I have community service in the morning, but it wouldn't hurt to go have some fun as long as I don't stay out too late. Gramma and Granddaddy are already pulled into a throng of their noisy, rowdy friends, who all seem way more interested in whispering to each other, stealing crab cake hor d'oeuvres from harried waiters, and ordering lots of drinks double and neat, than in soaking up the art that surrounds them.
Margurite Holinger's grandson is hitting on Genevive Marcusso's grandson, so, though I appreciate Gramma's adorably oblivious suggestion, I'm not about to crash in on their flirtation when I would be so incredibly unwanted in every way. I move instead towards one of the paintings and study it as thoughtfully as I can.
It's dark and messy. I don't get a sense of form. There's no random shock of beauty. I wait, squinting my eyes like it's one of those 3-D posters I used to love when I was a kid, but the gorgeousness never pops out of the chaotic lines and scribbles. The heady scent of a strong cologne snaps my attention suddenly to the side.
"You're not a fan?"
He's handsome in a tousled, scruffy way; button-down slightly wrinkled, pants too long, blue-green eyes dancing like he's laughing at me.
"Are you the artist?" I gesture to the painting and purse my lips.
"No." He chuckles softly and clasps his hands behind his back. "Do I look like an artist?"
"Or like a couch-crashing grad student." I raise one eyebrow at him and he laughs.
"I take it my ironing attempts were unsuccessful?"
He holds his arms out at his sides and the wrinkled patches of fabric do show a haphazard attempt at ironing.
"Half-successful," I concede, and that familiar pull grabs low in my stomach.
I love the chase, the dance, the flirtation. It's not the honest punch of breathless attraction I feel when I see Winch, but that's not going to happen, and this just might.
"Half-successful is probably worse than unsuccessful when it comes to ironing. I'm Jace, by the way." He holds out a hand.
"Evan."
We shake.
He squints against the blaring lights over the uninspired painting and twitches as the crush of the ear-splitting, liquor-soaked crowd presses uncomfortably close.
He turns to me and says, "It's getting really crowded here. If you're interested, maybe we could go have some coffee? Get a bite?"
"Let me just tell...the people I came with," I say to him. "Do you want to get your car from valet?"
His embarrassed smile tells me that if he has a car, he did not opt to valet park.
"Or just wait by the doors," I amend quickly. "I'll be right there."
I find Gramma and she's already crossing over from tipsy into giddy. She gives me a hard hug and shoos me off, I'm sure assuming I'm with Margurite Holinger's grandson, but the details don't really matter.
What matters is that I'm out on a Saturday night.
Finally.
Jace is at the doors, and his smile is sweet, but his eyes are hungry as they follow me from across the room and out into the humming night air. He leads me down the street, and we hop into his car and set off. I make sure to take out my cell and text Brenna, and I mention it, too.
"Just letting my best friend know I left early," I tell Jace, to make it clear there is electronic proof of me leaving with a time-stamp and location in case he's not as sweet as his pretty eyes make him seem.
Plus that, he doesn't know Bren is all the way in New Jersey and couldn't save me if she wanted to.
"Cool. Do you want me to swing by and get her?" He quirks an encouraging smile at me, and I shake my head.
"She's with her boyfriend. At the gun range," I add, and his smile widens slightly.
He clears his throat, I think to keep from laughing. "If you're game, I got invited to this house party on the beach. A couple people from the chem program at Southern are going." He nods to my phone. "If you want to go, you can text your friend at the gun range the address first. Tonight's the kind of night that makes you want to be by the ocean, right?"
"I don't need to text the address." I give him a sheepish laugh. "She really will come, guns blazing, if anything fishy is going on. But a beach party sounds absolutely perfect, and you seem nice. Wrinkled, but nice."
We share a smile. He has the air conditioning on, but I roll the window down and let the salty air rise and burst through the interior.
"You seem nice, too. Beautiful and nice." The words spill out and a blush instantly works its way over his face.
