So there it was. I loved Bryn, Bryn loved William, William loved Bryn. No one loved me. Well, at least not in that kind of way. The kind that feels so damn special because it has nothing to do with blood relation. The kind that chooses you before you chose it. The kind that embeds itself into your every last fiber until the thought of being separated from the source of it has you writhing in a ball. The kind that was rare, hard-earned, worth dying for . . . and the kind that avoided me at every turn.
Okay, back it up. Step point five before first step—don’t even think her name to myself. Better yet, try not to think of one syllable words beginning with the letter B.
I shook my head as I tossed the razor into the garbage. It fought valiantly in its crusade against my course facial scruff, but the battle left it useless against any future facial hair attacks. “So long, old friend,” I said solemnly. “I shall miss you.”
Before I let the realization that I was carrying on conversations with inanimate objects hit me full on, I grabbed Cora’s tortoise shell comb and focused every last iota of my attention on parting my now even longer—thanks to my blue period—longish white-blond hair down the center. I was something of a Solomon when it came to my hair. It was the eighth wonder of the world.
The door twisted open, but thanks to the shower steam as thick as Bryn’s best attempts at making homemade whole wheat bread . . . I internally cursed and externally slapped my face. I hadn’t made it half a minute without thinking about her and, considering my time on this earth wasn’t finite, if I kept up this pattern of thinking about her every half a second of forever that would mean . . .
That would mean I was screwed.
I noticed a figure ghosting towards me and was thankful for the distraction—albeit temporary. “That you, brother?” I said, more of a statement than a question as I turned his direction. “How do I look?” I tightened the towel around my waist before extending my arms to the sides in a non-verbal repeat of my question.
“Thank goodness I’m not your brother or else I’d be really disturbed by the thoughts I’m having of you right now,” a female voice poured through the steam before her figure cut through it. “And you look so good I locked the door and don’t plan on unlocking it for a few days.” The only smile Sierra had, the seductive kind, was in full form as she steered towards me. “If you catch my drift,” she added, winking one eye as the other searched over me like her internal clock just hit hyper-drive and I was the last man on the face of the planet.
Few people I’d come across in life could make me squirm. Sierra was the most skilled of those few. “What are you doing in here?” I asked, trying to make my folding of my arms over my chest seem casual, although it only succeeded in moving her fixed gaze from my stomach muscles v-ing into my towel to my chest. I never imagined I’d be so uncomfortable with a beautiful woman objectifying me and thinking a string of lewd thoughts so loud I could almost hear them. But then I’d never imagined I’d become a stinky hermit, either.
“Nice to see you too, sexy,” she said, doing that hair twirling thing we guys hated. “But we can save the words for later. I haven’t seen you in weeks, and either that whole absence makes the heart grow fonder thing is true or else the gods have been shining their light down on you even more than usual.” Her eyes did another circumnavigation, like I was a piece of filet mignon she couldn’t wait to devour. “In all the right spots, I might add.” She hinted at all the right spots, some of which were thankfully covered by the plush towel.
I sighed, cinching my towel even tighter, like it was a cotton chastity belt, at a loss. On paper, Sierra and I were a perfect match. You could have plugged her and my name, along with our interests, characteristics, and whatever other junk you put into one of those online dating sites, and we would have been paired together with like a ninety-nice percent compatibility score.
The clincher was the last one percent. The most important percent. There was no chemistry—at least for me, although I’m sure she used chemistry and lust interchangeably—no withdrawal jitters, no thinking about the future together and feeling peace and happiness. There was no . . . spark. Ridiculous term William repeated like a séance, but accurate.
You know, the spark. It could be as simple as a meeting of eyes or as intimate as knuckles skimming down flesh, but one thing it was was unmistakable. No denying it once you’d felt it and no sense in trying to conjure one up if it wasn’t there from the beginning. Sparks are beginnings, leading to middles of fireworks, finishing like blasts of dynamite.
