by B. B. Hamel
My Brother’s Bad Best Friend
B. B. Hamel
Contents
Special Offer!
Prologue
1. Jonas
2. Lizzie
3. Jonas
4. Lizzie
5. Jonas
6. Lizzie
7. Jonas
8. Lizzie
9. Jonas
10. Lizzie
11. Jonas
12. Lizzie
13. Jonas
14. Lizzie
15. Jonas
16. Lizzie
17. Jonas
18. Lizzie
19. Jonas
20. Jonas
21. Lizzie
Thank You
His Amazing Baby Preview
Prologue
1. Riley
2. Aaron
3. Riley
Copyright © 2018 by B. B. Hamel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Photo by Oleksandr Zamuruiev/Shutterstock.com
Sign up for my mailing list and find out about new releases, giveaways, and more. Plus, get a free book and other awesome bonus material! Click here.
I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.
- Kim Addonizio, from “First Poem for You”
More turning me. Less your arms reaching
around my back. You ask my ear
where I have been and my body answers,
all over kingdom come.
- Amber Flora Thomas, from “Aubade”
Prologue
“You little fucking twat. You bring that shit into my house? My fucking house? You’ve been a goddamn burden on your mother for too fucking long now, you little shit, and you pull this? I’m going to break your smug little—”
I turn away from the scene in front of me, softly shutting the door. I can still hear Royal’s voice, grating like a fork down a chalkboard, anger tingeing every word. I step away from my brother’s room and head slowly down the steps before pausing halfway as Royal’s voice gets even louder. There’s a crash, and for a second I’m suspended in the air, my breath stuck in my lungs as I fall through the clouds. Terror rings all around me, but I don’t know why I can’t move.
It’s not like this is the first time that fucking asshole yelled.
“It’s almost funny.”
A new voice pulls me back to earth. I frown and slowly turn my head to find Jonas Larsen leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, his shaggy hair falling down into his face, his baggy hoodie slightly askew like he was just in a scuffle. He looks up at me, a smile on his thick, full lips, and he raises a perfect eyebrow.
“I mean, the guy’s practically always drunk. And he’s pissed about a little weed?” Jonas snorts. “What a prick.”
“Yeah,” I manage to say. Jonas makes a little motion with his head and pushes up off the wall, walking toward the kitchen. I follow him like there’s a tether wrapped around my waist. He’s magnetic, especially now, when I’m so afraid for my brother that I want to cry.
Instead, I sit down across from Jonas at the kitchen island as he rummages through the refrigerator.
“You guys have this big fucking kitchen and there’s nothing to eat,” he grumbles, and pulls out a bottle of kombucha. “Like, what the fuck is this?”
I laugh a little bit despite myself. “Kombucha. My mom drinks it.”
He opens it and sniffs. “Smells like feet.”
“Yeah,” I agree, not sure what else to say. This is the most I’ve ever spoken to Jonas, my brother’s best friend. He’s been floating in and out of my life for a few years now, and I know a million stories about him. I know about the time he broke into the janitor’s closet in high school and spilled a can of white paint in the middle of the gym to protest the school spending more on basketball than books. I know about the time he slept with a teacher, and about the time he went to jail for a few months for possession. I know about the drug dealing and the partying and the fights. He and his skater friends are pretty notorious around San Diego, and I’ve always been a little afraid of him.
Ezra says he’s harmless, but I don’t know. He’s standing in front of me, rummaging through the cabinets with a scowl on his face, and I still think he’s the most terrifying guy I’ve ever met.
He’s also the most interesting, which is the reason I’m sitting down here instead of up listening to Royal scream at Ezra again.
“Bingo,” Jonas says, pulling out a jar of peanut butter. A second later, he finds a bag of wheat bread. “Close enough,” he grumbles as he pulls out a plate and a knife. “Although this should be white.”
“Mom says that’s basically just sugar loaf.”
“It is,” he agrees, and holds up the peanut butter. “What do you think Jif is, though?”
I shrug. “Peanuts are healthy.”
“Not when they’re covered in sugar.” He takes a huge glob and spreads it over a piece of bread. “Usually I’d toast this, but I don’t think we have time.”
“Time?” I echo, not really sure what he means.
He glances up at me, still frowning, but his expression softens a bit. “Nothing,” he mumbles, and goes back to making the sandwich.
I sit there and watch him as he works. Jonas the drug dealer, Jonas the skater, Jonas the menace. He’s handsome in a way that’s hard to explain, with almost severe high cheekbones, light brown hair, and gray-blue eyes the color of morning ocean. He catches me staring but he doesn’t say anything as he finishes up and presses the top slice onto the bottom, squishing the peanut butter just a little bit.
“Here,” he says, sliding the plate across the island to me.
I stare down at the sandwich sitting in front of me. “Thanks,” I say.
I pick it up. I’m not hungry. I really just want to leave here, go plug my ears up, maybe cry for an hour. I want to know where mom is right now, and why she lets Royal do this to Ezra. Whenever I ask, she just shakes her head.