I laugh into the night wind, giddy with the frothing promise of a heady evening earmarked for magic, compliments of a cute, appropriately attentive guy and the enticing crash of the waves on the beach we're whipping towards.
Winch 5
The moon is perfectly round and hangs low over the ocean like it might crash into the dark waves at any minute. I should be able to see the beauty in something like this moon on this perfect night, but, lately, everything feels dark and depressing as hell.
"Winchester!"
The yells from the house, overcrowded with dozens of already drunk, young, dancing fools almost drown out my brother's voice. But nothing, not even the world's most insane debauchery, can completely stifle Remington.
He trips across the beach to where I'm sitting, falls next to me in a mini-explosion of sand, and kisses the side of my face, his gnarly beard making me cringe.
"Winchester, brother, what are you doing staring at this...ocean? This is..." He trails off and burps, his breath beery and sharp with a mix of all the other alcohols he peppered the beer with. "This is depressing, my man. There are ladies galore up there. It's a wild rumpus. C'mon." He pulls at my arm. "C'mon, brother. What's with you lately?"
"Just not in the mood." I shrug his arm off.
I don't need to be on tonight. I don't even need to be here. There's nothing for me to do, officially, but I'm here anyway because it was claustrophobic at home with my mother asking what my problem is and where Lala's been, and at least if I'm right next to Remington, I can take a stab at keeping his crazy ass out of the trouble that always seems to find him.
"Lala is here. Grinding with that professor from Southern, hoping you'll see her." His laugh is soft and completely amused, easy. "Used to be, seeing her doing that shit would get your fists up fast, man. Not so much, eh?"
"Not so much."
I don't feel like discussing how Lala could dry hump or full-on screw every professor in every department at Georgia Southern, and it wouldn't make me feel a damn thing. The few days I had with Evan blew the months I had with Lala out of the water.
"Ma is upset over you two breaking up. She thought she was finally going to get to plan a wedding." Remington swings his arms in front of his chest, the conductor of his own stupid bullshit. "Dum, dum, dum, dum," he tones and laughs wildly, pulling a flask from his pocket and taking a long pull that half-dribbles down his chin.
I rub a hand over my face and stifle a growl. "Ma can marry you off if she's so damn ready for a wedding."
As soon as the words are out, I want to punch myself in the face. Remington can be a dick, but he always had the softest heart of anyone I know, and I just squeezed fucking lemon juice all over the one wound that even my happy-go-lucky brother can't scab over.
"I'm sorry, man." He's already standing. "Remington! I'm sorry!"
He's staggering back to the house, and I have a feeling my stupid comment is about to unloose a whole wild chain of craziness.
I jump up and kick at the sand, but it's not remotely a good enough release for all the pissed-off shit I have bottled up.
"Fuck!" I scream into the night, loud and long as a wolf's howl.
I stalk back to the house and search all his usual sulking haunts, but my brother isn't anywhere I expect him to be. In the main room, people are sardined shoulder to shoulder, gyrating on the dance floor, guzzling liquor, collapsing in humping pairs on couches, poolside chairs, and every other flat surface, but I can't find Remington.
Finally I see
Lala's long blonde hair and tanned skin, exposed by a total lack of any but the most necessary clothing. She executes her best dirty dancing moves, but she's not dancing with any professor.
My brother droops at her side like he's about to pass out on top of her. She presses a palm to his chest to keep him upright, then turns her back to him so her ass is crammed against his junk, and a sick disgust rips through me.
She catches my eye, and her smile is all triumph.
She thinks I'm jealous. If she wasn't grinding against my brother, if she didn't know full well what he's been through recently, I might actually feel sad for how pathetic she is. But using Remington to punish me is going to get her hot little ass nothing but trouble, and I need to send a clear message tonight, before she does damage I can't undo.
I stalk over and give her a look that sets her mouth into a pout.
"Get lost before I lose my shit, Lala," I growl, pushing her off the dance floor and toward the gate out.
