Chelsea Fine - Perfect Kind Of Trouble

I follow Kayla to the car and we climb inside, awkwardly fumbling before finally plopping in our seats.

As she puts her seat belt on and drives away, the wisps of blonde escaping her hair tie drift away from her face revealing her flushed cheeks and blue eyes, lost in thought.

Her lips are coated with some kind of clear gloss, shining against the pale skin of her chin and throat as she bites down on the bottom one. I stare at her bitten lip, now slightly swollen, and the sight of her thighs, right next to my mouth when I sat up from searching under the couch, flashes in my mind.

It was all I could do to not flick my tongue out and run it up the soft skin of her legs. And from the way her eyelids had grown heavy as she stared down at me, she probably would have let me. Hell, she probably would have grabbed my head and directed my tongue where to go.

Growing hard, I shift in my seat and try to get myself under control.

Dammit. I shouldn’t have kissed her last night. If I hadn’t pressed my mouth to hers and felt her tongue roll over mine, then I’d surely have more control over myself today. But I couldn’t help myself. Something about Kayla drew me in like a siren song, enchanting and impossible to resist. And much like the Siren’s prey, I’m now surely doomed. Because now I’ve tasted Kayla and all I want is more.

Things would have been fine if she hadn’t sunk into the kiss with such craving. If she had kissed me back with your typical strangers-kissing-in-a-parking-lot desire—you know, part curiosity, part greed—I could have been satisfied with just one kiss.

But Kayla kissed me back with the passion of a long-lost lover. Desperation on her lips. Sounds of desire escaping her throat. She kissed me back like I was something she needed. I’ve never felt needed like that before.

We come to a stoplight and the engine idles loudly. The light turns green and the engine groans before we’re on the move again. Looking out the windshield, I stare at the rusted hood of her little green car and frown.

Just another unexpected piece of the Kayla Turner puzzle.

Stitched up clothes, empty trust fund, a run-down vehicle…

Is it possible I was wrong about Kayla? Was she telling the truth about being broke?

“So,” Kayla says into the silence. “Instead of leaving our inheritance in a bank account, my father stashed it in a train station locker. Super safe, Dad.”

I quietly laugh. “Yeah, it’s not the most secure place in the world. But I guess it makes sense. He really liked the train station.”

“That’s right,” she says slowly, nodding. A hint of a smile tugs at her lips. “He used to talk about how the train brought Copper Springs to life. He’d say”—she lowers her voice—“Before the train got here, this town was just a plot of land. But the train brought people—”

“And the people brought heart,” I finish.

She smiles with a nod then glances at me curiously. “So what’s the deal with you and my dad? You guys were close?”

I inhale deeply and shrug. “My dad wasn’t the greatest. He was a decent businessman but he wasn’t a great father. Your dad, though, he was all right.” I look at her. “Did you know they used to be good friends, our dads?”

She furrows her brow and shakes her head.

“They were golf buddies,” I say. “I used to caddie for my dad sometimes. Not because I cared about the game but because I liked being around my dad. It made me feel like I was important to him, you know? So Turner—your dad—got to know me when I was a kid on the golf course. My relationship with Pop was strained and Turner saw that.

“Your dad offered me a job taking care of his lawn when I was young and at first I was like hell no. I was a rich kid. I didn’t need to work. But my dad would constantly say, ‘People without money or power are useless to me,’ and being a jobless, powerless kid, I was one of those people. So I thought if I could make my own money then maybe my dad wouldn’t think of me as useless anymore—”

“What?” she squawks, holding up a hand. “No offense, but your dad sounds like a dick.”

I nod. “Oh, he is. Trust me.”

She waves me on. “Please continue.”

I swallow. “I didn’t want my dad to think I was useless so I took Turner up on his offer and started mowing the lawn. Over the years, my relationship with Pop just got worse. He and my mom went through some shit that you might not have heard—”

“You mean the Reverend Keeton thing?”

I cock my head. “How do you know about that?”

She shrugs. “I was good friends with Lana Morris growing up and she always filled me in on the latest Copper Springs gossip.”

“How nice of her to keep you in the loop,” I say dryly. “But yeah. My mom left my dad and married Amber’s dad, and the town brought out their pitchforks for both our families. All hell broke loose and my mom and Brad got divorced. Then my mom moved to Boston and my dad sort of spiraled down a dark path of booze. So while my own parents were pretty self-involved and caught up in all their crazy drama, your dad was there for me.” I laugh softly. “Sometimes I hated it because he was always giving me advice and trying to keep me in line. But most of the time, it just felt good to be noticed, you know?” I gaze out at the road. “Then last year, someone I really cared about—a girl named Charity—died in a car accident. For a while, I blamed myself for her death. I became self-destructive and didn’t really want to live anymore. I was on the edge. But two people helped pull me back; made me believe there was something important inside of me. One of them was my boss, Ellen.” I pause. “And the other was your dad.”

Charity’s death—among other unfortunate events last year—really ripped me up. Afterward, Turner could see it in my eyes: the recklessness; the blatant disregard I had for myself. So he gave me more work. He wanted more things planted in the garden and more trees pruned around the yard. And while I was busy tending to all that, he was at my side, planting new vegetables and trimming the hedges right along with me. Most days, we worked in comfortable silence. But every now and then, Turner would ask about my life then comment on how well I was “handling” everything. I started to live for those moments—the brief exchanges between us where he would praise me and I wouldn’t feel like a total failure. And then one day, I was better. Not healed completely, but better. Because of Turner.

