Next Stop Love, #1

by Rachel Stockbridge

  But I don’t want you to let me go. He remembered the warmth of her fingers against his cheek. The heartbreaking way she looked at him that night on the stairs. Part guarded hurt, part careful hope. Stay here. Stay with me.

  “Shit,” Julian swore, the word catching on the hard lump in his throat. This was all his fault. He seized the bag and threw it as hard as he could at the garbage, taking little pleasure in the loud crash when it knocked the entire thing over.

  Behind him, Fabiana made a half-asleep sound of protest and mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a question.

  “Go back to sleep,” Julian said, striding to the trash can and yanking it upright. He started gathering the scattered scraps of paper and eggshells.

  Fabiana groaned and pushed herself to her elbows. She squinted one eye at Julian through a curtain of black hair. “The hell are you doing?” she croaked. “What’s with the bin?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He threw the last of the scraps away and went back to rummaging for crap he didn’t need.

  Fabiana pushed her hair out of her face and scowled at her phone. “Jesus. It’s the ass crack of dawn. Did you sleep at all?”

  He ignored her. He’d slept. Not well, but he’d gotten a couple of hours in. And more sleep sure as hell wasn’t going to change his mind about what he had to do.

  Fabiana had met him at the hospital last night. Julian found her arguing with a nurse after Beatrice asked him to leave. Someone at the art center must have called her to say Julian was in the hospital, but since he’d been discharged after getting a few stitches, hospital staff figured he’d left. Fabiana had been in prime fighting form and was making it abundantly clear to the poor nurse that she thought the hospital losing track of one of its patients was beyond irresponsible when she spotted Julian.

  She abandoned her tirade mid-word in favor of attacking him with a rare hug.

  Followed almost immediately by a punch in the arm and a lecture about making her worry. She’d called out of her closing shift at work as soon as she heard and came straight down, apparently on the verge of a heart attack the entire time. Once she had satisfied herself that Julian wasn’t at death’s door—and trying at least half a dozen times to make him check back into the hospital for another round of x-rays—she’d asked him rapid-fire questions about what happened, barely waiting for answers. Julian lost what little patience he had and shouted at her to leave him alone.

  Miraculously, it didn’t trigger a new fight. The interrogation stopped. Fabiana didn’t even bitch at him for snapping at her. She just stared at him for a moment, then said okay and focused on getting them both home. Her angry energy never dissipated, but it was all directed outward, like a hostile, confrontational forcefield, keeping everyone else a good ten feet away.

  Apparently, the peace had been only a temporary ceasefire.

  “Hey,” Fabiana said, throwing a pillow in his direction. It crashed into the kitchen chair to Julian’s right and flopped to the floor. “Are you packing?”

  Julian considered the paperback in his hand, not really seeing it. He couldn’t look at Fabiana. They’d already done this. Him leaving. Her staying. He didn’t know how to make her understand why he had to go, and he couldn’t stomach a repeat of the blowout they’d had when he left the Sayer-Crewe’s penthouse. Not after the shaky truce they’d developed lately.

  “Jules,” Fabiana said.

  He tossed the book in the garbage. “The rent is paid up through next month. You can stay here until you find someplace else. Or we can go down and get you on the papers so you can keep it a while longer. Though if you tell Walter I’m gone, he’ll probably reinstate your apartment for you.”

  Fabiana groaned again, and there was a soft thump, like she’d dropped back onto her mattress. “I’m going to kill Greyson.”

  A handful of old pencils joined the rest of the junk. “That wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

  “Might stop you packing the apartment at stupid thirty in the morning.” Cursing, she got out of bed and prowled past him into the kitchen. “Can you at least put the meltdown on hold until I’ve made some coffee? Your shit isn’t going anywhere.”

  “I’m not having a meltdown,” Julian snipped, snatching the plastic lid from the floor and snapping it in place. “This is the first rational thing I’ve done in weeks.”

  “Sure it is.” She turned on the faucet and filled the coffee pot. “I always box up all my shit when I’m at my most rational.”