I pull Remington back and force him into the house, ignoring his slurs and weak-fisted attempts at punches.
"Fuck off, Winch. Seriously, man, I'm sick of you always playing big daddy. Go act your goddamn age, alright? Go chase some tail. Go drink til you puke. Go get the fuck off my back."
"What are you thinking, asshole?" I shove him against the wall and bang his head back into it a little. "Lala? You know she's trouble, so what are you doing?"
"You don't want her," he snarls, bucking against me.
A year ago, I wouldn't have had a chance in hell of holding my brother back. He could have thrown me across the room with one arm. But a lot's happened in a few months, and it rips me the fuck up that I can pin him so easily like this.
"You don't fucking want her either, so stay away. That girl's got schemes, and we don't need to get tangled in them right now."
I shove him back one more time, hard. His head droops forward and his shoulders shake up and down unevenly. He's crying, and panic crushes me like an elevator car with a snapped cable.
"Stop. It's okay, Rem. It's okay. You just need to sleep it off. You need to sober up."
I lead him to the hall of family bedrooms, the ones I keep locked when Remington throws these big, stupid house parties. I yank the key out of my pocket and get his door open. The cleaning ladies get a bonus every month to make up for having to take care of my brother's disgusting room, so it looks alright tonight. But no amount of bleach and scrubbing can take away the dejected, wasted feel that seems to fill every space he's in.
I walk him to the bed, his arm around my shoulders, and let him drop. He moans and his head rolls back and forth. I pull him to the edge of the mattress, tip him on his side, and set up the little garbage can next to the bed.
"Puke now if you need to," I tell him, my voice low. "No shame in it, man, and that way you don't choke."
My brother shakes his head, then heaves once, twice, and finally pukes into the can I hold for him. When it’s full of his bitter, sour vomit, I take it to the bathroom and flush it down the toilet, get him a glass of water and a washcloth. I try to hand them over so he can clean up, but he's past that, so I wipe him down, get him to drink a little before I put the rinsed can back by the bed in case he needs it for round two, and start to leave.
"Winchester?" he croaks as I flip the light off.
In the dark, huddled on the bed, scruffy as hell and slack with sadness, he's unrecognizable from the hero of my childhood. I don't know this guy.
"You need something?" I ask.
"Do you think they'll take her away?" Sobs make his words cracked and wet sounding. "Tell me the truth."
"They will if you keep fucking up."
I tighten my grip on the doorknob, so ready to leave my brother's embarrassing sadness and all the problems that just keep multiplying faster than I can handle them lately.
"Pop said it would be okay."
His voice shakes, and he sounds like a much older man and a really little boy at the same time.
"Yeah, well you asked me for the truth. Night."
I pull the door shut and trip the lock so no one winds up stumbling in on him.
Lala's waiting down the hall, arms crossed, a scowl on her cute little face. "He okay?"
The fury I felt for her is already half-extinguished. I just don't have the capacity to give a shit where she’s concerned anymore.
"Blitzed, but he'll sleep it off," I lie.
If he slept for two weeks he couldn't sleep off all the liquor he has stored up in his body. His liver has to be pickled by now.
"I'm sorry about that, out there. We were just having fun."
She tosses a strand of blond hair over her slim shoulder. I lean on the wall across from her.
"You know he's in no place for your games. Between the two of you, I feel like a fucking nanny."
She takes a step toward me.
"I'm sorry, Winch. Really. I know you've been stressed. And I know I need a lot of attention. But wasn't I good for you, too? Didn't I make the crappy stuff worth it?"
She threads the questions with the hint of sex so hot and fierce, it's tempting. I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't tempted.
"No." I sidestep her. "I've got too much on my plate now. And you and I are a wreck waiting to happen."
"So, there's a chance though?" She rushes me, and before I really know what's happening, her arms slide around my waist and I can smell the sweet musk of her perfume in my nostrils. "I know I screwed up, baby. But it's always gonna be you and me. We have history. Our families practically arranged our marriage when we were babies. Don't let a few crappy weeks ruin all that."
