“What makes you think they’ll take him away?” I asked. “You’re his brother, and you have a steady job. He’s lived with you almost his whole life. This is his home. I would think stability counts for something, right? And no one else is contesting custody, are they?”
He shook his head, lifting his cigarette to his mouth again. “No. My aunt Jackie disappeared a month ago, probably shacked up with her drug dealer. Her son is in jail, and they’re my only family, besides good ol’ Dad, who isn’t eligible for parole for another ten years. But look around you, Jess. I mean, you clearly know it—this place is a dump. It reeks in here, and that social worker is going to take one look around and think that my brother belongs in some fucking foster home with people who don’t give a shit about him.”
Without warning, Riley took the whiskey bottle and hurtled it at the back door, where it smashed, amber liquid trailing down the wood.
I jumped.
“Seven years,” he said passionately. “Seven fucking years I have been working for the goal of making sure that kid doesn’t end up in the system and now I’m going to fail and he’s going to pay the price for me not being man enough to save him.”
“Hey,” I said gently, shocked by the self-loathing, by the burden that he clearly had been carrying for way longer than a twenty-five-year-old should have to. “You haven’t failed. We have a few days. A couple of cans of paint, we’ll pull the carpet up to get rid of the smell, no big deal. No one expects you to provide anything more than a clean and safe environment for Easton, and you’re doing that.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I think Easton is very lucky to have you. He may have drawn a shitty card when it came to your parents, but he has you and that’s going to save him, Riley. He’s going to be fine, and you can be proud of yourself for everything you’ve done and sacrificed.” I meant that. So many guys would have bolted, but Riley was in for the long haul.
“Tyler is better at the surrogate parent thing than me.” He took the last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out. “I’m not good at the whole homework and shower and take-him-to-the-doctor thing. I seem to be missing the nurturing gene.”
“You and me both,” I told him. “I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a parent.” I had never admitted that to anyone. It made me feel like such a jerk. But I wasn’t sure I would be a good mother. I couldn’t imagine singing lullabies or cleaning up snot.
“I don’t want kids.” He dug into my shopping bag and pulled out a pack of peanut butter cups. “Can I eat these?”
“Sure.”
“I figure having kids is like the biggest gamble ever, and if you fuck it up, you’re not just messing your own life up but another human being’s. That’s too much responsibility.”
“That’s because you’ve been raising your brothers for years. Maybe you’ll change your mind some day.” I gave him a soft smile. “When you meet the right girl.” Isn’t that what they always said? You met The One and suddenly you were envisioning picket fences and baby strollers? It was hard to picture that for myself since I had never once come even remotely close to being in love.
Riley was the first guy I’d actually been genuinely interested in in about forever and a day and yet, he just might be the first legitimate friendship with a guy I’d ever had. Where you had real conversations and shared genuine thoughts and emotions. I didn’t want to screw that up.
“Nah, I doubt it. But yeah, it’s been hard. But I don’t resent taking care of Easton, I don’t mean that. I would do anything for that kid, and Jayden, too. They’re awesome kids, despite all of my mom’s shit, and I work hard to make sure they have food and a roof over their heads.” He flashed a quick grin, but his eyes were troubled. “For now, anyway. But they deserve better than I can give them, and that makes me angry.”
“Stop beating yourself up. Your dad is in jail. Your mother was a drug addict. It’s a miracle none of you are serial killers or junkies yourselves. I think if you can get Easton to eighteen and he is a decent guy, then you’ve done a damn good job. And if he ends up in an alley with a needle in his arm, it’s not your fault.”
Maybe that wasn’t exactly the right thing to say.
Riley stopped cramming chocolate into his mouth long enough to cock his head and say, “Now there’s an image. Thanks for that.”
I flushed. “Sorry. This is why I can’t be a mother. I give terrible advice.”
But Riley laughed. “No, you’re fine. I appreciate the effort. Most girls would have hidden in their rooms, or told me to suck it up, or tried to distract me with sex.”