  “What do you want me to do, Fab?” Julian demanded. “Stick around so Greyson can tell Vito’s thugs where I live and get us both killed?”

  “Have you considered talking to the police?” Fabiana shot back, shaking the coffee pot in his direction. Some of the water splashed onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to care. “I’m pretty sure there’s a case for conspiracy to commit murder, here. Or grievous bodily harm, at least. If Greyson told those guys where you worked—”

  “They won’t be able to pin it on him,” Julian said, sliding the first bin off the table. “They couldn’t last time.”

  Fabiana reached for the coffee tin. “Greyson’s not God, Jules. He can’t get away with everything. Don’t you want to fight back?”

  “Against what? It’s my fault Vito was after me. If I hadn’t gotten involved with him in the first place—”

  “Yeah, Greyson couldn’t have possibly convinced someone else to go after you instead,” Fabiana said, slapping the filter shut and switching the coffee maker on. “He’s never done that before.”

  Julian shook his head. “That’s not—”

  “I thought the reason you ran away last time was to get away from Greyson’s manipulative bullshit.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. “What was the point of all that if you’re just going to let Greyson walk all over you again?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I let you down. Okay? I’m sorry. But I’m—I mean, look at me. I literally can’t make a good decision to save my life, and I’ve just—I’ve been in this nosedive for years that I can’t pull up from, no matter what I try. I didn’t want you to crash and burn with me. I didn’t want . . .” He paced away, pushing his hair back. “I just—I fuck things up. That’s all I ever do. I fuck things up.”

  “Jules—”

  “I can’t stay here, Fab,” he said, pleading with her to understand. “I can’t. Beatrice is in the hospital because of me. What if she’d—” He cut himself off with a curse, his stomach cramping with all the toxic fear he’d been trying to ignore all night. This was why he kept everyone at arm’s length. This was why he’d sabotaged the few romantic relationships he had in high school, and why he had avoided dating since. This was why he picked fights with Fabiana instead of communicating like a reasonable human being. When he cared about people too much, bad things happened.

  He couldn’t take it anymore. Every time he lost someone, he felt like a part of his soul went with them. He was in tatters already. He didn’t know if he could survive another loss.

  “Hey,” Fabiana said, pushing off the counter. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Julian shook his head to clear his mind of Beatrice saying the exact same words to him just hours ago. The same words of the police officer who took his fractured statement at the hospital while he was waiting to hear if she was going to be okay. Of course it was his fault. He’d set all the dominoes up himself. All Greyson had to do was flick his wrist and it all came crashing down exactly how Julian had known it would.

  “I kissed her,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Couple days ago. Greyson came after me, and it sounded like he’d had a fight with her, and I sort of . . . I guess I lost my mind, because as soon as he left, I went over to her place and I just . . .” He sank into a chair, pressing the heels of his hands against his stinging eyelids. “She said she broke up with him. And I—I missed her like crazy . . .”

  Fabiana sighed and came to sit down at the table with him. “You really like her, huh?”

  He ha
d her imprinted on his brain. The way she wrinkled her nose when he said something she didn’t want to admit was funny. The smug, crooked little smile she adopted when she startled him into laughing. The warmth of her hands. The way her mouth moved against his when they kissed. Her infectious joy. Her unflinching bravery. Her stubborn conviction that anything could be accomplished with the right plan of attack.

  Like didn’t begin to cover how he felt about Beatrice. He let himself hope, when he was around her. He let himself believe he could stitch the shreds of his life back together, somehow. She made him want to be a better version of himself. He felt like he was a better version of himself, with her.

  “I love her,” he admitted, his voice rough.

  Fabiana lifted an eyebrow at him. “So why are you trying to bail, jackass?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You’re bailing.” Fabiana flicked her hand at the bins on the floor. “It’s your move. Things get tight, you freak out, you internalize whatever bullshit Greyson’s trying to pull on you, and you bail.”

