by Susan Ward
I rake back my hair. Now my head feels like it’s going to explode just like my cock does. God, I need a way out of living with her, fast.
“But your explanation doesn’t make sense that, because she helped Eric in Houston after he was dumped in an alley by the people who were blackmailing him, they know who she is and might come after her, too.”
Alan’s eyes bore into me. “I don’t ask Carson to explain things to me and neither should you. I just do. He’s seen the family through a lot of bad times, he’s the one who delivered Eric safely where he needs to be, and he’s not let me down yet.”
My face heats from the sound of an Alan reprimand. Short. Clipped. Accent excessively British. Yep, I’ve pissed off my dad, somehow, someway; that’s his back-off voice. Fine, backing off.
“Whatever you say, Pop.” I study him for a moment, reminding myself that however unbearable this situation is on me it must be twice as hard on my folks. I shouldn’t give Alan a hard time. “Have you and Mom heard from Eric? Do you know if he’s all right?”
He stares out across the lawn, his face stripped of emotion and unreadable. “No, haven’t heard from him. He’s not back. That means he’s OK.”
Frowning, I struggle with understanding that one as much as I’ve struggled with everything since this began. “How can you be sure?”
“Graham Carson doesn’t fail. Not ever.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Ethan”
“We’re cool?” Hugh asks, slapping me on the back.
I take a sip of my beer to give me time to decide what the hell I’m feeling. The meeting with the guys went much as expected: Hugh the only one spewing, Linc and Taz watching us both to see how it ends, and me listening, saying nothing, and trying to figure out what the fuck I want to do.
The band for me is just like the worst kind of relationships I’ve known with girls. The kind I can’t make work and the kind I can’t make go away. Yep, like Tara…and Avery.
What I’m unsure of is if that means it’s something I want or something I should let go of. That part of the equation is never clear.
Do I want this?
Fuck, I don’t know.
We met on neutral territory—the shoddy rehearsal space we keep in Studio City—and it’s fucking hot, the ventilation system is piss poor, and all our gear is where we left it the last time we were in this space. All except for my brother’s. Someone packed up his gear—Hugh, probably—and seeing that almost made me walk out of here.
Then came the impossible to ignore absence of Avery. It wasn’t until I stepped through the door that I felt what it would mean not having her here and one of us. It’s different. Strange. Like an Indiana Jones movie without Marion.
I couldn’t stop from playing in my head the memory of her barging in six years ago to ask for a job, nor the hundred other snapshots of her here, there, doing something or doing nothing. When I looked at the couch against the wall, my first thought was “that’s where Avery sits while we jam.”
And like that, my emotions became strangling. My insides raced and my pulse ran with it, and I didn’t want to be here. That I didn’t leave shocked the hell out of me. And staying to hear Hugh out didn’t settle anything for me.
In fact, it shoved front and center in my face the more important changes in my life since the night at the Bowl and brought home that those were the things I wanted to be different, not being in the band with Hugh and the guys again.
My brother’s gone.
Avery’s gone as well.
And this place I’d come to know was nothing to me without either of them. A void on a road I didn’t want to be on.
For an hour, Hugh’s voice droned in apologies and grandiose promises from the label if I stayed, and the only thought turning in my head was what the fuck am I doing here?
I set down my beer and stand, shifting my gaze from the couch back to Hugh. “Yeah, we’re cool. I’m not sure what I want to do about the band yet, but the rest of the bullshit is in the rearview. We’re solid like we’ve always been.”
His fingers close around my shoulder to give me a shake. “You’re not quitting. I know you, E. We’ve worked too hard and you don’t ever quit anything. No matter what, we’re a band and always will be.”
“We’ll talk soon,” I reply, noncommittal, and move toward the door.
At the car, I find Dillon waiting, leaning against the hood, sipping a Coke. “We done?”
Without answering, I point for him to unlock the doors. Fucking security freak. Even standing with the car, he locks the damn doors.
“Where we going now?” he asks, scrunching the empty can and tossing it in a nearby trash can.
I shrug. “Can we just drive around for a while?”
“Sure. We can do anything you want.” He frowns, studying me from across the roof. “You doing OK, E? What happened? Is Black Dawn back together or did you bail?”
Bail? I don’t like how he phrased that. “Neither. I haven’t decided anything yet.”
He nods, his chin bobbing. “Nothing says you’ve gotta figure out things today.”
The problem is I want everything figured out right now.
I need everything absolute like it’d been two months ago. Now everything is up in the air—Eric, the band, Avery, and even Tara—and I can’t seem to get anything back to being good.
The car beeps and I climb in.
We drive for a while, then Dillon stares at me for several long seconds. “Did something happen at Tara’s today?”
I keep my gaze locked out the window. “No, man. Nothing. Why’d you ask me that?”
“You’ve been acting keyed-up since we left her house. You’ve gotta get past letting her fuck with your head. She’s Eric’s wife. Be happy she’s not yours and move on.”
My jaw clenches and I don’t look at him. “She’s not fucking with anything. And don’t talk to me about her that way again. You don’t know shit. Let it go.”