So, long story short, there were no sparks between Sierra and me. At least for my part.
“Does the concept of privacy escape you, Sierra?” I muttered, holding my ground as she took a step in my direction. Her eyes were still moving like pin-balls over me. “I’m all but naked here. Give me a minute to get decent, and I’ll chat about whatever’s on your mind.”
She did the pouty, sultry girl face that rubbed me in all the wrong ways. “Decent is the last way I want you,” she said, skimming her fingers over my stomach, my lower stomach. My lower lower stomach, AKA the last part of exposed skin that, had my towel been hanging any lower, would have been considered indecent.
Even at that, a drop dead gorgeous woman’s fingers scrolling a figure eight pattern over sensitive skin in my southerly regions, I felt nothing. “And I’ve got other things in mind than chatting with that sumptuous mouth of yours,” she whispered, arching her neck back just so, the lids of her eyes getting heavy.
This was all too familiar territory, and before I’d been happy to accommodate every other female’s suggestive advances, although the messing around never got much farther than kissing. I was gutsy enough to play with fire in the strict world of Immortals I was a member of, but I wasn’t gutsy enough to let inhibitions run away with me. My three brothers were the smart ones, but even as the F student of the family, I was smart enough to know the only thing waiting for me at the end of following my hormones down to their preferred end—without the blessing of a Council—was an express ticket to a nameless tomb.
Immortals placed purity next to duty, like we were a bunch of eternal stiffs. Fraternizing with members of the opposite sex was frowned upon, and physical contact without a Unity was expressly forbidden. For a man who idolized, and I don’t mean that figuratively, women, Immortality was a special kind of purgatory for me.
“What are you playing at?” I said, taking as large a step backwards as my inseam was capable. “You know that kind of behavior is against the rules.”
Her lower lip plumped out into the ugliest pout I’d ever seen on a woman. “You’re no fun,” she baby talked. I might have just vomited in my mouth. “And from the rumors I’ve heard from all too many lovely young ladies, you’ve never been one for rule abiding.”
She had me there, but something had changed, and something about the intensity of it had me believing it was a permanent change. I’d ticked off two centuries swapping saliva with countless women. So many women I’d be lucky to identify half of them as former tonsil hockey partners and able to identify less than a quarter of them by name—first name.
It had never bothered me before, not even close; I was living the dream as far as I was concerned, but darn if that didn’t all change when a certain Bryn Dawson wedged her way into my life, burrowing into the very depths of my core. That hadn’t been her intent, I know that of course—she’d had it bad for my brother the second she looked into that sculpted by the hand of God face—but it was as inescapable as gravity. I’d felt it the first week I knew her, gone to every extreme I had at my command to deny it, and I ended up confessing my love for her about ten minutes before she was promised the Unity to William they’d both coveted. I was never one for timing.
So now that I’d felt it, the chemistry, the spark, the I’m-hopeless-without-you, call it what you will, phenomenon, I was positively ruined for any future bouts of meaningless making out. Was just my luck too—exactly when I needed a head spinning, spine tingling, h
ot and heavy make-out session, it was like my newfound relationship morals forbid it.
Darn you straight to hell cursed morals.
Whatever physical responses in my expression that were being manifested by my thoughts, Sierra picked up on them. Thankfully.
“Whoa there, boy,” she said, regarding me like I was a bomb set to blow. “I’m a little forward,”—I choked on her little choice of word—“but I get you want to set the pace. You’re a take charge kind of man. That’s what I like about you.” Her eyes devoured me again. “One of the things I like about you,” she clarified, all but licking her lips. “It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other, so I’m cool with ‘chatting’ to reacquaint ourselves so you feel less guilty about kissing me until I’m senseless.”
“I don’t want to kiss you, Sierra,” I said, my voice letting out some of my impatience.
Her smile pulled higher. “Just what have you got in mind then?” she murmured, her baby voice now all woman. All panting, in heat woman.
“Not . . . that,” I replied, backing away from her recommenced march my way.