  Julian opened his mouth to argue, but he had nothing to argue with. He couldn’t claim he wasn’t bailing. He didn’t even know where he was moving to. He just felt like he needed to get out.

  “I’m just—I’ve been waiting for her to realize what a useless piece of shit I am since I met her. Every day she didn’t, I dreaded it more. And now—between me landing her in the hospital and—and everything I said to her . . . I fucked up. She got hurt trying to help me, and I threw it in her face. I know she hates me. And I can’t . . .” He rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling all the hours he hadn’t slept. “I’ve let so many people down already. I can’t stand the idea that I disappointed her, too.”

  “What do you mean, ‘too?’” Fabiana demanded, leveling a scowl at him. “I’m not disappointed in you.”

  He let his hands fall on the table. “Don’t try to tell me you’re not still pissed that I left you with them.”

  “I’m not!”

  He just looked at her. “Fab.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, yeah, maybe I was pissed at first. I used to think if you’d just stuck around another few weeks I could have gotten Walter to . . . I don’t know. Get you an apartment or something. Looking back, it probably wouldn’t have worked even if you’d let me try. And it clearly wasn’t good for your health to stick around anymore. I get why you had to leave.

  “Besides, even if I was still pissed at you, how many times have you gotten me out of crisis since then? I know I can be a bitch, but I’m not completely unreasonable. You never, ever let me down. Okay?”

  Julian swallowed, his gaze landing on a chip in the table, throat too tight to answer.

  “Hey. Look at me,” Fabiana said, slapping her hand on the table. “You are not a piece of shit, and you are not a screwup. The only people who think that are you and Greyson. And you know what? That pisses me off. You shouldn’t listen to your psycho step-brother over your own twin.”

  “But—”

  “I haven’t met Beatrice,” Fabiana went on, speaking over him, “and I don’t know what you said to her. But I’d bet cold, hard cash she doesn’t think you’re as much of a screwup as you think you are.”

  “You don’t get it.” If she’d seen the hurt in Beatrice’s eyes, she wouldn’t sound so confident. “I fucked up, Fab.”

  “So that’s it? You’re not even going to try to make it right?”

  “How can I?” Julian turned his hands palm-up on the table. “Even if she could forgive me . . . She wants stability. I can’t give her that. I’ve never even lived in the same house for more than five years running. I can’t give her what she needs. I can’t—I can’t make her happy. If she hates me, she can move on. Find someone else who’s . . . who’s actually good for her.”

  Cursing under her breath, Fabiana ran both hands over her face. “Okay. Listen. I love you, but you’re an idiot.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s like you’re trying to make yourself miserable. You risk provoking Greyson just to kiss this girl, and then the second shit hits the fan, you want to bolt. You know how controlling Greyson can be. Do you want to leave Beatrice to deal with him by herself?”

  “Me getting involved isn’t going to defuse the situation,” Julian said, crossing his arms. “He’s tried to get me killed twice now.”

  “I’m not telling you to get in a turf war with him. We’re talking about a person, not a city block. But I gotta say, as someone who’s dated some real class acts, it’s always a hell of a lot easier getting out of shitty relationships if you’ve got a support system to fall back on.”

  “I’m not anybody’s support system, Fab. She’s already got her family. Her friends. She doesn’t need me.”

  “You’re my support system,” Fabiana said, crossing her arms too and leaning back in her chair. One side of her mouth quirked up in a smile. “You’re not even that bad at it, when you aren’t having meltdowns before I’ve had my coffee.”

  Julian let out a half-laugh, pushing his hair back with both hands.

  Fabiana was right. He was bailing. Trying to protect himself by ending things with Beatrice before the rug could get ripped out from under him. Because he’d rather she was alive and hating him than the alternative.

  But maybe that wasn’t the choice. Pushing Beatrice away didn’t keep her safe. It was just another way of losing her. Made all the worse because skipping town meant leaving Beatrice to deal with Greyson—and the aftermath of last night—by herself.

