My Brother's Bad Best Friend

by B. B. Hamel

  And now here she is, black eye and a duffel bag.

  Fucking shit.

  “Come on,” I say, bending over to grab her bag.

  Her hand shoots out. It latches on to my wrist and pushes it away. I’m surprised as she leans forward defensively snatching her bag and getting to her feet.

  “I’m fine,” she says quickly, slinging the strap over her shoulder.

  I hesitate a second. I was just trying to be nice, but I can see the hint of wildness in her eyes, the fear and the anger, and a little bit of something else. Something wounded, something broken.

  I decide to let it go. “Come on,” I say again, leading her inside.

  I set her up in the front shop and tell Lane to make her whatever she wants. “Aye, aye,” Lane says, the tiny blonde girl saluting me like a sailor.

  “Be nice to her,” I warn. “That’s Ezra’s sister.”

  Lane pauses. “Seriously?” she asks.

  “Seriously. See the resemblance?”

  “Not at all.”

  I grin at her. Where Ezra’s tall, blond, and muscular, Lizzie is thin, pale, and dark.

  “Different dads,” I say. “Now be nice.”

  “Got it.” She sucks in a breath. “Hell of a shiner.”

  “Be nice,” I say again, walking away, back toward the office. Half Pipe is split into two halves: the front is a coffee shop, and the back is a weed distributor. My office is right in the middle, between the two halves. I push open the “Employees Only” door and shut it behind me, sighing as I sit down in my chair.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at it for a second. I know I need to call him, but something’s making me pause. Ezra’s been off lately, and I’m not so sure he has the ability to handle something like his broken little sister showing up at his weed place with a black eye. I’m afraid he’ll go fucking ballistic and risk losing everything we’ve built.

  Ezra’s my partner. We went into business, fifty-fifty, on the day he left home. We sold weed for the most part, back before it was legal, but we also got into the skate scene. Ezra’s good, almost good enough to go pro, but mostly he just got every skater in the San Diego area to buy their pot from us. Business boomed for years, and we managed to stash a ton of cash away for a rainy day.

  Then they legalized weed, and we decided to go legit. We took every single dollar we had, not even bothering to try and launder it, and opened up Half Pipe. That was six months ago, and so far we’re making more money than we could possibly deal with. That safe with fifty grand? Just one of five others like it, each packed with money.

  The look Lizzie gave me outside as she snatched her duffel away comes back to me, angry and haunted. She’s fucking beautiful, not at all like all the tanned, boring, perfect surfer girls that plague every goddamn California city, but I can’t think with my fucking cock right now. The girl needs her brother. The last thing she needs is my dumb ass, fucking her up even more than she already is.

  I dial his number and he answers on the third ring. “What up, man?”

  “Ezra, it’s your sister.”

  He hesitates. “Lizzie?”

  “Yeah,” I grunt, wondering if he has another sister.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She showed up with a packed bag and a black eye.”

  He’s quiet for a second. He knows what that means, better than anyone else.

  “I’ll be there soon,” he says finally. “I got some business, but I’ll be there soon.”

  I don’t bother asking what he means by “business.” He’s been doing a lot of business lately without me, and I’ve been turning a blind eye to it. I got enough on my plate with running Half Pipe and trying to get Don signed. I don’t need whatever insane scheme Ezra’s cooked up now.

  I remember the time when we were only seventeen and he found a box full of old dirty porn mags behind a dumpster. They were seventies rags, the sort of shit nobody was into anymore, big fat bushes and weird outfits, but he ripped all the good pictures out and tried selling them to local kids. He ended up getting caught and had to scuttle the whole damn box while running from a pissed off mom that threatened to tear his little pecker off.

  He’s always doing shit like that. Sometimes it works out, like with Half Pipe. But mostly he just gets people threatening to rip off his dick.

  “I’ll be there soon,” he repeats, and hangs up the phone.

