Free The Foster Family by Jaime Samms Page B

was impossible. A guy didn’t come and cry in the same breath. And I had no reason to be crying. Here were the two most gorgeous men on the planet wanting me, watching me. I was in fantasyland. All I could think was Lissa was right. They didn’t belong to me. They belonged to one another, and I was just temporary amusement.
    A temporary son.
    A means to a free government payoff.
    A temporary roommate.
    An occasional, despised fuck.
    My erection wilted in my hand.
    I pressed my back against the tile wall and stared at Malcolm. I wanted to beg him, again, to please go away. Let me get myself under control.
    Instead, I said nothing as he opened the shower door, turned off the water, and wrapped a thick towel around my shoulders.
    “I’m fine,” I muttered.
    He dragged me bodily out of the enclosure and led me down the short end of the hall to their bedroom, where he sat me on the edge of their bed and vigorously rubbed me dry.
    I let him, even closed my eyes and sighed when he draped the towel over my head and scrubbed some of the water out of my dripping hair. It brought back an old, faded memory of some matronly foster mom doing the same when I was very small. I didn’t remember a face or a name. Just a feeling that clean and warm and safe were close enough to loved for a kid who didn’t have a lot of other choices.
    I accepted the ministrations silently, as I had then, though I remembered her cajoling me to say something. Anything. I couldn’t remember if I ever had. In fact, I couldn’t remember if I’d ever spoken to her at all.
    When Malcolm stopped and moved the towel clear of my face, I clawed back into the current reality and tried to compose myself before opening my eyes.
    He knelt on the carpet at my feet, and I was struck by how wrong that seemed, him kneeling before me.
    “Talk to me.”
    I shook my head.
    “Not an option, Kerry.”
    “Just been a rough few weeks,” I offered lamely, hauling my rusty voice and that flimsy truth out of my gut, hoping none of it crumbled off along the way. The last thing I needed was a case of emotional lockjaw.
    He sat back on his heels and held up a hand, ticking things off on his fingers as he spoke. “Snubbed by a lover, driven to pass out drunk on the beach, robbed, had your home violated and then taken away, everything you own destroyed.” He cupped his hand over my cheek and coaxed me to lift my head. “Your kitten is homeless.” He smiled softly. “That’s not a rough week. That’s trauma.”
    I pulled from his grasp and clambered back on the bed, out of his reach. “For some, maybe. Par for the course for me. At least Matt gave me fair warning. Foster parents just drive you to the group home with a suitcase and your homework and leave you there.” I wrapped my arms around my knees and rested my chin on them. “Not like Matt and I were ever really friends.”
    “You lived with someone you barely knew and fucked someone you didn’t like who had no use for you other than a convenient hole.” His head tilt was becoming familiar, almost comforting, even though what generally followed was some truth I wouldn’t want to hear.
    “What is so unlikeable about you, Kerry Grey?”
    “What?” I blinked at his fuzzy countenance. The towel tickled on my back and along my thighs, reminding me I was stark naked, my nuts at his eye level.
    “You keep everyone this far away.” He put out a hand, arm straight, palm out, and it came within six inches of touching my leg. “What is it you think they shouldn’t see up close?”
    “There’s nothing wrong with me.” Dry, brittle words, traveling through the desert of my mouth, over my parched tongue, through cracked lips. A dryness my tears, even if I let them fall, would never slake.
    Malcolm shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I know that. Charlie saw it right off. You’re the one who doesn’t really believe it, or you wouldn’t always stay on the outside of your