Another fifteen minutes pass without us speaking, and I’m not even sure where the hell we are. But who cares? I told him to drive. It doesn’t matter where we go. Everywhere seems to be the same for me these days: shit.
“Are you sure you’re OK, E? I’m sensing something from you I don’t like.”
Shit, why’s he asking me that again? “I’m great,” I say, wondering how the hell Dillon sees everything. “Just hot, tired, and ready for a beer.”
“A beer sounds good to me. Then maybe you’ll tell me what’s been bugging you since you left Tara’s.”
“Nothing to tell.”
He squints; the Dillon-not-buying-it expression. “You know what your problem is? You’ve not learned the value of talking things out before they become problems. You wing it alone and let shit fester and never get over anything.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I want talk to you about my life.”
“That’s fair. But don’t give me bullshit about everything being great when I can see that it’s not. We’re friends, you know. I’m here to help if you need it. And from where I’m sitting, you’ve got something heavy sitting on you, weighing you down.”
I roll my eyes at him, but the truth is I’ve felt like a fucking cement block has been lying on me since we pulled away from Eric’s house, but not over Tara as Dillon no doubt suspects.
The issue is Hana.
Every morning after breakfast, no matter what I call it—coffee with a girl, a date, hanging out—I go see Hana. I thought I was doing the right thing spending time with her each day. I thought it might help her not miss Eric, but today I realized it’s another mistake in the fucking long line of mistakes I’ve made.
We were just having our usual morning visit, lying on the backyard grass with her gibber-jabbering away, and my stomach dropped when I noticed she was twirling my hair around her fingers, tying me to her.
A gesture I’d seen a hundred times.
It shouldn’t have surprised me that she might confuse me with her dad, seeing
as we’re identical twins and she’s a little girl. But it freaked me out.
She’d never done that with me before, only with Eric, and it made me feel like a piece of shit. Like I’d invaded his turf and that his daughter might be turning me into a replacement for him.
Eric won’t be gone forever.
Even if he never came back it wouldn’t change reality.
He’s her father.
I’m not.
And Hana adores him.
Only the worst kind of bastard would try to come between that. And I have no right to foul this up for him, unintentional or otherwise. That made me wonder if I’d been doing that all along, overstepped with my brother’s family unknowingly, making things harder for him even before he skipped town.
That’s when all the shit Kaley’s yapped at me started to make sense. How my always being so involved with Tara and Hana wasn’t a good thing. And for the first time I got what she’d been telling me, that it was time to put some distance between me and Eric’s family.
I couldn’t let myself become Hana and Tara’s substitute for him. Worse, I haven’t a clue how to fix the damage I’ve already done or how to step back.
And I’ve no one to blame for this but me.
That’s when the cement truck parked on my chest. When I realized Eric doesn’t own every broken thing in my life.
I own this.
My screwup, not his.
And with that came more truth I hadn’t let myself admit. It isn’t only Eric’s fault my life is in the same shit pit as his. Each decision that brought me there I made.
After Eric married Tara I could have taken off back to school, gone on with my life as planned, but I didn’t. I stayed and told myself someone needed to watch out for her and hold my brother together for her sake.
I could have let the band self-destruct months ago, but I held the guys together and told myself I did it for Eric.
I could have tried to get something going with Avery long before Eric did, but I convinced myself it wasn’t right and by staying away I was helping to save her from him.
I don’t know how it happened, but our lives are some sort of weird interlocked yin and yang. Everything the same. How we look, down to how we wear our hair. The band. Our friends. Avery. Tara and Hana.
Down to the ugly reality: we’re both fuckups.
I just wear my suckiness better.
And the truth I’ve refused to let into my head is that no one can make you a fuckup unless you’re willing.
That’s what Grandpa Jack always used to say to us.
Right before he’d tell us, “Don’t be a fuckup.”
But that part I missed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Avery”
I spring from the icy cold floor in the nick of time to vomit into the sink. Spasm after spasm shakes my body, then I breathe hard, wait, and cup my hand to bring some water to my mouth and rinse.
“Give me another one,” I mumble through heavy panting spurts of air.
Khloe stares up at me from her spot sitting against the bathroom vanity. “You’ve done six. They’re all the same. Another one isn’t going to change a thing.”
“But they’ve gotta be wrong. Defective. This isn’t possible. I’ve only had sex once in a year.”
One black brow inches upward, making me cringe. Khloe and I are good friends now, but part of that is knowing to expect anything from her mouth. “Once is enough. So are six pregnancy sticks. Six blue lines. They can’t all be defective. Face it, Avery, you’re pregnant.”
My lower lip quivers as tears burn my eyes. “But I don’t want to be pregnant.”
Pouting, Khloe grabs my arm, pulling me down beside her on the floor. “Famous last words of every girl ever knocked up when the guy who did it is behaving like a jerkwad.” She slips an arm around me. “But after the panic stops, hopefully she lets herself think things through before she decides what she’s going to do. Your body, Avery. Your choice. Ethan’s choice ended when he climbed into bed with you. That’s sacred family dogma we live by here. Whatever you decide, the family will support you.”
My head wobbles on her shoulder. “What am I going to do?”