Well, it wasn’t like that last one hadn’t entered my head. He was practically naked and we were both buzzed and I was oh, maybe falling completely head over ass for him.
I ignored that. “I’ll help you with cleaning up the house. I’m happy to help. We have all weekend. This place will shine like the top of the Chrysler Building.”
He gave me a lopsided smile. “Come here.”
“Come here where?” I asked, suspicious.
“Here.” He held out his hand.
“Are you going to give me a wet willie or something?” I asked, reluctantly standing up and going over to him. I took the remaining half of the peanut butter cup out of his hand and ate it. “Yum.”
“Sit down.” He gestured to his lap.
Oh, no freaking way. No, no, and no. I was not going to sit on his lap when he was in nothing but boxer briefs, eyes still glassy from alcohol. I wasn’t known for resisting temptation. As a kid, if you waved candy in front of me, I would have traded my family for a bag of Jolly Ranchers. I had to admit that I wasn’t sure I could control my feelings when he was so tantalizingly close to my touch.
“Absolutely not,” I told him, unscrewing the cap on the energy drink to hide my expression from his eyes.
But while I was sipping, he grabbed me and pulled me down onto him.
“Riley!” I tried to maneuver away, but it was too late. I fell with a thunk on his thighs, and I realized wiggling around was worse than sitting still. “What?”
“You’re really going to help me clean this dump up?” he asked, suddenly looking earnest.
I studied him for a second, my heart squeezing. “Yes. I already was, but this is just a little more large scale, but still no big deal. We’ll have this place looking amazing and they’ll give you custody of Easton. I promise.” Of course, I couldn’t promise any such thing, but I didn’t want to see him like that.
He smiled. “Thank you. You’re a good person, you know that?”
I shook my head. “I’m not, not really. I’m not awful, but I’m not so nice, truthfully.”
“You are, too. You’re helping me, aren’t you?”
“That’s what friends do.” I put my arms on his shoulders because I was losing my balance. “And we’re friends, right?”
“Yeah.” His hand was warm on my back. “We’re definitely friends, Jess. Though I just realized I don’t know your last name.”
“It’s Sweet.” I fingered his necklace, enjoying being this close to him. It might never happen again, so I was going to take advantage of the opportunity. Heat radiated off him, and I could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Ironic, huh?”
“Seriously, that’s your last name?”
I nodded, cheeks burning for some reason. I didn’t blush any more than I cried. So annoying.
“I think it’s appropriate. You are, actually, very sweet.” Riley’s hand shifted underneath my hoodie onto my bare skin, and I shivered. “That’s what I think.”
“I think you’re drunk.” Why did he have to touch me like that? His hand was just resting on the small of my back, his thumb brushing back and forth lazily.
We were in a dangerous position, and he didn’t seem to have a clue. For a long minute, he studied me, his eyes dark in the harsh light of the kitchen, and I held my breath, wondering what he was thinking, wanting him to say something . . . important.
“Maybe.” His gaze
dropped. “I never realized how big your tits are. Damn, all this yellow is really distracting.”
Yeah. That wasn’t it.
Disgusted, I jumped up off his lap. “On that note, I’m going to bed. And you should too. Nine a.m., buddy, you need to be in the living room ready to work.”
He saluted me and reached for his cigarettes.
“And no smoking in here!” I zipped up my hoodie all the way. “We just painted this kitchen!” With a sound of exasperation, I threw up my hands and left the room.
Then I had a thought. Rounding on him, I added, “Don’t try to clean up that glass tonight. You’re too drunk and you’ll cut yourself. We can get it tomorrow.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “And you don’t think you’re good mom material. I think it’s there, you just hide it under all that blond.”
As if that didn’t have me speechless, he chose that moment to stand up. Riley sitting in underwear was bad enough. But when he rose in an unfurling of naked hotness, standing in front of me like every girl’s fantasy, my mouth went dry. I half expected water to suddenly drop from the ceiling and land on him for a perfect package of gorgeous wet skin and finish me off completely.