”He’s a boy and he’s five years older, he gets treated different.
I’d believe her if it were true.
I lift the sandwich to my mouth and take a bite. I chew and swallow, practically on autopilot, but it’s good. I take another bite and Jonas leans toward me, eyes serious and searching for something.
“Listen kid, your brother can handle it, okay?” he says suddenly.
I’m too surprised to respond. I just keep chewing as he looks at me again.
“He can handle it, okay? Whatever it is. Your stepdad’s a fucking asshole, but your brother’s a good guy. Don’t forget it.”
I finally finish chewing and swallow. “I know,” I say.
“Good.” He nods once. He’s twenty years old, but to me, he’s ageless. Timeless. For a while, this is how I think about Jonas, even if I see him around every so often.
I think about him in my kitchen, trying to console me and doing a shitty job, but trying anyway.
He stands up straight and looks past me. I turn around in my seat as Ezra walks toward us, his face clouded by anger, his eye swollen and angry-red.
“He hit you?” Jonas asks, sounding almost bored.
“Yep.” Ezra hefts a bag onto the island. “We’re going.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah,” Jonas grunts.
“Wait a second.” I stand up as Jonas comes around the island and joins Ezra. The two guys start walking toward the front door. Jonas takes Ezra’s bag almost as an afterthought, something else I can’t stop thinking about. Why take his bag, why carry it for him?
Maybe he just wanted to share the weight.
Jonas pushes open the door and steps outside as Ezra turns to me. He forces a smile, pushes past the anger and pain.
“I’ll be okay, Lizzie,” he says. “Tell mom I’m not coming back this time.” He hesitates a second, eyes looking past me toward the stairs where I know our stepfather is standing and watching this. Ezra looks back at me and lowers his voice. “If he hits you, tell me and I’ll come get you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
He steps closer. “Don’t let him touch you, Lizzie.” His voice is low and harsh.
“I won’t.”
He nods and pulls me in for a one-armed awkward hug. We don’t hug, we never hug. He treats me like an annoying puppy most of the time, but for the first time in my life, I think he can actually see me.
The moment is ruined when Royal’s harsh voice cuts across the room. “You’re done, Ezra. You’re out of here.”
“I know,” Ezra says, and leaves our house forever.
I catch one more glimpse of Jonas. He hefts Ezra’s bag into the back of his old, beat-up Jeep. He glances back at me and nods, one eye gleaming through his shaggy brown hair.
They climb into the car and drive off as Royal tells me to get the fuck back inside or I’m next.
1
Jonas
In all my years selling weed, I never thought I’d actually make a living from the fucking stuff.
I glance over my shoulder, feeling a little paranoid, although Big John’s standing guard outside just in case. I turn back to the safe and rotate the dial between my fingers, flicking over the six-digit combination by rote feel. The lock clicks as I rotate the handle and pull the heavy steel door open, revealing stacks of fucking cash.
I smile to myself. This part never, ever gets old. It’s loosely arranged by denomination, with big notes on top and low ones on the bottom. We try to convert as many singles, five, tens, and twenties into hundreds as possible but my guy at the bank’s been a pain in the ass lately, so we’re flush with petty bills.
I reach in and grab a stack of twenties, counting out eight hundred as fast as I can. As much as I love staring at all this cash, over fifty grand all told, it still drives me insane. The weed game is a cash business, and cash businesses are prone to robbery. I’d rather keep all this shit in the bank, maybe invest some of it, but technically weed is still illegal in the good old USA. Here in California, we’re a little more enlightened. We know a little dope never hurt anyone, but hey, the world’s catching up with us.
I slam the door shut and lock it again, instantly feeling better. I slip the cash into my jeans and push open my office door. “All good.”
Big John nods at me. He’s tall and beefy, the kind of guy that placed lineman in high school but wasn’t fast enough to go play in college. He’s a nice enough dude, quiet in that intimidating kind of way, but I know better than to fuck with Big John. I once watched John smash this guy’s face against a curb for, and I quote here, “judging the way I drink my damn soda pop, motherfucker.”
Of course, those insane violent tendencies make him a great security guard, but those same tendencies make me very careful around the big man.
“Head on up front if you don’t mind,” I tell him. “I think Lane’s alone up there.”
“’Kay,” he grunts at me and lumbers off down the hall.
I sigh and crack my neck, a bad habit. Marvin comes scurrying out from storage, arms full of product. He gives me a little grin. “Hi, Jonas.”
“Marvin, that better be for a big order,” I call after him.
“Sure, whatever!” He disappears around a corner. He’s a short guy, skinny as hell, with a rat-like face. He’s an ass kisser, but I like him anyway.
I sigh and head in the opposite direction. The smell of coffee and weed lingers heavy as I pass by the door that leads into the shopfront. We sell lattes and vape pens here at Half Pipe, and sometimes I’m not sure which is the drug and which is the perfectly legal stimulant. I’ve seen way more people tweaked up and going fucking nuts off drinking too much espresso than I’ve seen anyone wrecked by a little pot.