  I sigh and toss my phone onto a stack of papers. I lean back in my chair and squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about Lizzie in the other room. I try not to picture her the way she was two years ago, fucking fit and gorgeous and looking so goddamn bored. I wanted to fuck a smile onto her, and I know I could. She’s probably never felt dick like mine, not from the douchebags she went out with in high school. She was too damn hot not to have the frat boys all over her, and I guess she was into it, judging by the morons she was with that day.

  But goddamn, she looked so out of place, somehow older and more refined. I wanted to pull her away and show her how to really have fun, but of course I didn’t. When Ezra was done with their conversation, we left, and I didn’t look back.

  Now she’s here, in the flesh. She looks just as beautiful as she did that day, but with an edge, like she might scream if you brush against her shoulder.

  I know she’s not my problem. Fuck, she doesn’t want me to be her problem. But she’s there in the other room and I keep thinking about that bored expression, and how fucking sexy it was.

  Doesn’t matter. That girl’s gone, and the girl in my shop’s totally off limits, at least for now. Let Ezra deal with her. I’ll be good, get some damn paperwork done.

  But as soon as I start trying to concentrate on budgets and shit, I get the distinct impression that this thing with Lizzie is very far from over.

  2

  Lizzie

  For two years, I’ve barely left my room, and now I’m sitting in a crowded coffee shop attached to a weed store waiting for the older brother I barely know to swoop in and rescue me.

  I feel pathetic. Maybe I am pathetic, I don’t know. I rub my right thigh instinctually, trying to knead out the pain I know will be there sooner or later. I can barely walk for ten minutes without limping, and I can’t go through a whole day without at least a little bit of pain.

  That’s been my life, ever since the accident, one painful day after another. It’s gotten easier, or maybe I’ve gotten better at tolerating it, I don’t know. Two years is a long time to live with suffering, but it’s amazing how quickly people can adapt to all sorts of atrocity.

  Even a pathetic, broken, wounded little bird like me. Those are the words Royal used, anyway, right before he punched me in the face, sneering like the drunk bastard he is.

  I have to clench the table to keep from crying out. I’m in public, I remind myself. I can’t freak out right now. Rein it in, Lizzie.

  The little blonde barista girl comes over to my table, leaning against the chair across from me. “You sure you don’t want anything, honey?” she asks, blinking and smiling real sweet. I detect a slight southern accent but I’m pretty sure she’s trying to get rid of it.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I say softly.

  “You just look tense, is all.” She hesitates then leans toward me, grinning. “I can get you something, you know, a little edible. Calm you right down.”

  I shake my head quickly. “No, really. I’m fine. I just want to see Ezra.

  “He’s coming,” she says, nodding. “But if you change your mind, let me know.” She hesitates a second. “Oh, and don’t mention the edible to him, okay? We’re not supposed to mix the two businesses. At least not openly.” She grins, winks, and goes back behind the counter again to take a guy in a three-piece suit’s order.

  I watch her move around, effortlessly filling a drink and taking change and smiling like nothing hurts at all. Meanwhile, here I am sitting in a chair, knees pulled up defensively, and I can’t even breathe without thinking I might pass out soon.

  P
athetic, wounded little bird.

  I look around the coffee shop, at the guys in the short shorts and long hair tied back into buns and I feel like I’ve missed ten years instead of just two. I rub my thigh absently again as Lane returns with a tea I didn’t ask for. “Just in case,” she says with a wink.

  I sigh. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I try and shield my black eye from her, but it’s impossible. I feel like people are staring at me, the girl that fell from the face of the earth, suddenly back and bruised all over again. I sip the tea, and it’s not half bad. I try to curl into myself, but it’s not possible.

  “You look like shit.”

  I glance up at Jonas. He hovers over my table, face impassive but intense, gray-blue morning oceans.

  “Thanks,” I say, glaring at him. “Like I didn’t know already.”

