by Ava Lore
For a long few minutes we were both quiet, until Carter said suddenly, “Rebecca?”
I lifted my head and looked him in the eyes. He was smiling. “Yeah?”
“I'm going to write this next album for you.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
His grin grew. “The first album was loneliness. This one will be about vengeance.”
I sucked air between my teeth. “Really?” Then second thoughts swooped in. “No. No, that would be a bad idea.”
“Why? Get your revenge on him. I'll write it for you. It'll reach him and even if no one else knows about it, he'll know it's about him. It's my thanks for your help.”
“Help?” I snorted. “I don't feel like I've been helping you at all.”
“Well, I'm not good at accepting help, let's just put it that way. Let me do this. It's a perfect counterpoint to the first album. Vengeance. Something cruel and really wicked. Ooooh, I'm getting tingles. Hang on, I have to write something...”
He leaped up and grabbed his guitar, pulling it into his lap. His fingers danced over the strings, fiddled on the frets, and something dark and strange poured out.
“Yes,” he muttered. Leaning down, he grabbed his notebook and began to scribble in it before pausing and looking up. “Rebecca? Can you pass me a beer?” A casual question between friends and for a moment I tensed. Was he just doing this to get his hands on that alcohol?
No, stop it, I told myself. Just try to trust him. You can't change him unless he wants to. And one beer isn't going to kill him. We only have four left anyway. Three after I get to the next one. I broke one off from the six pack and handed it to him.
I felt as though my faith in him was validated when he took it and didn't even open it, just set it on the desk next to him, and returned to his scribbling. Then he picked up his guitar again and continued with the queer, haunting melody he'd begun.
If I hadn't met Kent first, I could have definitely gone all wet in my panties for Carter. The boy was a genius...
“What's going on in here?”
Both Carter and I nearly jumped out of our skin and whirled around to see Kent standing in the doorway, his arms crossed, his dark hair messed up and his blue-green eyes stormy.
Yeah, I thought as a sweet, slow pleasure oozed through me. If only I'd met a nice boy like Carter first. Which was saying something.
Carter glanced at me. His lips were pressed together, the skin around them white, clearly looking to me to defuse the situation. At first I didn't know what he was so concerned about—he was doing what Kent wanted, right?—but then I realized as I followed Kent's gaze to the unopened beer next to Carter.
I lifted my chin. “We're writing the new album,” I said. “Do you mind? Your negativity is screwing with our mojo.”
Kent's eyebrows shot up into his hair. “Oh?” he said. “You are helping?”
“I'm moral support,” I said. I met his gaze head on, and for a moment I thought about Jason. Jason pushed me around, bullied me, and told me I was crazy when I thought other people were starting to hold me distant. Kent threw his weight around, but I could never, in a million years, envision him telling me I was just nuts. He was straightforward. Honest. He came clean. He didn't let shit linger, and if shit was lingering you damn well knew it.
It's hard to stand up to a liar, because you never know where they're coming from. But an honest man? You can meet him head on, as long as you're honest, too.
The corners of his mouth twitched, as though he were hiding a smile.
“Fine,” he said. “I'll sleep with earplugs tonight.”
“It's not going to be that bad!” I said indignantly, but Carter chuckled, and Kent very nearly broke a grin.
“He means we're going to be up all night,” Carter said.
I hadn't signed on for that. I don't really believe in beauty sleep, but I sure do believe in anti-grumpy sleep. But if it helped, it helped. “Oh,” I said. “I'll just sit here and be the muse.”
“You do that,” Kent said. “And don't get too drunk.”
This parting shot was to both of us, but he turned and left before I could snap back at him.
“Who'd get drunk on three beers anyway?” Carter asked, rhetorically.
“Someone who doesn't drink ten beers a night?” I suggested.
He made a face at me. “Touché, my dear. Now watch and learn.”
So I did.
*
I woke up the next morning disoriented and confused, in a bed I didn't recognize. I panicked and sat bolt upright.
Still in his chair, Carter barely looked at me. He was still writing in his notebook, still plucking out melodies on his guitar.
Carter's room. Right. I'd just spent the night in Carter's bed. Wrong brother, idiot, my brain said. My brain is always surly in the mornings. I told it to shut up and let out a yawn. “How's it going?” I asked as I stretched my arms high above my head, feeling my whole spine crackle.
“Almost finished,” Carter said absently.
“With your song?” I asked.
“With the album,” he replied.
I stopped stretching. “What, the whole thing?”
“Yup.”
I couldn't think of anything to say to that except: “Wow.”
“It's pretty easy once you get going,” he said, as though writing a whole album's worth of songs was no big deal. I hadn't written even one song. I had problems writing birthday cards.
“Wow,” I said again. Then, because I wasn't sure he got it, I added: “Holy shit.”
“I think it's a winner,” he said. “I have thirteen songs, and twelve of them are about revenge.” He stopped scrawling in the notebook long enough to yawn.
“What's the last one about?”
He turned and gave me a wicked little smile. “That's for me to know and you to find out,” he said.
Argh. A surprise. I hated surprises.