I wish I'd stayed on the sand, looking at the moon like a sad old fuck.
"Lala, listen to me." Her big hazel eyes go wide and her mouth curls up with happy expectation. I shake my head before I shoot her down. "It's over. We're over. I don't want to hurt you, but you've got to let this go."
The sweet look cracks and falls right off her features. If I hadn't seen her do this manic emotion flip a thousand times during the course of our relationship, the complete twist would have shocked me. Since I know her inside-out, I'm just tired in advance from the tantrum I know is coming.
"This isn't over by a fucking longshot, Winchester Youngblood! You think you can just use me and toss me aside when you're done? You are so damn wrong, and you're going to regret this!"
She's starting to border on hysterical, so I walk away, leaving her to scream a long, nasty stream of curses and threats at my back.
The party is still in full swing, and, much as I want to split it all up and go the fuck to bed, I decide not to make a big deal or draw any attention to the fact that anything might be wrong. My family doesn't need any more gossip than it usually has going around.
I crack a beer and manage to keep myself separate from the crowd without standing out. Blending is one of my specialties.
It's the usual group of old friends and cousins, young co-eds, and the odd green business shark here and there. No one interesting enough to spend any time with.
I do see a girl who looks just like Evan. Long and slim, dark hair all coiled up, dress that hugs every sweet curve, boots that make her legs look long as a smooth, slow high dive. But I know Evan would never be here, and, much as it kills me, that fact also gives me a deep relief.
Wherever she is, it's not mixed up with this crap. She shadows my every thought, but I know that distance is what I need to keep her from getting tangled in everything I'm already netted into.
It's not until her laugh rings out that I choke on the sip of beer that was running down my throat.
That's Evan's laugh.
I'd know that sound anywhere.
I'm not entirely sure how I get across the room or what I plan to say or do, but suddenly I'm inches away from her, smelling the soft wildflower scent that can't mask the harsher, sexy, burnt sugar smell of her, and my jaw clenches tight while I wrestle with two warring desires; a huge part of me wants to drag her somewhere priv
ate and touch her everywhere without stopping, but the saner part knows the right thing to do would be order her to leave right now, while I still have the sense to follow through.
Some dumbass college boy has his hands all over her. She's crooked against him, his arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close, and my vision goes red.
The guy notices me before Evan does, and he stands straight, letting go of her. I have to rip and kick at the urge to snatch her to my side.
"You must be Remington? Sal told me we should talk. I'm Jace Aldo." He holds a hand out for me to shake, but I ignore it.
Evan's eyes lock on me, and her complexion fades to ash, then bursts back to a sweet, excited pink.
I want her.
I want her so badly it shakes through me.
"I'm not Remington, and if Sal sent you, you can walk the fuck out the door right now." The people around the guy go quiet.
"Winch?" Evan's face is going through a crazy stream of emotions, and the one that's clearest is confusion.
I turn my attention to her. "What are you doing here with him? I thought you were trying to stay the hell out of trouble."
"I...we just met. At an art show. He goes to Southern."
As she trips over her words, her blush gets deeper and her eyes burn bright with a rage that wakes up something in me that used to be sound asleep.
I swing my eyes to Jace and say what it takes to get him to leave before I get my fists on him.
"Hands off. She's in high school. And her grandfather is Lee Early."
"Winch!" she gasps, and Jace puts five feet between the two of them in three seconds.
"Leave. I'll get her home." The music blares, but no one else is making any noise. I've stopped this party like a speedbump on the Autobahn.
Jace looks at Evan and says in a low voice, "If you want me to take you--"
"I said leave," I order, and Jace clamps his mouth tight and, with nothing more than a disgusted shake of his head, he stalks out the nearest door. I look around at the staring guests of Remington's fucked-up party. "Everyone can leave."
Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book) Page 8