  He pulls out the chair and sits down. I didn’t ask him to sit but I guess it doesn’t matter. He owns this place, along with my brother, the guy I’ve barely spoken to since he left home five years ago.

  He made me a promise back then, a promise I’ve thought about over and over. Now I’m here to see if his promise meant anything, or if he’s as full of shit as my whole family is.

  Jonas stretches his legs and I can’t help but glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. I let my hair fall into my face, trying to hide how I’m staring, but I know I’m failing miserably. He’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in my life, even more attractive than he was back when we were younger. His hair’s short now, faded up along the sides and back but longer on top, combed aside haphazardly. Anyone else might look sloppy, but Jonas easily pulls it off.

  “Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

  I shake my head quickly. “Not at all.”

  “Good,” he grunts.

  “Did you just come over here to insult me or what?”

  “Came over to make sure you weren’t scaring away my customers.”

  I glare again, turning my face directly toward him. “I’m not scaring anyone. It’s just a black eye, okay?”

  “Not the black eye that concerns me.” He looks at his fingernails like he’s bored. “It’s that sad pony look you got.”

  “Sad pony?”

  He shrugs. “You know what I mean. Wounded bird, puppy dog eyes, whatever. You look like you’re about to cry or punch someone.”

  “Maybe both, if you keep this up.”

  He looks up at me, still not smiling, but his morning ocean eyes lock onto mine. “I’d rather you slapped me than cried, if I had a choice.”

  I don’t say anything for a second. I’m honestly not sure how to take that. I can’t tell if he just doesn’t feel like dealing with a crying girl, or if he doesn’t want to see me crying specifically. Doesn’t matter either way, to be honest. Jonas isn’t the kind of guy that’s going to make me feel better right now, and I think we both know it. That’s why he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

  And I can’t blame him. Who wants to have to deal with my crap? It’s the same, over and over again. Same mistakes, same tragedies. You’d think I’d learn, but no, I never learn. I’m a lot like my mom, I guess, more than I want to admit anyway.

  I can still see the way she looked at me, both disgusted and regretful. ”You think this is what I wanted?” she said to me. “You think I wanted to end up like this?”

  “It’s a mistake,” was all I needed to say, and the blowup started.

  Another fight, another black eye.

  “Okay then,” I say. “Lean forward.”

  A little hint of a smile. He leans toward me, scraggly, bearded face looming closer. “Go ahead, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  I want to do it. I want to feel that rough, handsome cheek, but he’s practically a stranger to me now. Besides, I’m not angry, not at him anyway. I look away from him and he pulls back, smile getting wider.

  “I thought you might do it for a second there,” he says.

  “I thought I might too. But we’re on your home turf, so.”

  “So you’d better be nice.”

  “I guess.” I sip my tea, letting the warm bitterness run down my throat and fill my stomach with something other than bile.

  “Ezra’s on the way,” he says. “You can hang out here as long as you want, eat or drink whatever you want. Except for the weed.”

  “I don’t smoke,” I say.

  “Good.” He smirks at me. “Shit’ll rot your brain.” He stands up and I watch as he walks away without another word.

  I turn back to my tea, wondering what the hell I’m going to do with Jonas Larsen, bad boy of San Diego, drug dealer scum, skater asshole, playboy, bastard.

  “What the fuck did he do to you?” Ezra’s in a strangely good mood as he pulls me to my feet and hugs me tight. I can’t remember the last time Ezra touched me, let alone hugged me.

  “It’s nothing,” I say to him.

  “Liar.” He sighs, holding me at arm’s length. “Royal?”

  I nod a little, not meeting his gaze.

  “This the first time?”

  I shake my head. “I deserved it sometimes.”

  He squeezes my shoulders, hard enough to make me wince. I look back at him and he’s angry now. “You never deserve to get hit, Lizzie. God damn it, what did that asshole do to you?”

