When we finish, Gage props the boards in the corner of the breakfast nook and plugs in the light string. “Shut that.” He nods toward the yellow swinging door leading to the hallway, while he snaps the blinds closed. When he flips the wall switch, the lights spark life in our faux Paris scene.
We stand side-by-side in silence, except for the faint slurping of Gage gnawing his lower lip. “I don’t know, Rayne…”
There’s no way he isn’t satisfied with this. “What? I think it looks—”
“I don’t know how we won’t get an A,” he interrupts, grinning.
“I know, right?” He slides his arm around my shoulder, awkwardly side-hugging me as someone would a little sister. Maybe I’ve been reading him wrong. Maybe that’s how he sees me—his brother’s girl and, consequently, his pseudo-sister. Torture. My secret pining reciprocated with good ol’ sibling affection.
Maybe it can never be more. Saying it’s easy. Accepting it’s something else. There are moments I wish I’d met Gage first. This is one of those. My throat stiffens, difficult to swallow, and my abs knit together tightly. I hate that vomit sensation.
“Rayne?” Gage pulls my chin up, his blue eyes lit up with the happy golden flecks ringing the pupils. “We rocked this project.”
Is spontaneous combustion an actual thing? My spirit bounces around with untamed energy and threatens to burst out of my skin and blow my body to smithereens. I imagine dissolving into a pile of sooty residue at his feet in an instant.
I circle my arm around his waist, relaxing my head on his shoulder. His body is warm and inviting like the favorite pillow from my bed. “I could fall in love here,” I whisper to myself. He doesn’t need to hear it. I just need to say it. Let it out and expel the energy.
“What?” He leans down, his ear close to my face, his cheek closer, his lips closest. Two inches of air separate us, but it might as well be two miles.
“Nothing.” I slow my breathing, redirect, and drop my arm from his body. “We need to make those tarts.”
He frowns, then turns and walks to the fridge, holding the door open with his hip as he piles the ingredients in his arms. He kicks the door shut and shovels everything on the island’s granite top.
“All you.” Gage waves his hand in a circle over the food. “Just tell me what to do.”
“I think I can handle that.” I tweak his nose and pick up one of the canvas bags I’d brought.
With a wink, he laughs, “I bet you can.”
“Oh, I have my plans for you.” I wag my finger in the air then pull out an apron from the bag. He clamps his eyes shut, scrunches his nose, and throws back his head, but I ignore him, looping the strap around his neck before stepping behind to tie the strings into a bow. My knuckles graze the ripples of muscles crisscrossing his back under the lightweight tee-shirt, and my fingers tremble, wanting to explore further, following the valleys down, until—
“I can pit the cherries. Can’t mess that up, right?” His words snatch me back to the present.
I grab the plastic clamshell carton and toss it to him. “I don’t know. How good are you at working with cherries?”
He turns the container over in his hands and checks out the red fruit. “Let’s just say I’m an eager student.” He glances up at me as he says it, and suddenly my mind is going places it shouldn’t, and my cheeks flame up again. This toeing-the-line, sarcastic back-and-forth we’re so good at is making it hard to concentrate on this baking project when all I want to do is have him demonstrate his skills.
“Good to know.” I smile like a fool because I literally cannot help it. I can’t force my cheeks down. He does that to me, and it’s getting harder to hide, so I do what I do best—change the subject. “I’ll work on the custard and the crusts, and then we’ll put it all together.”
Gage sits at the dinette table, reclined back on the legs of his chair and pits each cherry before tossing it in a bowl. I finish the rest, and once the tarts are perfectly prepared and packaged in the large clear-topped pastry box, we only have to clean up the mess.
I load the dishes into the sink, swirl soap across the top, and turn on the water until foamy bubbles peek over the basin’s edge. The mixing bowl, still sitting on the counter, has small clumps of custard around the bottom. I dredge my finger through the remnants and hold it out to Gage. “Taste test?”
“Heck yeah.” He walks over, leans down, and takes my finger into his mouth. His tongue slides against my fingertip, shooting an icy blast down to my toes. While his lips are still wrapped around my finger, he lifts his eyes and wiggles his brows in approval. “Ummy,” he says, garbled.
I giggle. “I think that translates to ‘yummy’?”
Gage grabs my hand then pulls back to say, “Finger-lickin’.” He sticks out his tongue and runs it down the length of my finger again just as Preston arrives.
“What’s this?” Oh dear God. His voice catches me off-guard, and I retract quickly from Gage, stumble backward and nearly fall over the kitchen barstool. Preston stands in the threshold, hand pinning the swinging door to the wall, eyes darting back and forth between me and Gage.
If I were a cartoon character, you’d have seen my heart imprinting through my shirt. It pounds in my ears. “We finished our project.” My voice registers two octaves higher under the influence of guilt. “Come see.”
“I didn’t realize you’d still be here.” Preston walks over and kisses my temple. I’m surprised he can find it because he’s looking at me as if I have three heads. Suspicion? Jealousy? Maybe my conscience kicking my own butt?
He looks over the boards. “Buildings? I thought you were doing the Eiffel Tower? Kinda misses the ‘lights and love’ mark, doesn’t it?”