I roll past, not wanting to get bogged down with all that. I push open the heavy doors and step out into the bright, sunny California day, shielding my eyes for a second before I spot a group of guys in skinny jeans and sneakers holding skateboards and smoking a skinny blunt.
I roll over to them, a scowl on my face. One guy looks up as I approach, a short, compact dude with dark skin, a patchy little goatee, and crooked teeth. He cocks his head and passes the blunt, smoke curling from his lips.
“How many fucking times do I have to tell you idiots?” I say as I approach.
Don’s face doesn’t betray anything as the last of the smoke leads his mouth. “What’s that, boss?”
“Quit smoking weed out front. Y’all look like fucking hoodlums.”
“We are hoodlums,” this skinny, tall dude with bright eyes says.
“You don’t have to look the part.” I snatch the blunt from his fingers, too fast for him to pull away, and suck in a nice hit. I let it out as I hand it back to Don, who laughs and stubs it out.
The skinny guy, this kid named Vinny, scowls at me. “I don’t get what the problem is. You’re a fucking weed place, man.”
“I know what we are,” I say to the kid. He’s barely eighteen, with acne scars on one cheek and a nasty black eye from falling while trying to land a ten-stair kickflip a couple days ago. “But weed’s legal now, so we have to try and act like it. I mean, shit, half my customers are soccer moms and bored dads. I don’t want you idiots scaring them away.”
“No problem,” Don says, nodding and grinning the way he does. “We got you, boss.”
I let out a sigh. It’s hard to be pissed at Don, considering he’s the future of this whole fucking town.
I take out that stack of twenties and thrust them at him. His eyes go a little wide. “For a camera,” I say.
“Why?”
“Heard Shrink dropped one.”
Don frowns a little and glances at Vinny. Clearly I wasn’t supposed to hear about it.
“I’m not mad,” I add. “Just buy a new camera. I get that shit happens. Tell Shrink if he breaks another one, he’s paying for it.”
Don’s grin comes back and he takes the money. “Yeah, boss, I got you.”
“Good.” I take a breath and let it out. “Decent day. You trying the ten gap again, Vinny?”
“Fuck yeah, I am,” he says, nodding, his eyes a little blazed.
“Good.” I look back at Don. “Make sure you hit it too, and get it on fucking tape.”
“Sure, okay. I got you.”
I sigh again and nod, knocking him on the shoulder. That’s pretty much all Don ever says, but it’s all he needs to say.
The guy’s a five-foot-four Vietnamese kid, nineteen as of last week, and he’s the best damn skater in the whole fucking state. He’s fearless with foot skills I’ve never seen before and the ability to get up on railings most guys wouldn’t even bother with. I once watched him hold a manual for five minutes, his front wheels in the air as he balanced himself perfectly, guiding the board down hills and around obstacles.
I turn away from the two kids and head back toward Half Pipe. I’ve been trying to get a decent video of Don for months now, but every time we get some footage, something goes wrong. Either they don’t get Don doing some amazing trick, or someone drops a camera, or Don gets hurt and can’t ride for a few weeks. I’ve only managed to put up a few short clips on YouTube, which are getting a lot of love, but he deserves better.
As I head back inside, something catches my eye. It’s a body, huddled up agains
t the side wall of the Half Pipe, a duffel bag at its feet. I step around the corner, ready to tell the bum to fuck off, but my anger dies in my throat.
The girl looks up at me with beautiful green eyes, her thick raven hair spilling down along her shoulders. Her lips are full and frowning as I notice the bruise.
Black, I think as she cocks her head at me.
“Lizzie?”
Her frowns changes into a slight smile. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”
Of course I would, I want to say, but I swallow that. Of course I’d recognize the fucking gorgeous little sister of my best friend. The last time I saw her was almost two years ago, her gorgeous, tight little ass practically shining in the high afternoon sun. Ezra told me to stop staring, we were just there to say hey. She rolled over onto her back and arched an eyebrow at me, her friends all pretending like they didn’t recognize me. Ezra bent down and said something to her, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy staring at her, trying to figure out how Ezra’s awkwardly pretty little sister turned into that gorgeous fucking woman.
That was two years ago. I was twenty-three and she was eighteen. I heard about the accident, happened not long after I saw her. She hasn’t been around since.
“I recognize you,” I finally say. “You waiting for Ezra?”
She nods a little. “Yeah. He said… I could call.”
I stare at her and she falters under my gaze, hugging her knees a little tighter against her chest. The memory of the day Ezra got kicked out of his house comes back at me. She was just fifteen the day her asshole stepfather Royal punched Ezra in the face and slammed his head against the wall. That was the day Ezra left and never looked back, and I went with him. He told her that if he ever touched her, she could come to him, or at least that’s what he told me in the Jeep as we drove off.