  He didn’t know if there was a way to make things right with Beatrice. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. This thing with Greyson was something he should have dealt with a long time ago. He was sick of running. Sick of letting Greyson win. He had to at least try to take the burden of how to handle Greyson off Beatrice’s shoulders.

  He hadn’t bothered to bring Greyson up when he gave his statement to the police last night. No one had believed him last time he tried to accuse his step-brother of arranging to kill him. There hadn’t seemed to be a point in bringing it up again.

  Except that if Greyson was arrested, it’d be a lot harder for him to bother Beatrice.

  Julian blew out a long breath. “What do you think the chances are I’ll get laughed out of the police station if I go down there and tell them Greyson tried to set me up again?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Fabiana said, brightening. “Just let me shower and caffeinate first.”

  “What about your job?” Julian asked. He was pretty sure he’d have to quit at the art center, even if he’d decided not to move for now. He couldn’t justify staying when he’d put so many people in danger. Fabiana’s part-time retail gig might be their only income for the next few weeks.

  Fabiana waved this way. “You need the backup today. I’ll get someone to cover.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. You don’t have to do everything yourself. And it’s about damn time someone took that psycho to court.”

  “I don’t know about court,” Julian said. “I have to get someone to believe me first.”

  “They’ll believe you,” Fabiana said, in a tone that implied there was an or else hidden in her meaning. The coffee maker spat out the last of the water. She got up and poured herself a cup, then settled against the counter. “There should be a few domestic disturbance reports from high school that’ll work in your favor. Walter smoothed things over, but I’ll bet there’s still a police record from when the neighbors called about the noise. Plus, I’d be surprised if there isn’t some kind of phone trail this time. People who get away with a lot of shit tend to start forgetting to cover their asses.”

  Julian stared at her. “Christ, Fab. How long have you been plotting this?”

  She smiled, a glint in her eye. “Useful, having an evil twin, isn’t it?”

  Twenty-Four

  Greyson’s father had set him up in a small, one-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village when he started at NYU. Mos
tly as a PR move, according to Fabiana, to make Greyson seem more down-to-earth, or some bullshit. With no personal assistants or housekeepers to keep everything working like clockwork, the trust fund kid was practically working his way up from nothing.

  Greyson’s building was still a hell of a lot nicer than Julian’s. There was an elevator, for one thing. The buzzer seemed to work, for another—though Julian had bypassed this in favor of slipping inside as someone else came out. According to a sign by the elevator, there was even a gym by the laundry machines in the basement.

  Roughing it, by Sayer-Crewe standards.

  Julian’s heart pounded as he got in the elevator and hit the button for Greyson’s floor. There was only enough room in the elevator for maybe five people, if they crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder. Though fortunately for Julian’s nerves, there was no one else going up with him.

  He massaged the palm of his left hand through the ACE bandage wrapped around it, trying to keep his breathing slow and even. His hand didn’t hurt too much anymore—he was trying to do all the care procedures a nurse had walked him through at the hospital, and it was helping. It certainly wasn’t as bad as when he actually broke his hand three years ago. He was probably imagining the ache getting worse as the elevator shuddered upward.

  Julian had spent most of the weekend at a police station, trying to get someone to believe Greyson had been responsible for Julian getting jumped. No one had wanted to listen. But between Fabiana’s tenacious lectures and Julian stubbornly sticking to his story, the two of them eventually annoyed one detective into checking a few facts. Detective Flores had found the case files from when Julian broke his hand, and even tracked down the domestic disturbance reports that Fabiana was convinced were going to help.

  Unfortunately, none of it proved anything except Julian didn’t get along with his step-brother. Compare Greyson’s squeaky clean record to Julian’s past involvement in running drugs—regardless of never being charged with anything—and Julian looked like a screwup with a jealous vendetta.

  He wasn’t surprised he got nowhere with the police. It was the same runaround he got the last time he accused his step-brother of trying to kill him. No one wanted to mess with an influential family like the Sayer-Crewes without some hard evidence.