“So yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “He and I used to be pretty close.”

As I watch the road fly by, my chest starts to hurt. I should have kept in contact with Turner instead of wallowing in my own problems this past year. I should have tried harder to show him how important he was to me.

Kayla eyes me in silence, her free hand wrapping around the steering wheel tightly. Then she quietly and sincerely says, “Well I’m glad he was there for someone,” and returns her gaze to the road.

I stare out the window. Me too.

“Are you sure this place is still open?” I shade my eyes and squint up at the rusted sign that reads COPPER SPRINGS TRAIN STATION hanging above the old building. Cobwebs litter the corners of the sign and dust covers the windows of the station. “It looks deserted.”

Daren exhales. “It shut down a few years ago. But the people who have lockers here still use them sometimes. I guess your dad was one of those people.” He looks at me with a gleam in his eye. “You ready to claim an inheritance?”

A spark of glee shoots through me as I grin back. “Oh I’m ready.”

I am ready and excited, but I’m also nervous and filled with adrenaline. Today might be the beginning of a new life for me. Daren’s chest rises with a full breath as if he’s anxious as well and I wonder of this could be a new beginning for him too. Studying him for a moment, I realize I don’t know much about him. Nothing, really. I know about his parents’ taboo behavior and his sexual reputation, but I don’t know anything real. Anything that matters. And a part of me wishes I did.

The double doors at the front of the train station screech as we open them and step inside. Dim light filters in through the clouded windows and gives the large, musty lobby a weird yellow glow.

“The lockers are over here,” Daren says, heading right.

“I’m guessing you’ve been here before?”

He nods. “Growing up, we had a housekeeper named Marcella who was like a second mother to me. Before the station closed, Marcella would come here to pick up her family members when they’d visit, and sometimes she’d bring me along. I loved Marcella’s family.” He smiles. “They were all loud and loving and always excited to see one another. They were even excited to see me, which rocked my world. Marcella treated me like a son and her family did the same.”

“Do you still talk to her?” I ask.

His eyes shadow over. “No. She passed away a few years ago.”

I quietly say, “I’m sorry.”

I do the math in my head, tallying up the lost loved ones in Daren’s life. My father. The Charity girl. And Marcella. Empathy swims through my veins as I scan his face. He knows I’m watching him, but he continues to stare straight ahead.

“Here they are,” he says, pointing ahead.

On the side of the station stands a set of lockers. All of them old. All of them looking as if they haven’t been touched in a decade. They probably haven’t.

Our footsteps echo as we walk to the lockers.

“Twenty-three…” Daren says, perusing the numbers.

My eyes drift back and forth across the rusty lockers. “There.” I point to one on the left side. We step up to it and I pull the golden key from my purse and hold it up. It looks too large to fit in the small keyhole.

Daren frowns. “That’s weird.”

I try to insert the heavy key anyway, but it’s much too big. “Did we get the wrong locker number?” I pull the suitcase note from my purse and reread it.

“Nope,” Daren says, reading it over my shoulder. “It says twenty-three.”

I look around. “Is there another set of lockers in the station?”

“Maybe.” He glances around. “But that key looks too large to fit in any locker.”

I examine the key. “You’re right.” I blow out my cheeks and look up. “Let’s walk around and see if there are any other cabinets or storage areas.”

Our cuffs clank together as we set off to search the station. It’s completely deserted, but not in a spooky way. The high ceilings are framed with beautiful wood molding and dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows cover nearly every wall. Long wooden pews stripe the floor and a row of private phone booths line the side wall. I bet this was a vibrant place when the train was running. I can imagine dozens of people bustling about, reading the newspaper or calling a loved one while they wait for their train.

“I’ve never been on a train before,” I muse out loud as we walk past an old ticket counter.

“Neither have I,” he says, looking around. “I’ve never even been on an airplane.”

“Never?”

“Nope. The farthest I’ve been from Copper Springs is fifty miles outside of town at Willow Inn, where I work.”

“No way. Surely you’ve been farther away on vacations or something.”

He shakes his head. “My parents used to travel a lot but they never took me with them. ‘It’s not a vacation if your kid is there,’ my mom would say.”

I gape at him. “That’s horrible.”

He shrugs. “She was just being honest. My mom was never crazy about being a parent—neither was my dad. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have liked vacationing with them, anyway.” He says this with a smile but hurt flashes in his eyes.

I stare at him, half-confused and half-sad. His parents sound awful. In fact, his entire childhood sounds somewhat depressing and a little lonely.

He acts so cool and confident but a few times now I’ve noticed a ding in the armor of arrogance and playfulness he wears so easily. He’s cocky but wounded, charming but lonely, with the sureness of a wealthy man and the desperation of a pauper. I can’t figure him out, but one thing is certain.

Daren is not as tough or undamaged as he lets on.

“What?” He smiles at me crookedly. “You’re making a weird face.”

I shake my head. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. I pictured you jetting around the world every summer in a private plane with an entourage of other rich people.”

His eyes harden. “I told you. I’m not rich. My family used to be wealthy but we—I—don’t have money anymore.” He looks away, dismissing the topic. “Let’s check by the baggage area.”