My stomach growled and I ran my hands through my hair. “Shit,” I said. “You want something to eat?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Some cereal maybe?”
“Sure.” I stood up on shaky legs and began to totter towards the doorway.
“Wait.”
I stopped and turned to see him looking at me with a weird look on his face.
I raised my eyebrows, and he leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Did you know Kent has a thing for you?” he said at last.
The question was so abrupt and out of left field that my jaw dropped. My brain was still fuzzy with sleep and I had no idea how to answer the question. No was dishonest, and yes would invite too many questions that I didn't want to answer. I bit my lips and he gave me a sideways glance from the corner of his eye.
“You're blushing,” he said. Then his eyes flew wide and he sat bolt upright. “Holy shit,” he said. “You've fucked him.”
“What? No!”
“Then why are you blushing?”
I couldn't think of anything off the top of my head and he made a face. “You have fucked him!”
“No, I haven't!” I said. “We just...”
He clapped his hands over his ears. “No! No, no, no, no, no. I don't want to know! I don't! And yuck. We can now no longer make out. Ever.”
I tried not to show how relieved I was, but it didn't work.
Carter's face fell. “Oh, come on. I'm not that bad at kissing.”
I shook my head. “No, you're not. I swear. But there's no... you know.”
“Yeah, I do know. No chemistry. That don't mean I'm not nursing a bruised ego over here.”
I gave him a sympathetic look. “I'm sorry. But you're more like a little brother. It's hard to act like a girlfriend to you.”
He blinked. “You think I'm like a little brother?”
I had to think about this. “Yes,” I said after a moment. “I feel like I should be looking out for you. Like, beyond the job requirements. I should be helping you, because you're...you know, you're really nice. You're a good guy, I can
tell. It sucks to watch you rip yourself up.”
He blinked again. “You think I'm a nice guy?”
I sniffed. “Don't fish for compliments, it's crass.”
“I'm not fishing. I'm such a shit. If I weren't I wouldn't be making life so hard for everyone.”
“You just have problems,” I said. “You're nice. If we'd just met, like if I was your bartender and you were my regular client, I'd still be trying to help you, even without getting paid.”
His face was almost slack with shock. “Well,” he said at last. “Isn't that something?”
I shrugged. “I guess? Your brother really cares, too. He really gives a shit about you.”
Carter made a pained face. “I don't want to talk about it.”
I held up my hands. “Fine. Fine. We won't talk about it, even though you wrung my romantic history out of me with a few beers.”
He tapped his head with his pen. “Yes, but that was for inspiration. No good can come of talking about brotherly crap.”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe with a therapist.”
“Not even then,” he said, and he seemed adamant, so I clammed up about it. “I'll go get your cereal, Mr. Tortured Genius.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Girlfriend,” he said, but when I came back with cereal in hand he was passed out in bed. His notebook lay open on the desk.
Twelve songs about revenge, and one that's not, I thought. One's a surprise. A whole album just for me.
I shook my head and backed out of the room, closing the door gently behind me. Kent's room was also closed, so I padded back to the kitchen and stuck the cereal in the refrigerator. It'd get soggy, but maybe he'd still want it later. Stifling another yawn, I shut the refrigerator door and turned.
Kent stood right behind me. He had a habit of doing that, it seemed.
“Oh, Jesus!” I jumped a foot in the air, but inside my body lit up at his proximity. He stared down at me as though he were trying to read my thoughts emblazoned across my forehead.
My breathing, already fast, picked up when he leaned forward and put both hands out, one on either side of my head, trapping me between his body and the refrigerator. I backed up until I couldn't move any further away. Then I locked my knees and tried to stare him down.
Might as well try to stare down a rattle snake.
“I hope you know what you're doing,” he said suddenly. “I don't like to see Carter drinking.”
I took a deep breath, and I noticed how his face tightened at the gesture, as though he were forcing himself to look me in the eye instead of gazing down at my chest.
“I don't,” I said. “But your way wasn't working. So I'm trying something new now.”
He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and worried it with his teeth, which made me melt a little bit, remembering how those lips and teeth felt on the tender flesh of my core.
I swallowed hard.
Kent stared down at me for another long, pregnant moment, then seemed to finally push himself away with great effort. “I hope that album is good,” he said. “For his sake.”
“What I heard was amazing,” I replied. “I don't know a lot about music, but it was beautiful.”
“It needs to be a hit,” he said.
“It will be.”
He stared at me for another long moment. “I hope you're right.”
He left the kitchen and it took me a long time to catch my breath.
Chapter Ten
The next week things changed significantly in the Casa de Hudson. Carter spent all his waking hours working on the next album, and Kent actually spent time at home. Sometimes they shut themselves up in Carter's bedroom, talking, plucking out notes on their instruments, jamming. I elected not to bother them, since I thought it was good that they were spending time together, even if it was just because they were both stressed to the eyeballs about churning out another hit album. I liked what I heard, anyway, and I was utterly dying to hear the lyrics to the haunting music filtering through the house. Carter, however, refused to even give me a hint. He just smiled enigmatically at me whenever I asked.