  I want to explain that it wasn’t all Royal. I want to explain about Nathan, how he’d talk to me like I was a dog, how he’d offer to share me with his friends sometimes when he got drunk. He never did it, but he always sounded like he would. I want to explain about mom, all her plastic surgery, all her insanity, the string of affairs with younger men, the pills and the new acting career, but I don’t. I shouldn’t need to explain any of it, because he should’ve known it all already.

  I want to be angry at him, and I reach for it, but instead there’s just a hollow little nugget where my rage usually is.

  “Can I stay with you for a while?” I ask, meeting his gaze and changing the subject. My half-brother, five years older, practically a stranger.

  He hesitates. It’s hard to miss, that hesitation, and I know what it means. But he quickly recovers himself. “Of course you can,” he says, grinning big. “I wouldn’t let you go back to that house even if you wanted to.”

  “Thanks,” I say, managing to smile back. It’s so obvious that he doesn’t want me here, but I don’t care.

  He made a promise. I’m going to make him uphold it.

  “Come on,” he says, swooping me away from the table. He grabs my bag and hustles me out of the café, out into the parking lot. He drives this old, beat-up Corvette, probably from the eighties. It looks like it shouldn’t even work, but the engine starts right up as he hops in and I climb into the passenger seat. It’s black and sleek with a long front and only two seats. The headlights pop up though they look like they’re permanently rusted shut. He pulls out of his parking spot way too fast, throwing the car out into the fast lane as he speeds through traffic.

  I have to grip the seat and clench my jaw to keep from screaming as flashbacks to that night come tearing through my mind. They always do when someone drives too fast.

  “It’s a small place,” Ezra is saying over the music and the wind. His window’s down and he doesn’t look like he’s putting it back up. “Jonas and I share it, rent’s pretty cheap and it’s close to here, so we like it.” He swerves around another car almost casually, coming within inches of clipping the side. I feel like I might puke.

  “There’s a couch you can crash on,” he says. “I’d offer you my room, but, well, it’s a mess, and I have some, you know, dates coming around.”

  “That’s okay,” I manage to say. “Couch is good.”

  “Yeah, couch is good,” he echoes, nodding and smiling like he’s hearing that for the first time ever. “You can crash however long you need, and anything you want, just ask. I’ll take care of it.” He looks over at me and I want to scream at him to keep his eyes on the road. “I got y
ou, little sis. I’m glad you came to me.”

  “Thanks,” I say through clenched teeth.

  He practically flies into the parking lot of an old beat-up looking apartment complex. He parks and hops out. I stumble after him, my stomach in my throat. I want to puke but I keep it under control. If Ezra notices my discomfort, he doesn’t say anything about it.

  “So the code is 7482, just type it in and bang, you’re set.” The door unlocks and we head inside. Vinyl flooring, echoing walls, white and scuffed. “Up the stairs, around this corner, and we’re home.”

  He unlocks a boring-looking door at the end of the second-floor hallway and steps inside, pulling me along.

  It’s surprisingly not horrible. I think I expected a huge mess of a bachelor pad, since my brother and Jonas aren’t exactly known for their clean-living lifestyles, but it’s the total opposite of that. The apartment itself is way nicer and completely different from the apartment building’s hallways.

  The first thing that catches my eye are the plants. They’re everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, in giant pots in corners, on shelves and in buckets. The floors are gleaming cherry-red hardwood and the far wall is completely glass, opening out into a sunny little patio with large corrugated metal walls all around it. More plants are out in the courtyard, almost swamping it in completely.

  “Don’t mind the mess,” Ezra says, stepping into the space. He tosses his keys into a dish on a table against the wall as I follow him inside.

  “What mess?” I manage to say, looking around with my eyes wide.

  “Fucking plants,” he says, grunting and waving his hand. “They’re everywhere.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and then catch myself. “They’re not yours?”

  “No,” he says, laughing a little. “Jonas likes that shit, not me.”