CHAPTER TEN- Making a Splash
"This is fucking ridiculous," Drake's mutter barely registered to his own ears, drowned out by the sound of the rain hitting the top of the car and splashing into the open passenger-side window, out which he now shouted. "Get in the God damned car, Wesley, you mule-headed arse!"
He'd followed her for nearly a mile now, the car's powerful engine throttled to accommodate the slow pace he was keeping, staying just behind her as she walked the wet sidewalks. He'd taken more side streets than he cared to count, shouted at her countless times, and if the seat beside him hadn't already been ruined by the wrath of the rain-soaked wretch outside, the water damage would have taken care of it.
Resolutely, Gen wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the sodden knit of her sweater squelch in the crooks of her elbows. The cashmere top she'd so admired clung to her now like so much wet tissue paper, and her bare feet were wrinkled from the downpour. She'd have turned around and shouted back at the over-persistent bastard, but she'd be damned if she'd give him the satisfaction of seeing her teeth chatter.
A car horn sounded stridently, breaking Gen from her thoughts and making her tense, but she did not turn around. It wasn't Mallory's-she'd heard it enough in the past fifteen minutes to know good and well the tone and timbre of that blasted machine.
Drake shot an angry glance into his rearview mirror and flipped off the impatient driver gesturing behind him. Riding his brakes just a little more, making the red rear lamps flash into the other driver's eyes, he shouted out the window. "Bugger off, you fucking twit, there are plenty of other streets for you to take!" He pounded his fists against the wheel, wondering longingly where all his breeding and pride had gone tonight. Certainly they were elsewhere. He'd nearly shagged a Wesley, and now he was following her like a bloody lunatic. Thinking such, he yelled out the window again, the roar of a wounded, desperate, and very angry animal. "Wesley!"
He looked like a fool, and well he knew it.
But still he did not leave her.
After all, he told himself, it would be just his luck if something happened to the bint and then he was held responsible. No, he'd not bring shame on the family name if some sort of incident happened with the nattering wench. Instead, he'd see her home in this inane fashion and then be shut of her. He'd wash his hands of her after tonight, so he would.
And washing his hands sounded good, he reckoned as he rounded the last corner. He'd touched a bloody Wesley. Freckled, impoverished lot.
But for some reason, he couldn't dredge up the accompanying shudder that usually went with those words.
He pulled to the curb in front of her house with a squeal of wet tires, ready to jump out and-
Walk her to the door?
-wring her neck.
But she was already in the house, and from where he stood, Drake could hear the bolt latch, and he uttered a string of curses under his breath. Well, he'd certainly not stand out in front of her house, mooning like an idiot. She was in the house, she was no longer his charge. As he approached the car, keys in hand, fate dealt him one more blow. The driver he'd gestured so rudely at only moments before drove by in a flurry of tires-and a magnificent splash of water, covering Drake from head to toe in muddy road-slough.
"Guess I needed a cold shower," he said bitterly, getting into the car and listening to the water drop off him. "One more thing I didn't need a cosmic reminder of."
He'd never been so glad to see a day end.
But as he pulled away from the house, he looked once more in the rearview mirror, back at the dark windows of her small house.
~~~
She peeled the sweater off the second she was in the door, shivering lightly but no longer able to tolerate the wet, heavy fabric sticking to her shoulders. She'd carry it up to her room, hang it up to dry, and by the time Monday morning rolled around, it would look as worn and decrepit as it had before she'd subjected it to a night of melodrama and hormones.
Gen's breath caught at that thought; hormones, indeed, and what a show of them.
And because her breath had already backed up in her throat, she had none with which to scream when a pair of strong, rough hands clamped on her shoulders and shook once.
"What in the bloody hell are you doing?!" Rob's voice, even in a half-whisper, carried up in a higher register of shock. He looked her over once, and his eyes flew back up to her face in a mix of embarrassment and discomfort. His sister was dressed like a right tart, runners of mascara trailing down her face with the rain, and if that wasn't a love-bite standing out on her neck, he'd eat every pair of his football boots. Discomfort turned to hotheaded rage and, without waiting for an answer, Rob set his sister aside-gently despite his anger-and headed for the door. "I'm going to kill that bastard, even if I have to spill his blue blood to do it."
Gen had an idea he wasn't speaking of Connor, and she didn't think the story of going to Connor's for lessons would be anywhere near convincing at this point. "Rob, no," she said, her voice both sharp and weary. "Please."
