Read Online That Boy From Trash Town by Billie Green - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Billie Green
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needed to hear today.
* * *
Whitney passed Sweet House and headed for the hedge. When she reached it, she stooped and pushed through the low gap without pausing. She crossed the realtor's parking lot and automatically turned onto Adam Street.
Her father was alive!
Where the hell had truth been for the past twenty years? The question had been playing over and over in her mind, driving her crazy.
Why hadn't she known it was all a lie? Why hadn't she felt her father's presence in the world? Why hadn't she, even once, questioned her mother about Lloyd Grant's death?
But she knew the answer. Whitney hadn't asked questions because she trusted her mother. No matter how flaky Anne Grant was, Whitney had always believed her mother loved her. Until now.
No, she told herself, that part wasn't a lie. Her mother loved her, and Whitney returned that love. Even now. But the ties between them were only those of blood. There would never be—could never be-deeper bonds between them. They were too different.
By the time Whitney turned down the alley behind Dean's house she was running again. She needed him now. Just seeing him would show her that not everything about her life was a lie. Dean would help her make sense of it all. Dean would make it stop hurting.
She entered his house through the back door, calling "Dean!", then louder, "Dean!"
He wasn't in the kitchen or the office. He wasn't anywhere on the lower floor.
Taking the steps two at a time, she ran up the stairs, down the hall to his bedroom and threw open the door. "Dean, where are—"
It was at that exact moment that Dean stepped out of the bathroom. He was drying his hair with a towel. And he was naked.
The sun streaming through the curtains turned his body to gold, highlighting every muscle, every tendon.
All thought left Whitney's head as they stood and stared at each other. She couldn't take her eyes off him. She had always known he would look incredible without clothes, but nothing in her imagination could have prepared her for the reality.
The energy that, a short time ago, had been wasted in anger and confusion was suddenly channeled into wanting him. Needing him. She had felt a small particle of this urgency before, in dreams. But now, when she could actually see him, when all her emotions were heightened by what she had just learned, it overwhelmed her.
"My God, your body is beautiful," she said in a breathless whisper. "More beautiful than anything I've ever seen."
Across the room, Dean closed his eyes tightly. He had to shut her out. He had to shut out the sight of Whitney looking at him with those hungry blue eyes. He couldn't handle the desire that blazed in her— openly, guilelessly, right there for anyone to see.
Didn't she know that kind of openness could get her hurt?
Whitney didn't know that she had moved until she was a step away from him. She seemed to have no will of her own, and her body was acting of its own accord. She saw her hand move, reach out to him. She felt his chest, warm and damp from the shower, beneath her trembling fingers.
"Beautiful," she repeated, but it didn't sound like her voice. It was lower, huskier. It was shaking with the strength of her desire.
Raising her gaze slowly to his face, she met his eyes. An instant later she jerked her hand away from him and took a step back.
His dark eyes were blazing with anger. Violent anger he was making no attempt to disguise.
He threw the towel savagely on the floor. "Damn you, Whitney!" Reaching around her, he picked up a pair of Levi's and began to pull them on. "What in hell do you think you're doing? When are you going to grow up? For heaven's sake, just grow up!" He threw the harsh words at her, his hands shaking as he fastened the jeans. "Don't I have enough on my plate without you pulling these stupid little tricks all the time? Judas priest, I can't turn around without tripping over you."
He pushed a hand through his damp hair. "I have a right to my privacy. Do you
* * *
Whitney passed Sweet House and headed for the hedge. When she reached it, she stooped and pushed through the low gap without pausing. She crossed the realtor's parking lot and automatically turned onto Adam Street.
Her father was alive!
Where the hell had truth been for the past twenty years? The question had been playing over and over in her mind, driving her crazy.
Why hadn't she known it was all a lie? Why hadn't she felt her father's presence in the world? Why hadn't she, even once, questioned her mother about Lloyd Grant's death?
But she knew the answer. Whitney hadn't asked questions because she trusted her mother. No matter how flaky Anne Grant was, Whitney had always believed her mother loved her. Until now.
No, she told herself, that part wasn't a lie. Her mother loved her, and Whitney returned that love. Even now. But the ties between them were only those of blood. There would never be—could never be-deeper bonds between them. They were too different.
By the time Whitney turned down the alley behind Dean's house she was running again. She needed him now. Just seeing him would show her that not everything about her life was a lie. Dean would help her make sense of it all. Dean would make it stop hurting.
She entered his house through the back door, calling "Dean!", then louder, "Dean!"
He wasn't in the kitchen or the office. He wasn't anywhere on the lower floor.
Taking the steps two at a time, she ran up the stairs, down the hall to his bedroom and threw open the door. "Dean, where are—"
It was at that exact moment that Dean stepped out of the bathroom. He was drying his hair with a towel. And he was naked.
The sun streaming through the curtains turned his body to gold, highlighting every muscle, every tendon.
All thought left Whitney's head as they stood and stared at each other. She couldn't take her eyes off him. She had always known he would look incredible without clothes, but nothing in her imagination could have prepared her for the reality.
The energy that, a short time ago, had been wasted in anger and confusion was suddenly channeled into wanting him. Needing him. She had felt a small particle of this urgency before, in dreams. But now, when she could actually see him, when all her emotions were heightened by what she had just learned, it overwhelmed her.
"My God, your body is beautiful," she said in a breathless whisper. "More beautiful than anything I've ever seen."
Across the room, Dean closed his eyes tightly. He had to shut her out. He had to shut out the sight of Whitney looking at him with those hungry blue eyes. He couldn't handle the desire that blazed in her— openly, guilelessly, right there for anyone to see.
Didn't she know that kind of openness could get her hurt?
Whitney didn't know that she had moved until she was a step away from him. She seemed to have no will of her own, and her body was acting of its own accord. She saw her hand move, reach out to him. She felt his chest, warm and damp from the shower, beneath her trembling fingers.
"Beautiful," she repeated, but it didn't sound like her voice. It was lower, huskier. It was shaking with the strength of her desire.
Raising her gaze slowly to his face, she met his eyes. An instant later she jerked her hand away from him and took a step back.
His dark eyes were blazing with anger. Violent anger he was making no attempt to disguise.
He threw the towel savagely on the floor. "Damn you, Whitney!" Reaching around her, he picked up a pair of Levi's and began to pull them on. "What in hell do you think you're doing? When are you going to grow up? For heaven's sake, just grow up!" He threw the harsh words at her, his hands shaking as he fastened the jeans. "Don't I have enough on my plate without you pulling these stupid little tricks all the time? Judas priest, I can't turn around without tripping over you."
He pushed a hand through his damp hair. "I have a right to my privacy. Do you
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