The Wicked Witch had nothing on me when it came to melting.
“Put some pants on,” I told him.
He pointed an unlit cigarette at me and grinned. “See? Right there. Mom. That was perfect.”
First he said I was like his little sister.
Now like a mother?
It was going from bad to worse.
Chapter Seven
I didn’t expect Riley to get out of bed before noon, but there he was, in the kitchen at nine on the nose, brewing coffee and looking sexy in all his hungover scruff. He had a beard growing and dark circles under his eyes, his hair spiked out in all directions, as he shuffled barefoot in a pair of ratty jeans. No shirt of course. I was starting to think I was going to have to buy him a pack of T-shirts for my own sanity.
“What’s up?” he said, his voice sounding like he’d spent the night swallowing rocks. He gave a wet cough that made my stomach turn.
I wasn’t feeling all that fabulous, and the phlegmy sounds he was making weren’t helping. “Hey.” Flopping in a chair, I debated what to eat.
“Want some coffee?”
“No, it’s too hot for coffee.”
“It’s good for a hangover though, of which I have one.” He leaned with his elbows on the counter and rubbed his forehead aggressively. “Did I really kill a fifth of Jack?”
“Except for what you threw against the door, which wasn’t that much. So yeah, basically.” I stood back up, deciding I needed to eat something sooner rather than later. Fishing a yogurt out of the fridge, I asked, “So you don’t remember anything?” I was disappointed by that. It felt like we’d shared some kind of moment of bonding, and as stupid and lame as it sounded, I didn’t want that to be gone.
“I remember everything. I was just trying to convince myself that I really wasn’t stupid enough to drink that much.”
“Oh. Hey, it happens.”
Riley poured himself a cup of coffee and basically drank it all in one gulp. “Shit, that’s good.” He shoved himself up off the counter. “So what are we doing today? You’re the brains behind this, I’m the brawn. Just tell me what to do.”
I wished.
But practically speaking, in terms of the house, I did have a plan. “I’m going to finish cleaning up the kitchen. I bought new knobs for the cabinets, and I have some things to hang. You’re going to hang them, because I have no clue how to do that. Then we’ll tear up the carpet in the living room.”
“Alright.” He closed his eyes for a second, like he was calling up fortification. Then he snapped them back open and stood up, slapping his hand on the counter. “Let’s do this. You get what you need, I’ll get my drill and a knife to cut the carpet.”
Apparently he kept his drill and a knife in his bedroom. That struck me as more than a little weird, but maybe it was a safety issue with Easton and Jayden around. “Why don’t you keep that in the garage?” I asked as I came out of my room with the bags from the store.
“Are you kidding me? It would be stolen in ten minutes. Have you been in the garage? The only thing in there is a lawn mower that doesn’t run because someone stole the starter off it, and those old busted plastic sleds.”
“There’s a broom in there, too.” I started opening the individual plastic bags with the new brushed-nickel knobs. The eighties colonial pulls were gross and needed to go. “I found it the other day.”
“I’m sure it was happy to see the light of day since no one has used that in about a decade.” Riley was cleaning up the glass from the broken bottle with his bare hands, squatting down in a way that made his jeans drag down.
I balled up the receipt from buying the knobs and threw it at him. My aim was surprisingly good, and it landed in his butt crack before bouncing back off. “Score,” I told him, amused. No matter how sexy the guy, plumber’s crack has a way of killing the heat level.
“Hey, are you objectifying my body?” he asked, not bothering to pull up his pants.
“Yes.” I started untwisting the existing knobs, surprised at how firmly they were on there. It took me five solid minutes to get one off.
“Try this,” Riley said, opening a cabinet and showing me the back of the screw. He held the drill up and pushed something and bam, like that, the screw retreated and the knob fall off the front of the cabinet.
