She's Got It Bad. Sarah Mayberry

frowned. “What? What do you mean?”

      Don’t want to overstay my welcome,” Liam said with a shrug.

      “No way. You can’t go like this. Mom’ll freak out. Dad’ll have a cow. God knows what Zoe will do. You know she worships the ground you freakin’ walk on.”

      Liam pulled the letter he’d written from his back pocket. It wasn’t much—a bare thanks, a thin explanation, plus all the cash he had on him to pay for his bills to date. It would have to do.

      Tom stared at the envelope, refusing to take it.

      “I can’t believe you’re serious. What happened? Have you heard from your dad? If he’s hassling you, we can go to the cops,” Tom said.

      “I just have to go.”

      Tom stared at him, his green eyes, so like Zoe’s, searching Liam’s face. Then he crossed to the bike and tugged the keys from the ignition, sliding them into his pocket.

      “Hey!”

      “Tell me what happened and I’ll give them back,” Tom said.

      “Nothing happened.”

      “Bull.”

      “Give me the keys, Tom. All you need to know is that I’m doing the right thing.”

      “Sneaking off in the middle of the night? Yeah, really noble.”

      “Give me the keys.” Liam moved forward, but Tom backed away.

      “Tell me what’s going on.”

      Liam swore and lunged at his friend. Tom dodged to the side.

      “Tom…” Liam warned.

      He lunged again, and again Tom slipped away.

      “Tell me.”

      “No.”

      “Tell me.”

      Liam feinted to the left then grabbed a handful of Tom’s shirt when he tried to veer right. They wrestled in silence, grabbing fistfuls of each other’s clothing, not wanting to hurt each other. After a few minutes they broke apart. They eyed each other, fighting for breath. The words were in Liam’s throat and out his mouth before he could think twice.

      “It’s Zoe,” he said. “I can’t stay because of Zoe.”

      Tom frowned. “Because she’s got a crush on you? I know she can be a pain, but it’s not that bad…”

      Liam stared at him, letting the silence grow. Tom jerked his head in sudden realization.

      “No way,” he said, shaking his head.

      “Nothing happened.”

      Tom took a step away, then stepped forward again, still shaking his head.

      “You and my sister? Tell me this is a joke.”

      Liam knew what Tom was thinking. He’d heard Liam talk about girls, knew he’d had more than his fair share over the past few years. Knew Liam never stayed long after he got what he wanted.

      “Nothing happened. I sent her back to the house before things got out of hand.”

      “Jesus! What the hell was she doing alone with you anyway? How long has this been going on for?”

      Liam shook his head. “It hasn’t. I mean, I’ve always liked her. But I’ve never touched her before.”

      Tom swore and threw his hands in the air. “You touched my sister?”

      “I didn’t screw her, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Liam said.

      Tom’s fist came out of nowhere, connecting with Liam’s jaw and sending a flash of white pain up the side of his face. He staggered, then shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears.

      “You asshole. Dammit, you asshole,” Tom said. “She’s fifteen. Fifteen!”

      Liam held his ground. “That’s why I’m going.”

      Tom dug his hand into his pocket. Liam caught a flash of silver as his motorbike keys flew toward his head. He was too slow to react and they grazed his cheekbone before hitting the ground. He felt a trickle of warmth on his face as he bent to retrieve them.

      He offered Tom the letter again, but his friend eyed him coldly. Liam crossed to the mailbox and slid the envelope inside. It would have to do.

      “For what it’s worth, I love her,” he said as he reached for his helmet.

      Tom turned his back and walked up the driveway. Liam watched until he disappeared from sight, then rocked his bike off its stand and wheeled it to the end of the street.

      The bike roared to life, the motor throbbing between his thighs. He didn’t look back as he twisted the throttle and sped down the street.

      He’d made the right decision. He knew he had.

       1

       Twelve Years Later

      LIAM FINGERED the single button on his jacket as he approached the well-lit entrance of Hartman’s Art Gallery. A woman in her thirties waited in the foyer, tall and elegant. Her platinum-blond bob swung around her jaw as she turned to face him, a welcoming smile on her face.

      “Liam. You came,” Jacinta Hartman said.

      “Of course.”

      Her smile faded as she registered his clothes.

      “You’re not wearing the tie I bought you.”

      “Nope.”

      “Liam…”

      He held out his arms to draw attention to the well-cut wool trousers, jacket and crisply tailored shirt he was wearing.

      “Come on, cut me some slack here. Not an inch of denim or leather in sight,” he said.

      “And you’re not wearing your beautiful new shoes, either,” she said, eyeing his favorite boots unhappily.

      He slid an arm around her slim waist and pulled her close.

      “I said you could try to civilize me. I didn’t say it would work,” he reminded her. He kissed her and she pulled back before he could smear her lipstick.

      “Liam, people can see us,” she said.

      Which made him laugh. Jacinta always made him laugh with all her prim little rules and guidelines. In public, that was. In private she was as dirty as the next woman—if the next woman had a penchant for hard, sweaty sex. They’d been friends for years now, lovers when the mood took them. When he’d built his new house near the St. Kilda shore six months ago, she’d volunteered to help him decorate it. The catch had been that she wanted to redecorate him—“civilize him,” as she put it—at the same time.

      “I don’t know why you’re so resistant to the idea of stepping it up a notch,” Jacinta said. “If you had any idea how good you look in a suit, you wouldn’t think twice.”

      “I’m a bike builder. I spend my days covered in grease,” he said.

      “You’re a millionaire. You never have to get your hands dirty again if you don’t want to.”

      “Babe, you have your world, I have mine. I’m not going to ask you to bend metal for me. And you’re not going to get me in a tie.”

      She looked as though she was going to argue some more, then she shrugged. “Stubborn bastard. Come on, I’ll show you the pieces I’ve picked out for you,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him into the gallery itself.

      A few heads turned as they walked the length of the space past asymmetrical sculptures