“Yes, that,” she replied, a step away from me where I stood trapped between the bathroom wall and her bosoms about to burst out of her two sizes too small sweater. “Now let’s see what you’re hiding behind that towel . . .”
Her fingers had just hooked over the towel as I teleported out of that nightmare, the damp towel the only piece of me she’d have. Leaving me naked and searching for my next layover. It was dangerous to teleport from your point of origin before you’d pinpointed your destination point, I knew that, but what I’d left behind in the bathroom was far more dangerous than the possibility of ending up in limbo.
And then, I was en route. It was the first place that popped to mind and the last place I wanted to go. The only place I needed to avoid from now until the end of time.
The cursed place I found myself in half a second later. My brother and newest sister-in-law’s bedroom. They weren’t here. In fact, they hadn’t spent a single night in it since they’d been United—William’s station as a doctor had kept the both of them more busy than a couple newlyweds should be, but the symbol of that room, the significance of their bed looming in front of me, was enough to cause my insides to twist into knots.
Their faces were everywhere, smiling back at me from the plates of glass holding them in their frames. God, they were the happiest couple I’d seen, and I’d swear on my life I was happy for them. Genuinely happy, not the fakey, phony kind; it was just me I wasn’t happy for. Their happy ending meant my unhappy one.
The dress Bryn had worn on their Unity day was spread over the bed. It gave me shivers just seeing it again, remembering her in it. The way she’d looked as she’d sprinted down the beach, her face exuberant. She couldn’t get to us fast enough—she couldn’t get to William fast enough.
“Since you wound up with the girl we both fell for, big brother,”—I was now speaking to a picture frame. Loony, kooky, hook me up to a Prozac drip now nutty—“I think the least you can offer me is a pair of pants,” I said as I wandered butt naked into their closet, imagining blinders on when I walked by Bryn’s modest collection of jeans and cotton tees. The girl was under the assumption couture was a curse word.
I pulled the first pair of pants I found on William’s side of the closet, cringing when I discovered they weren’t designer and were well worn in. The way the man dressed, you’d think he didn’t have a mutual fund that could take a dump on a small country’s annual GDP.
“I didn’t know Levi’s was still in business,” I mumbled as I snaked my legs into them. “Although judging from the looks of these jeans, they could have gone out of business decades ago.”
“Son?” a baritone voice that carried a tone of concern called out from the bedroom.
Super, the Chancellor of our Council, also known as my father, had just witnessed me carrying on multiple conversations with myself. What’s that sour tang in the air? Ah, that’s it, demotion. If having been forced to take an indefinite vacation from my responsibilities as a strength instructor after the first and last student I’d worked with after William and Bryn’s Unity dropped me on their first day—dropped me five times—wasn’t bad enough, the man who called all the shots in our Alliance had just been privy to my decreasing mental stamina.
“Hey, Father,” I called out, pulling a thermal tee off its hanger and sliding it over my head. It was a tad large, my brother was large enough you’d think he grew up by a nuclear reactor, but it would work. “I’ll be out in a sec.”
“No rush,” he said, his voice purposefully calm. Yep, my father was so concerned by my fragile state he was making sure to keep his tone controlled. Take candy from the babies, shave all the puppies bald, but whatever you do, for the love of god, don’t upset the poor, mentally deranged Patrick Hayward.
I slid into a pair of William’s sandals and made a conscious effort of holding my shoulders high, my head following suit. “Almost there,” I said, fastening the last fly on the hideous pair of 501’s.
He smiled at me as I exited the closet, but his eyes pulsed with concern. I instantly felt worse—Charles Hayward had about a gazillion other things to worry about than a not right in the head son. With the usurping a dominant Inheritor Alliance that adopted everything that Immortals as a whole stood against thing, father had had his hands full with clean-up duty. Plus, being all but the President of the United States of Guardians had a way of filling a man’s schedule the better part of forever.