“Tricky,” I told him. But when he handed me the drill I could barely hold it up, let alone line the tip up to the screw. When I finally got it, I pushed the button and the kickback startled me so that I jerked back, and nothing happened. “Hm.”
Riley just watched me attempt a second time, his eyebrows raised.
“Don’t judge me,” I said when the drill fell away again with zero effect on the screw. “I’ve never held a power tool in my life.”
“It’s not a table saw. It’s a hand drill.” But he took the drill back from me. “You do something else. I’ll take these off or we’ll still be here two hours from now.”
I started to stick my tongue out at him, then remembered what had happened the last time I’d done that. So while he made fast work of knob removal, I pulled out the Sharpie I’d bought, and I went to work on the kitchen table, covering up the swear words with paislies and curlicues. I didn’t want to destroy their odd message board of sorts, but I didn’t think the social worker wanted to read about dick sucking on the table where an eleven-year-old was eating his Cheerios. Then when I was done, I put a cookie jar in the shape of the Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo in the center of the table. Then I filled it with store-bought cookies.
Riley tossed the old knobs in the trash and lifted the lid, swiping a cookie. “Seriously? A cookie jar? This is the tits, Jess.”
“I guess that’s a positive thing?” I asked. “By the way, when these cookies run out, make Rory bake some more. I don’t do that.”
“So you’ve said.” He kissed the top of my head, getting crumbs in my hair. “We all have our role, babe.”
Mine, apparently, was to be his sister/mother. How in the hell did I get myself into that position? It was about as foreign to me as celibacy.
Since the kitchen was now gray, I wanted blue and yellow accents, so I had bought yellow canisters to hold flour and sugar and coffee, and after clearing every random thing that was cluttering the counter off it and shoving them in a cabinet, I arranged the containers. Then I set a pump with soap next to the sink and hung the blue and yellow towels on silver hooks that I made Riley drill into the wall. I set up a little coffee station with blue mugs and a yellow sugar bowl. Just getting rid of the weird stuff they had laying around—I mean, who needs a phone book and seventeen lighters?—it already looked better. With my accessories, it looked like while the kitchen was old, someone who gave a shit used it.
“Over a little. To the right. The right, Riley,” I said in
exasperation as he shifted the art I’d bought to the left, not the right. “Show me which hand is your right.”
“Fuck you,” was his opinion. But he did shift the piece to the right. He had already given his thoughts on the peace sign made out of license plates by calling it “weirdo hippie shit” but I actually thought it gave a cool pop of color to the room. Pop of color was to design what protein was to food—it was one of the basic food groups.
It was actually mine, something I’d bought at an art festival when I was thirteen and feeling the peace symbol. My mother had thought it was a hideous piece of trash, so I had boldly displayed it in my room all through high school and had brought it to school with me knowing if I left it behind, she would toss it in the trash. I didn’t want to hang it in my dorm room, but I wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons. When I looked at it, I felt thirteen again, in love with rainbow colors and glitter and patriotism. I had a plan then to visit all fifty states with my peace symbol and blog about it.
What happened to that kid? I wondered. When did I get cynical?
But then again, maybe I hadn’t, because here I was, hanging that peace sign on the wall of a house that was Easton’s safe haven.
“This is mine, you know,” I told him. “I bought this at an art festival for twenty bucks when I was thirteen. I’m letting you borrow it, gallery style. Some day I might want to take it back.”
“Mark where you want it hung,” he said. “My arms are killing me.”
Exasperated, I took a pencil and made a mark at the top where I wanted it hung. I was sorry I’d told him anything personal. “Fine. Here.”
“Jesus, thank you,” he sighed. He set it on the floor and reached for his drill. “You have good taste, you know. It looks awesome in here, I’m not going to lie.”
“What was that?” I asked, cupping my hand to my ear, pleased with the compliment. “I didn’t hear you over the sound of the drill and your large ego.”
He efficiently drilled a screw into the wall and hung the peace sign. “I said, you have good taste. See, I can admit it. No one would guess this is the same kitchen.”
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