So I’m in love with him, she told herself. So what?
He’ll never love you back, an annoying little voice returned.
Groaning, she buried her face under a pillow, trying to stifle it. In the bathroom, she heard him turn on the shower faucet, still whistling.
He’ll never love you back, once he knows…
Furious with herself, and with him, for being so goddamned cheerful, she got up, stormed into the bathroom, and wrenched open the shower door. She was going to put a stop to all this love bullshit right now. Nip it in the bud. Smother it in its infancy.
He was rinsing soap off himself, smiling lazily. “Need me again so soon?”
“My brother killed my stepfather for raping me.”
He regarded her thoughtfully, as if what she’d just said was average postcoital conversation. “Why don’t you come in here and tell me about it?”
Her body humming with determination, she stepped into the shower. “I was sixteen,” she said, wetting her hair and lathering it furiously. “Rigo was twenty-two. He wanted to be a famous soccer player. It was his life.” She leaned her head back, rinsing.
He handed her the conditioner.
“My mom was always working odd jobs. And shacking up with strange men.” She closed her eyes, rinsed the conditioner from her hair. “Everett, my stepfather, wasn’t the first one who…took a liking to me.” She barely noticed when he handed her some masculine-smelling shower gel, was unaware that she scrubbed a little too vigorously.
“I think you’re clean,” he said, taking the soap out of her hands.
She stared down at the drain, waiting for the water to run clear. “Some of them liked Rigo, too,” she murmured.
He shut off the faucet, wrapping a towel around his waist and another around her.
“We both grew up pretty fast. He looked out for me. I looked up to him.” She stepped out of the shower stall. “If not for Rigo, what Everett did would have happened a lot sooner. But he couldn’t be there to protect me every minute.”
She snuck a glance at Ben, expecting to see pity. Or disgust. What she saw was fury.
“Go on,” he said.
Sonny had told this part of the story many, many times. Social services and court officials had made her repeat it, again and again. Like always, she delivered the lines flatly, her voice free of emotion, mind carefully blank. “One day when I came home from school, Everett was waiting for me. Rigo had been going to the local community college, playing on their soccer team, and he had practice.” She looked through Ben, not really seeing him. “Everett followed me into my room. We scuffled. He slapped me, and I fell against my dresser.” Remembering the explosion of pain, she lifted her hand to the back of her head. “By the time he was finished, I was barely conscious.”
A lot was left unsaid, but she couldn’t bring herself to describe the fear, the helplessness, the shame of reliving that experience every time she gave herself to a nameless, faceless boy in hopes of dulling her senses.
When she raised her eyes to Ben, she saw that his expression was fierce. “How did your brother kill him?” he asked. “You said he beat me to it.”
“Rigo was doing thirty days for possession when he met up with Everett in LA County Jail. He’s never admitted it, but I think he got arrested on purpose. He stabbed Everett thirteen times with a sharpened pencil.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten years.”
“And he’s still in prison?”
Tears flooded her eyes. “He got a twenty-year sentence. They made an example of him. Called it a gang-style execution.”
Ben ran his hand through his hair. “How old was he?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Jesus. Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with the world? Did he appeal?”
“Yes, but he already had a criminal record, so that didn’t help. And Everett’s history was inadmissible.” She shivered, suddenly cold and very, very tired. “Sometimes I think what happened affected Rigo more than me. He blamed himself for not being there. Even before he got arrested, he wasn’t the same. He never played soccer again.”
Ben wrapped his arms around her, but her body was stiff and unyielding. “Tell me what you need from me.”
She lifted her head to look at him. “Breakfast?”
He leaned down to kiss her.
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t deal with pity right now, Ben.”
“Good, because I’m not offering any.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“The same thing I’ve always been doing. Trying to get you out of your towel.”
She glanced away, gulped down her question. Then faced him and asked it anyway. “You still want me?”
He cupped her chin, ran his thumb alongside her jaw. “You amaze me. To have gone through all that, and come out like you did? I can’t fault your brother for murdering your stepfather. But it kills me to see you cry for him instead of yourself.”
She fought against his hold, tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her. “If not for me, Rigo wouldn’t have gone after Everett,” she whispered, voicing her secret guilt.
“No,” he insisted, meeting her eyes. “None of it happened because of you.”
She’d told herself the same thing a thousand times. The words didn’t erase the pain, or the guilt, but they helped. Just having him listen helped. Knowing he still wanted her helped.
She studied him carefully. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. You think that five-minute romp satisfied me? Like you said, you can do better by yourself.” He placed a hand over his heart. “My pride as a man is at stake.”
“I didn’t mean what I said. It wasn’t that bad.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You just laid down the gauntlet.”
“Your ego knows no bounds,” she said in wonder.
He bent his knees to pick her up, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. He carried her to the bed and tossed her down on it, not trying to be gentle, not treating her like she was damaged goods, or an object that might break.
He stared at her for a moment, undecided, then turned to his chest of drawers and put on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt.
“Where are you going?”
“To get your breakfast, princess.”
Smiling, she stripped off her towel and dropped it over the edge of the bed, leaving it lying on the floor. “It’s too clean around here,” she said, stretching out on her stomach.
His eyes darkened. “Not always.”
On the balcony, Summer polished off the waffles and fresh fruit all on her own. She was wearing his fluffy white bathrobe, the one he never used, and lounging in a cushioned deck chair, the breakfast tray he’d brought her balanced on her lap.
A smile played on his lips. She looked like a pampered hotel guest, and he was happy to be of service. Carly and James had gone to an early matinee, so he was quite literally at her disposal, ready to cater to her every whim.
Ben stared out at the ocean, inordinately pleased with himself. It was another one of those perfect winter days, vivid and bright. At high tide, the sun was hot overhead, surf crashed against the rocks below, and sea gulls bantered noisily, searching for tasty snacks in the crevices after each receding wave.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, looking down at her empty plate.
“Not for food,” he returned, watching her lick a drop of syrup from her fingers. Even with her newly black, poorly dyed hair, she was stunning, and the sun loved her. It made her blue eyes brilliant and warmed her honeyed skin.
“You have a one-track mind,” she commented.
He murmured a vague agreement, his eyes traveling down her body. “Open your robe.”
“Out here?”
He glanced around. “No one’s watching.”
Smiling, she set her plate aside and rose to her feet. Leaning against the balcony’s decorative handrail, she looked out at the Pacific, the wind fluttering the edge of her robe, teasing her short hair.