“Hey,” I offered, folding my hands into the low-slung jeans pocket. “Good to see you all back and safe. Sounds like things got a little hairy with those Inheritor slugs.” I did my best impersonation of old Patrick, hoping crazy Patrick wouldn’t burst through the fake shell.
“Hairy is a good word for it, yes,” he answered, his eyes scanning over me, trying to seem unintentional about it. “Son,”—just the way he said it, all coated in apprehension, made me cringe—“what are you doing here?”
I didn’t know what here he was referring to. The bedroom of my best friend and the woman I loved; Montana, when I wouldn’t have tolerated being left behind while my family went on a mission of butt-kicking proportions; or maybe my present state of mind that was fragile to put it nicely and loony to put it, well, truthfully. I went with the least complicated of heres.
“Sierra cornered me in the bathroom and isn’t one of those girls that has the word no in her comprehension bank, if you catch what I’m throwing your way,” I said.
He shook his head. “Let me clarify. What are you doing?” he asked, laying it all there. Not that I’d come to expect anything less from my father. Delicacies like pleasantries, beating around the bush, sweeping things under the rug, so on and so forth, weren’t in his arsenal. Chancellor Charles Hayward was a meat and potatoes kind of guy; he didn’t care how uncomfortable he made you, and he didn’t miss a thing. I suppose you could say growing up with this kind of father figure in your life, for generations no less, was a bit intense.
When I didn’t offer an immediate answer, he added, “The past few months I haven’t recognized you. The son I remember, the man I know you are, is either in hiding or gone,” he said, unbuttoning his coat jacket and measuring me with his eyes. “Now, I’m fine with you needing a break, some time clear your head or renew your spirit or whatever it is you need,”—I might clarify that I don’t think my father has the slightest idea I fell for Bryn, her Unity being the catalyst for my “break”—“but you’ve holed yourself up in a room for weeks straight, drinking more root beer than any grown man should,”—something of amusement tugged at his mouth—“Joseph all but had to force-shower you, and I know you like to try to disguise your proclivity for the fairer sex, but when did you begin teleporting in the opposite direction of a beautiful young lady?”
I knew perception was considered to be a virtue, but to the son of a perceptive father, it was more like a curse. “I just need some time to sort things out. G
et my head on straight again,” I mumbled, only realizing when I was done that I’d mumbled. I wasn’t a mumbler, at least the old me hadn’t been. Sure, I muttered, the smart alec I’m-going-to-pretend-I-don’t-want-you-to-hear-this-but-I-really-do kind of under the breath verbiage, but I’d always had more than enough backbone to stay above mumbling. Apparently, no longer.
“You’ve had some time,” he replied. “How much have you gotten figured out? How much straighter is your head back on?” He asked with genuine honesty, nothing antagonistic about it, but I almost would have preferred the latter because an honest question required an honest answer, and I’d rather give him about a million other answers than the honest one.
“Let’s just say I’ve only added more questions to the pile than I’ve wrangled out answers,” I said, clearing my throat. “And I can’t even remember where I left my head.”
My father took that in, sorting through it before answering. He was the kind of man that defined think before you speak. “So shutting yourself away and trying your hardest to pretend the world doesn’t exist hasn’t cured you of whatever this is?” he said, scrolling his eyes over me. I didn’t respond. I knew from decades of experience he wasn’t looking for one. “Only a fool would think that continuing down the exact same path would lead to a different result, and since neither of us are fools,”—he scrubbed his hand over his mouth threatening to pull up in the corners—“I’m sure one of us can come up with another option that is less dramatic and escapist to help the son I know you are come back to us.”
I hated that reverse psychology crap. I succumbed to the inevitability of where this little father/son chat was heading, and though I couldn’t pinpoint the exact direction he was going with it, I knew it would be all downhill from here. I slouched down onto the nearest piece of furniture, acting more my biological age than my true one, as was my style anyways, until I felt the mattress molding around my body. William and Bryn’s mattress . . .
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