent behind me.

“Enough for you to do whatever you want?”

“Enough for me to get you knocked up,” he whispers. “I want a kid, and I want it from you.”

I almost choke on a lungful of air. My stomach drops, and I barely notice him snuffing out his cigarette and lifting me into his arms. The room spins.

Is he serious?

“Wait outside,” he tells his brothers.

He carries me away, and closes us off into a back room and sets me on my feet. I can’t look up at him. I’m afraid.

He smooths locks of my hair through his fingers and brushes my chin with his thumb. “You would’ve been his wife?”

I try to speak, but it takes a moment. “Or your revenge,” I say quietly. “Is that what I am?”

Does he love me? Does he want me?

His hands glide down the sides of my torso, over my belly button, around my hips, and up my back. Then he brings them back around, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.

But all I really feel are his eyes. Nothing feels as good as him looking at me. He pulls me into him and kisses my forehead.

“How long do I have to pay?” I ask.

He pushes my bottoms down my legs, backs me up to the bed, and pushes me down before he strips off his clothes. “Until you’re dead.”

I crawl back on the bed, away, but he comes down on me, pressing me on top of the covers. I plant my hands against his chest as he stares down at me, already hard and pressing between my legs.

I dig my nails in, and he cocks his head.

“What if I was looking forward to being Mrs. Watson?” I taunt, lifting my chin. “What if I wanted him?”

He forces my leg out, grunting as his groin presses against my warm center. “If you ever fucking say that to me again …” he growls.

And then he thrusts his hips, pushing inside of me. I gasp, feeling his hard cock inside me, stretching me.

I push at his chest but don’t push him away. He pumps his hips, thrusting between my legs, sliding in and out, and then he dips down, sucking on my right nipple.

My eyelids flutter.

I watch him lick and bite as he drives into me faster and harder, fucking me like he owns me.

“I’m scared of you,” I whisper. “A little.”

Still.

If I ever fucking say that to him again—taunt him with Jerome Watson—what will he do? Kill someone?

“But I think you like me, too.” He breathes over my skin. “Just a little. Don’t you?”

It’s not really a question. He knows the answer.

My legs fall wide, I circle his waist with my arms and arch up, catching his bottom lip in my teeth.

He trembles, slowing. “I’m scared of you, too.”

I know.

Flipping us over, I straddle his cock and dive down, kissing and licking his stomach, his chest, and his neck. Then I roll my hips, taking him back inside me as I gaze at him and rock nice and slow.

“She didn’t try to touch you, did she?” I say.

I don’t want him to ever have to speak to her again.

He digs his fingers into my hips, tipping his head back as he tries to guide my hips faster and faster. “No one touches me but you.”

Only me.

“Krisjen,” he groans. “Faster.”

“No.”

I want him slow.

He grits out, “Fuck.”

Slow and soft, I slide up and down his cock, my orgasm teasing as I start to rub myself. He watches me, and then I feel his muscles tighten.

“Faster,” he begs through his teeth.

I let my head fall back, loving the feeling of him wanting me.

I bounce, and he shoots up, both of us wrapping our arms around each other. I fuck him, holding him to me as the heat builds in my stomach. I drive my thighs into him again and again, crashing my mouth down on his as I start to come.

I whimper and moan, both muffled in the kiss, but when the orgasm rocks through me, I open my eyes, seeing him staring. Watching me.

I roll my hips nice and slow, my lips layered with his as he grips my ass, presses me hard against his groin, and … spills inside of me.

He growls against my mouth, not kissing me back as I leave pecks on his lips and feel him throb between my legs.

He falls back on the bed, taking me with him, and I just want to curl into him for the rest of my life. He wants me. I know he wants me.

Does he love me?

I lean over him, kiss his eyes, between them, and down his cheeks. Taking his mouth, I kiss him, moving over his lips, savoring every second.

I pull back and look down, and for a moment, I swear I see a smile, but then not. He blinks, his expression hardening, and he moves out from under me.

Sitting up, he swings his legs over the bed and picks up his clothes, starting to dress.

I sit cross-legged, holding the sheet up over my body. “Look at me.”

He keeps his back to me. What’s wrong?

“Macon, look at me.”

He shakes his head. “How can you look at me?” he says barely above a whisper.

He rises, pulling on his pants and still not meeting my gaze.

“I’ll always see you,” I say, but my voice is gravelly with tears. “Even when I close my eyes.”I told him that less than two weeks ago.

He sits back down and pulls on his socks and shoes. I cover his back, wrapping my arms around him. “I know you hate me. What she did to you …”

He pulls my arms off him, grabbing his shirt off the nightstand and standing up again. “I knew exactly who you were when you slept next to me all those nights, Krisjen.” I sit back as he slips his arms into the shirt. “When you rode on the back of my bike and sat at my table and fed me and filled my house with your fucking perfume. I knew who you were from the start.”

He still wanted me. Knowing I was her daughter.

Then why doesn’t he say it? Tell me you love me.

How could I not look at him? “I was made for you,” I murmur.

I stare at his back, waiting for a response. Just say it. Please. If he loves me, then everything is okay.

“Just get dressed.” He stands up, leaving his tie but pulling on his jacket. “They’ll take you back to the house.” He faces me as he pulls on his jacket but still doesn’t meet my eyes. “If you don’t sleep with me, you sleep alone,” he says. “You live with us now.”

He starts to leave, and I wrap my arms around my knees. “I’ll get my pillow.”

He stops, his hand on the knob.

I smile, a little sadly.

I’ll be in his bed. I’ll always be in his bed.

I know my mind. He thinks there’s too much baggage, and he thinks I’m too young. But he’s stuck in his bullshit. He feels too guilty to claim me, but he can’t let me go. I don’t want to lose time. Does he want me the way I want him?

I swallow through the tightness in my throat. “I always thought I was some special little shit growing up,” I say.

He still doesn’t face me.

“I was told I was smart,” I tell him. “That I would take on the world and everyone would know who I was. I would be someone great, and no one would be outside my sphere of influence.”

Adults tell every kid they’re significant. We want to believe it.

“But the thing is …” I go on, “I’m not unique. I was never that smart. I’ll never be an astronaut, or the captain of a ship, or a professor of biology or philosophy. I’m not a good athlete, and I’m fine seeing mountains and operas and Alaska just on TV.”

None of that is what I wanted out of life. I want none of what I was taught to want.

“No one will remember me after I’m gone,” I say, “and I’ll never be someone kids learn about in school.”

I drop my eyes, heat covering my cheeks and my pulse racing painfully.

“I just want to love you.” All I can do is whisper. “That, I will do beautifully.”