For four straight days, they didn't leave the house. Rehearsal was canceled. We ate take out that I picked up from down the street. I love Chinese food, but after the fourth straight day of cashew chicken I was starting to get a little sick of it and actually missed Carter's antics. At least his antics involved getting out of the house.
I spent the days idly cleaning the house, reading the books scattered around, and learning how to play football on the Playstation.
On the fifth day I woke up and found the house quiet.
It was a weird feeling. I hadn't been alone in a house for years. There had always been someone there, usually the rightful owner of the house. Actually, now that I thought about it, I was willing to bet that most of the people whose couches we were surfing on liked to stay home when I was home just to make sure I didn't steal their shit.
Fuck.
So being left alone in Carter and Kent's house was refreshing. And, strangely, I didn't mind.
I wandered from room to room until I came to the kitchen, where a note was hung on the refrigerator.
In the recording studio. Take a day off. —K.
I had to smile at that. I'd been having a day off for the past four days. With Carter confined to the house as he celebrated his own genius, I was essentially home free. He hadn't even drunk one of those Pabsts, by the way. I'd had them all. It was a true gentleman who got a lady drunk, let her fall asleep in his bed, and did nothing about it.
But now I had a car, money, and a day off.
I had no idea what to do.
When was the last time I'd had a day off? I couldn't even remember. I'd worked myself like a dog to keep Jason afloat. I was such an idiot. And now I'd landed here, somehow. I sure as hell didn't deserve it, but I was going to make the most of it anyway. I was grateful as fuck.
I took a long, leisurely shower, got dressed in a sundress, and left the house.
I drank coffee. I went to the library. I wandered down the boulevards. I looked at shoes in shop windows that I swear I might have been able to afford if I saved my money for a year or so. Without Carter, no one so much as looked at me. The day was sunny, and I felt so good it almost made me want to cry.
And then my phone rang.
I knew the ringtone. I'd been hearing it for years. It was just reflex to hop to and try to answer it. Not even thinking, I pulled it out of my purse, suddenly scared, and looked at the name on the screen, hoping it was all a mistake.
But it wasn't. It was the only name that could have destroyed my beautiful day.
Jason.
I hit ignore faster than a snake striking at a mouse. I stared at the screen, waiting for it to ring again. Instead, I got the ding of a message.
My guts turned cold. Should I listen?
I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't. So I didn't.
But I didn't erase it either.
Shoving my phone back in my purse, I turned around and walked back to where I'd parked the car. I got in it and drove home. For the rest of the day I played video game football, trying to distract myself.
My phone rang twice more while I played. Two more messages.
Kent and Carter didn't come home that night, and I crawled into bed at midnight, closed my eyes, and tried to sleep away the fear.
*
Just because Carter had written a new song didn't mean that the video was getting put off. It was still on, and the sudden phone calls from Jason did not make the knowledge that we were heading for San Diego any easier. I threw myself into cleaning the house, making sure everything was perfect and in place so that we would come home to a nice house instead of a mess.
But even with the cleaning binge, when I opened my eyes the morning of our departure I was filled with trepidation. Returning to my old stomping grounds was not going to be fun, not matter how I sliced it. San Diego was big, so it was unlikely anyone would know I would be there, but just seeing the old s
treets, smelling the old air, going down to the ocean, feeling it lap at my feet... I didn't know what I would do.
I didn't even know if I missed San Diego as a place, but as a time of my life...I was afraid of it. And the sudden calls from Jason were not helping.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I stared at the ceiling, watching the fan swirl around and around, and almost missed the sound of Kent's alarm going off. It was easy to miss sometimes because Kent would practically punch the poor thing before it let out barely a peep, but luckily I heard the smack of his hand on it.
My whole body lit up, and I strained to hear what was happening in the next room over the sudden pounding of my heart.
Now this was something I'd been missing the past week. Kent hadn't been sleeping on the same schedule as me, so I'd always been up before he woke for the day. Now he was back in bed, right where I liked to hear him.
If there was any way to forget my stupid Jason troubles, this was it.
In my head, I saw it happening, just like it did my first night in this house. Kent sprawled out in his messy sheets. Kent's dark hair spread out over his pillow. Kent reaching into his pj bottoms, pulling out his cock, thick and heavy with his morning wood. Just the thought of it made me lick my lips. My body woke up, my blood zipping through my veins and pooling between my legs as I let my hand wander down, down.
A grunt came through the wall and I had to stifle a moan as I began to stroke my clit with flattened fingers. I was already wet and slick, and my hand became a blur as Kent's grunts grew louder and louder.
My hips thrust into my hand, my arm a blur as the bed in the next room squeaked—his hips and mine danced alone, but in perfect time—and my body was coiling, wound tight and begging for release.
I closed my eyes and imagined Kent's hands on me, his shaft deep inside me, plumbing my depths, a swift in and out, his strokes hard and fast. He'd fuck the way he played the bass—relentless and driving, his rhythm taking over everything, pulling me under, until I sang just like an instrument in his hands.
In the next room, the headboard slammed into the wall, and in my mind's eye I saw spurts of white cum leaping out of his cock. In an ideal world, he'd be pumping it into me, hard and hot, filling me up until it overflowed—