I wince. It’s personal.
“It’s Montmartre,” Gage inserts, his voice low and tense. “Home of Degas? Artist headquarters?”
“Obscure. Maybe that’ll get you extra credit. What’s in here?” Preston takes the stainless-steel bowl from my hands and peers in.
“Vanilla custard for the pies. Try some.” I absentmindedly scoop up a taste onto my finger—the same finger Gage has just been licking clean.
Preston studies the sample, licks his lips and shakes his head. “No thanks.”
I jerk my finger back and wipe the remnants onto the bowl’s edge. Gage stands behind Preston, arms folded across his chest, looking as if the custard has soured in his stomach. Preston leans over the table and peeks in the pastry box.
“Looks good, guys. Y’all are done now, right?” Preston loops his arm through mine. “Let’s go hang out before you have to leave.”
I pull away and point to the sink. “I have to finish cleaning up and load this stuff into my car first.”
Gage steps forward and waves me off. “I got it. Go ahead with Preston.”
“You sure?” I search his gaze for any sign he wants me to stay. Nothing.
“Yeah.” He takes the bowl from my hands, drops his head and walks to the sink. I want him to intervene, insist I stay with him. He doesn’t. He lets me go to Preston without batting an eye. I guess this means it really has been innocent flirtation on his part, and if so, Gage and I didn’t enter any kind of forbidden territory, so that lusting in my heart thing is null and void.
I should be relieved. Only I’m not. I’m disappointed.
Chapter 18
Gage
G
o ahead with Preston.
That’s what I told her.
Why does it taste like swallowing a whole jar of pickle juice? Each time I remember the words, that same reaction tears through me—clamped eyes with a grimace and being rocked by bristles that tear up and down my spine.
The worst part is that piece of me thinks she didn’t really want to go. Her eyes begged me to insist she stay and help clean up.
Didn’t they?
I don’t know.
I don’t know a damn thing anymore.
And maybe
that isn’t the worst part. Maybe the worst part is I’m questioning any of this when he is my brother.
And she is my brother’s girlfriend.
“Idiot,” I grumble under my breath, grabbing the backpack off my bed and throwing it onto the floor when a knock sounds at the door.
Who is it? Mom and Dad are gone, and Preston left with Rayne a while ago. I walk to the door and sliver it open. Preston sticks his nose in the crack, using his hand to push the door open as wide as he can. It stops short when it hits the toe of my boot. I don’t move it.
“When did you get home?”
“Just now. Rayne had to be home early, so I called the guys.” He tries to open the door further to no avail. Again, I don’t offer to move my boot. Preston narrows his eyes then shrugs it off. “What are you doing?”
“I was going to study,” I lie, pointing at the backpack on the floor.
“That can wait. Tonight, we paintball.” He holds up the black bag that holds his gun, CO2 canisters, and tub of paintballs. “Come on, Trevor and Barrett are meeting us there.”
Ten minutes later, we’re in Preston’s Mustang heading toward the course. I bring up football, but he quickly dismisses it. Apparently “real life” has no time and patience for such high school activities. He says high school like he didn’t just graduate like half a year ago.
What he can talk about, however, is Mom’s wonderful advice. Mom says this, and Mom says that. Mom has such great insight. Mom thinks Preston’s a god walking on Planet Earth. Mom is weirdly obsessed. Mom, Mom, Mom.
When we pull into the parking lot, Barrett’s Bronco is already there. He and Trevor are propped against the back bumper, waiting, and Preston barely shifts to park before I’m unbuckled and jumping out of the car.
We walk inside and pay the fees, gear up, and load our weapons.
“How are we doing this?” Trevor asks. He asks the same thing every time we play. It’s rhetorical. Usually. It’s always been the same—me and Preston versus Trevor and Barrett. Everyone always assumes it’ll stay that way. The question is a mere formality, a polite gesture that holds no value.
Until today.
Frankly, I need a break. When I say so, their eyes saucer like I’ve just committed some felony.
“But we always play two-on-two.”
“Well, today I feel like playing every man for himself. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing… I guess.”
“Good.” I rub my hands together, gun slung over my shoulder. “Four corners, capture the flag?”
They all nod in agreement… or confusion. I can’t be sure, but at least they’re all moving to their respective starting points with no more resistance. It feels good to make the rules for once.
“Oh yeah,” I holler and each of them turns around. “A shot to the upper torso, front or back, is the kill shot. No head shots and everything else is just a flesh wound. Got it?”
Everyone moves to position. I crouch behind the stack of pallets in my corner, peering out the side. In the center of the playing field, a red banner flaps at the top of a tall metal pole.
The prize—and it’s mine.
The air horn breaks through the silence, signaling the start of the contest. Almost immediately, the trash-talking begins, everyone yelling back and forth. For what seems like hours, we circle each other in some testosterone-fueled dance of guerilla warfare. But while the others keep yelling, I fall silent. And wait.
Barrett’s in my vicinity. His voice has gotten closer, and the shuffle of his feet is discernible. If I’m patient, he’ll deliver himself on a shiny, silver platter, and he’ll be the first casualty. Fitting for anyone willing to date Jaycee. His sacrifice is a necessary evil.