The plea shocked them both; Rob stopped, a hand still on the doorknob, and Gen covered her mouth with her hand. Where had that come from? Begging on behalf of that heathen Mallory? Up until that moment, Gen hadn't been sure she didn't want to kill Drake herself. But instinctually, she'd stopped her brother.
She'd figure out why later.
"It's nothing, Rob. I'm a big girl, you know, if I'd not wanted to go out, I'd not have gone." She reached out a hand to her brother, her best friend, and he turned toward her, unable to do otherwise.
With a single step, his long-limbed frame was positioned before her, and he had a thick-fingered hand at her chin, tipping it up and exposing the mark on her neck. "Nothing, eh?" God, he wanted to kill that wanker. Wanted to wrap his hands around the poncey bugger's throat and squeeze. He'd think twice about touching Rob Wesley's sister. "Die he hurt you?" he asked, his voice tremulous. "Did he threaten you?" That weird bastard and his weird silver eyes-God only knew what he'd done, what he'd said to her to make her come with him.
She jerked back, at once embarrassed by his actions and annoyed by them. "No!" she said, swatting his hand away from her. "Listen to me, Rob! I wanted to go. I have a life, too, you know."
"Well, yeah," he said, his voice exploding out like a sigh. "But not like that. Not with him. This is totally unlike you, Gen. You skive off classes all day, then you leave at night and lie about it." Disbelief replaced wrath, though whether it was momentary or permanent, Gen had no idea. She was sincerely hoping she could keep him occupied long enough to let his fury boil away.
"If I hadn't, Mum would have had kittens," Gen said, and the siblings shared a knowing smirk. But on the heels of amusement came an idea that had her recoiling. "Oh, God, Rob, you didn't tell her, did you?"
"No. But by God, Gen, I should," he answered, rolling his shoulders and eyeing her curiously. Where on earth had she come up with the tart wear? He couldn't pin down what feeling to react on first, what part of him to pay attention to. He was angry, but moreover, he was confused-what was she doing? And to what end?
And how could be stop her?
"Oh, right. Just as I should tell her about that time you and that blighter from one of the other football teams got pissed one night on his mum's cooking sherry," Gen said with a tiny smile, hoping to coax him away from the murderous thoughts of only moments before. It was a woman's prerogative, she thought with an inward laugh, to divert a man. Her femininity had been her one-and only-weapon against her brothers in her youth, and now it was no different.
And with Drake? Was it any different with him, either?
Her mind called up a hot and ready image of his eyes speared on hers, his mouth streaking over hers, and she was glad the dark hid her easy flush. No, it wasn't any different. Power in the form of gender, she supposed, and realization dawned in degrees. If she'd only pushed-only tried to match her power against the power he held over her-she could have had whatever end result she wanted. And even without pushing, hadn't he followed her?
Hadn't he followed her all the way home?
Impulsively, still clutching her wet sweater in her hand, Gen rose to her toes and kissed her brother on the cheek. "I love you, Rob," she said sincerely. "Can't you just trust me on this? He's not all bad, you know."
That was a revelation to them both, and shock mirrored shock in the two Wesley faces. She hadn't meant to say that.
She streaked up the stairs then, leaving behind a very bewildered and befuddled big brother.
Somewhere along the line, Rob thought, he'd lost track of things. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned to trudge up the stairs to his own bedroom. What the bloody hell else was new, eh?
~~~
He slammed the door when he came into the large, old house, not giving half a damn if he woke someone up or not. It wasn't as though his father slept, the old snake. Sleep, like many other things, was far too human for the likes of Lucas Mallory. But Drake did take care when stepping past his mother's room, keeping his tread light.
The night had gone poorly, to say the very least. To put a finer point on it, his entire idea of the evening had backfired, leaving him confused, flustered, and extremely frustrated. He was none too warm from a drive spent with the windows down, but he knew taking a hot shower wasn't going to do anything but torture him further.
Cold shower it was, then.
She'd bewitched him, he thought, using the clothes he'd chosen against him, using assets he hadn't even known she had. She'd tricked him with his own tricks, and if he were completely honest with himself-and he liked to think he was-it scared the hell out of him.
A Wesley.
Dammit.
Well, a Mallory knew when and how to cut his losses. His father had spent a lifetime perfecting that art financially, going after the kill when need be and backing off when need be. And though Drake himself would never admit defeat, he would strategize a retreat when necessary.
And, he thought as the frigid water poured out of the shower, softening the spikes of his hair, forcing him to close pale lashes over slate eyes, a retreat was most definitely necessary.
After long hours of unrest and discomfort, he fell asleep.
And he dreamed, of course, of her.