“Hell if I know. What we’re not going to do is have you pee on another stick. I forbid it. There’s probably not anything left in your bladder anyway. You don’t want to be preggers and dehydrated, too. I doubt it’d be your best look.”
Groggy laughter pushes from my lips. This isn’t funny, but Khloe’s quirky, spunky attitude takes the edge off everything. And she’s right. Another stick test isn’t changing a thing.
“How’d you get to be so smart at twenty?”
She smiles. “Who says I am? Maybe I just have more experience with men who are assholes and making mistakes than you do.”
My brows hitch up. “Is that so? What don’t I know?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Nothing I’m going to tell you or anyone. Khloe’s dogma is: my secrets stay secrets. Do you ever hear me running my mouth about me?”
With my fingertips, I brush the tears from beneath my eyes. “What should I do now? Should I tell him or wait until I’ve figured out what I want to do?”
Khloe gathers up the neat line of stick tests beside her leg. “I don’t know.” Her nose crinkles. “But it might be wise to calm down a bit before you hit this head on.”
My brows furrow as I search her face. “So you’re saying wait?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m saying take it how it goes.”
She opens the cabinet, tosses the tests into the trash, then springs to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go gorge on ice cream or something. We can watch a movie together and just chill tonight. Would you like that?”
I nod, feeling calmer, but before we’re down the hallway I groan. “Oh God, my dads are going to kill me. They’re always lecturing me about how I’m too footloose and fancy free. That it’s more important for girls than guys to have a life plan. They think I live a more exciting life on the road than I do. They are going to kill me when I tell them this.”
Her hands swipe at my fresh tears. “Shush. No, they won’t. Gay men don’t kill.”
I rebuke her with my eyes, but I know she’s trying to make me laugh. “My sister Emmy will.”
Khloe’s dainty eyebrows pucker. “Yeah, sisters are different.”
Two hours later, we’re curled up beneath fluffy blankets on the incredible leather recliner chairs they have in the in-house theater, down a half gallon of ice cream, halfway through Gone with the Wind since Khloe’s a classic film buff, and I’m feeling more steady.
If one had to have an unforeseen catastrophe—and being pregnant by Ethan qualifies for that, I think—this was the house to have it in. Nothing seems to rock any of them, and for all her outward flightiness, Khloe is about as level-headed a girl as I’ve ever known. Not exactly a feminist, but she does have her shit together.
She didn’t say it—we’ll get through this together, Avery—but she didn’t have to. There’s no mistaking friendship isn’t a fickle thing with her. Even when fifty percent of my issue involves her brother, Khloe’s come through better for me than I expect Emmy would.
It makes it baffling Eric turned out the way he did, and all the more baffling that Ethan’s behaving the way he is. And while I’m sure there are things outsiders can’t see, what anyone should be able to see is there’s a great deal of love within this family.
The rear theater door opens, causing me to look over my shoulder, and my heart stops. Ethan. Running into him in the house was the last thing I expected tonight, and for a second my eyes narrow on Khloe, wondering if she’s gone behind my back to text her brother and order him here.
Yep, that sounds like Khloe.
Damn it, why did I trust she wouldn’t meddle?
Listening to his footsteps, I nudge her with an arm. The spoon in her hand stops midway to her mouth and her eyes, which were locked on the screen, shift to me.
Subtly, I nod in the di
rection where I think Ethan’s taken a recliner a few feet away, one row behind us. Covertly, she looks, then her eyes widen and her lips curl downward as she shrugs.
“You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” I whisper into her ear.
“No. I wouldn’t. I don’t know what he’s doing here. None of the family come in here when I pick the movies.”
I tuck my lower lip in and press my mouth closed hard as I try to rein in my emotion to prevent from acting like a fool. Really, it’s humiliating and pitiful that it’s hard to stay in my recliner because after the weeks of his indifference, no girl should jump on the tiniest tidbit of nothing from a guy and make the first move.
It might not mean anything that he’s here. He might just be bored. I peek over my shoulder, and my eyes flare wide.
My senses hone in on him, my insides turn to mush, and I can’t drag my gaze away even though I know I should. Everything about him feels different. Jeez, he even looks different.
His gorgeous golden blond hair’s gone. Well, most of it. Cut razor short with a touch left long on top. His expression is intense in a way I’ve never seen before, like something’s ripping at his insides and his thoughts are a thousand miles away. His eyes are locked straight forward watching the movie.
Seeing him this way makes me ache, because there was a time I never didn’t know what was going on with him or wasn’t his friend when he needed one. Strange, but that’s how he looks: like he needs a friend.
It makes the temptation to go to him almost impossible to hold in check. Then I roll my eyes at myself inside my head. It’s dumb to think he’s come into the theater because of me. He’s made it abundantly clear for weeks I’m the last person he wants near him. Christ, I could count on the digits of a single hand how many times we’ve even been in a room together. He’s kept himself expertly distant from me.
“What do I do?”
Khloe chides me with her eyes, lifting her button nose. “Ignore him. Watch the movie. You try to get out of that chair, I’ll sit on you. If he wants to talk to you, he’s going to have to man up and initiate it himself.”