To my left, a collection of four fifty-gallon drums stands alone, and I make a beeline for them, slinking down to my knees. In a small gap between two of the drums, I watch the field. From the corner of my eye, a shape emerges from the tree line and darts towards a large wooden structure, shaped like a building.
Barrett. And he’s not even looking in my direction.
I line up the shot as he pauses at the structure, carefully making sure it’s unoccupied before he climbs in. It’s all the opportunity I need.
Pull.
Bam! My shot lands on his back, off to the right where the ribs wrap around.
Man down.
“I’m out!” Barrett yells almost at the same time a loud yelp echoes from the opposite side of the field.
“I’m out, too!” Trevor this time, which means one thing.
It’s down to me and Preston. And only one of us can win.
The next 10 minutes happen in a blur. Preston holds nothing back when he continuously charges me, firing off several paint bullets that graze my arms and legs, and one that flies seriously close to my face. It’s almost as if he doesn’t think I have it in me.
To shoot him.
To dare to beat him.
Bam! Electric blue paint splatters across my T-shirt sleeve.
“I hit you!”
“On the arm. Flesh wound.”
“Still… you know it’s just a matter of time. Might as well give up now. I always win.”
Not today, Preston. Not today.
“Sure about that?”
“Yep. I don’t know how to lose.”
The dry grass crunches under Preston’s feet, and then silence. Surely, this fool isn’t standing out in the open, challenging me. Of course, it could all be a ploy to lure me out so he can take a shot. I squat lower and creep around the side of the bale.
It’s clear.
But when I turn back, the barrel of his gun is pointed square at my chest.
Dammit.
“Told you I always win,” he laughs and pulls the trigger.
Nothing.
He pulls again.
Nothing.
“What the —?” he starts, slamming his hand against the side of the canister. The paintballs are stuck, lodged in tight. Jammed. We realize it at the same time, and he dashes for cover before I can aim and shoot.
A generous competitor might’ve waited until the playing fields were leveled again and the gun was working properly. But I’m not in a generous mood.
I sneak around the hay bale, tiptoe running to Preston’s location, finger poised on the trigger. He’s kneeling behind the cover, feverishly readjusting the canister. I raise my gun, planting the sight on him and shoot.
Bam! Neon green paint sprays out between his shoulder blades, the impact, both sudden and unexpected, throws him forward on his hands and knees.
That felt good.
Preston jumps to his feet and turns to face me with a sneer. I want to knock that look off his face. I want him to understand for once that I—kid brother, less handsome, less wonderful Gage—am a competitor.
Bam! My finger seems to react on some express link from my thoughts, completely bypassing all things sane and logical. Another burst of neon green blasts into his shirt, right above the front pocket.
A direct shot to the heart.
“What the hell?” Preston throws his gun down then folds his arm over his chest. Like he’s waiting on an explanation. But he wouldn’t like what I have to say, so I tell him the simplest truth.
“You said you didn’t know how to lose. Just thought I’d show you how it feels.”
I leave him standing there open-mouthed and fuming as I strut to the pole to retrieve my flag. And when my back’s completely turned, I smile.
I walk into the kitchen. Preston follows.
The ride home was quiet, only the radio filling the dead space between us. Shooting him felt good. Too good at the time, though a slight measure of regret creeps in. He didn’t do anything to provoke it. He was just being his usual self. It never used to bother me, but lately, this wave of angst has been rising inside me like a tsunami, ready to break the walls and blow all his “look at me” shit apart.
Maybe I’m
being too hard on him. Underestimating all the pressure Mom and Dad put on his shoulders. Maybe I should practice some sympathy instead of getting pissed and maybe a tad… jealous?
No. I’m not jealous. I just want Preston to wake up and realize what he has.
Yeah. That’s it.
I open the fridge door and stoop for a better look. “You hungry?” I ask him over my shoulder.
“Eh, I guess.” His tone isn’t friendly, but monotone. Flat. “What is there?”
“There’s some leftover cherries and custard from the tarts.”
Preston lets out an unhappy laugh and reaches for the bowl I’m holding, dredging his finger deep in the vanilla cream. “Want to lick it off my finger?”
Oh. That. Of course. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He flicks the custard back into the bowl and wipes his finger on a napkin. “Why don’t you tell me? I’ve been pretty confused by it myself.”
Wow. So that episode really did get under his skin. The way he whisked Rayne away upstairs, it was hard to tell. Suddenly, my mind’s reeling. Did he confront her with what he saw, and if so, what did she say? It’s not like anything happened… technically… but there were some definite iffy moments that toed the line.
“What the hell’s your deal?” I spit out at him.
“What’s your deal?” His voice increases an octave and echoes against the glass panes in the cabinetry. “You’re the one with the chip on your shoulder.”
I blow out a loud breath, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m not doing this. Why don’t you say whatever it is you need to say?”
“Okay, fine. What’s going on between you and Rayne?”
I’m not expecting his bluntness. My heart may have stopped beating a time or two, just hanging out in my chest like a dead lump. I swallow hard. How can I give him an answer to a question I’ve asked myself a million times?
Meant to Be Broken Page 13