Spite Club

by Julie Kriss

  “Because he just is. All right? He just is.”

  She seemed to think it over. “Not good enough,” she said. She held up the card again. “Either you take me to meet him, and show me whatever it is you’re hiding, or I’ll call him myself.”

  Damn it, she was fighting dirty again. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.” She put the card in her back pocket again. “I have his number. His email, too. I’ll just introduce myself. Should I say I’m your girlfriend? Yes, I think I will.”

  She had me, damn it. Because I had no doubt she would do it. I felt cold sweat on the back of my neck. Why it was so terrifying, I couldn’t really say. I just knew it was. “You sure you don’t want to go fuck instead?” I asked in a last-ditch effort.

  She gave me a little smile at that. A Mona Lisa smile. I could have jumped her for that smile alone. “Do this and I’m all yours,” she said.

  I groaned. Did I say she fought dirty? She fought fucking dirty. I reached behind me and opened my passenger door. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it. Get in.”

  Twenty-Two

  Evie

  We drove for a while in silence, and when we got to the edge of the suburbs, Nick pulled in to the parking lot of a strip mall and took out his phone. “I have to text him,” he said. “Andrew doesn’t like surprises.”

  He flipped through his phone, keyed a few words. Fuck, he was good-looking. It was ridiculous. Wearing one of his worn t-shirts, this one dark green, a black ball cap on his head, pulled down halfway over his eyes. Jeans with a hole in one knee. When he bent to his phone, I could only see the scruff of his jaw and his beautiful mouth. I wanted to lick the taut skin of his forearm and then jump him, hard. Come back to my place and fuck me. What kind of black magic words were those? Because I almost did it. He had no idea how close I came. How close I still was.

  He waited a second, rubbing his lower lip absently while my insides clenched, watching him. Be strong, Evie. Right. There was no point in just going back to his place and fucking his brains out all afternoon. That would be counterproductive. Right?

  The phone bonged a reply, and Nick put it down. “All right,” he said. “He wants to meet you. He says we can come.”

  I felt a little nervous at that. Were we meeting the Pope? For the first time, it occurred to me that Nick’s brother might have something wrong with him. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he had intellectual problems, or physical ones. Maybe he was mentally ill. In short, maybe Nick had good reason for keeping strangers away, and I was only intruding by insisting I had a right to barge in.

  But it was too late now, and besides, Nick had agreed—and so had Andrew. So I sat quiet while he drove the rest of the way, through a suburb that looked a lot like Mom’s. “Is there anything I should know?” I asked finally.

  “Sure,” Nick said. “He’s grumpy and sort of an asshole.”

  “So he’s like you then, except you’re totally an asshole.”

  He grunted. “You’ll see.”

  We pulled into a driveway, and I saw the telltale ramp that led up to the porch instead of stairs. Oh, shit. Maybe I was the asshole here.

  “My mother isn’t mad at you anymore,” I said when he put his hand on the door handle.

  Nick looked at me. “What?”

  “After you left, I told her that you were a jerk, but you were right. She does make me feel bad. Trish, too. We had it out. She ended up listening. We’ve talked on the phone a few times.” I shrugged. “Things are going to be okay, I think.”

  His gaze on me was hard. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I thought you should know. That’s why I was texting you.” I put my hand on my own door handle. “Let’s go.”

  He led me to the porch, where he waved at a security camera and there was a buzz in response. He opened the front door and brought me in to a house like a million others, except not. Where the living room should be was a room full of computers and screens, and in the middle of it was Nick’s brother.

  I was surprised again. The ramp had made me think I was going to see someone helpless and sick, but that was an assumption. A stupid, clueless one. Andrew Mason was in a wheelchair, but he was good-looking and vital and strong. He had turned his chair to face the living room doorway so he could watch us come in. He was wearing a faded Hornets sweatshirt, so worn it could have come from Nick’s own wardrobe, and jeans, with socks on his feet. His hands were folded in his lap, the fingers interlaced, as if he was making an attempt to look polite.

  But it was his face that struck me. He was Nick’s mirror image, except he was thinner and probably a few years older. His hair slightly darker, his jaw clean-shaven. But no one with eyes could mistake them for anything but brothers. It was like looking at Nick if his life had been different. I stood frozen for a second, shocked at the resemblance.

  Then Andrew smiled, a wide smile I’d never seen on Nick, and he looked like a different person. “It’s the redhead!” he said.

  I blinked.

  “Oh, shit,” Nick said behind my shoulder. “Here we go.”

  “The redhead?” I asked.

  Andrew unlaced his hands and held one out. “Andrew Mason,” he said. “Nick’s older brother and possibly his greatest nemesis. Nice to meet you.”

  “Evie Bates,” I said, shaking his hand. His was big and impossibly strong. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m really sorry to interrupt.”

  “Interrupt what?” Andrew looked around. “I’m not doing anything. Fucking around on the computer, like I always do. I think”—he pressed his hands together, like prayer, then pressed his fingertips against his chin thoughtfully—“yes. I think you are the best-looking woman who has ever entered this house. Donna who helps me on Thursdays is an attractive lady, but she’s been married for twenty-five years and she always wears Crocs. You have her beat on footwear alone.”

  I didn’t know if he was joking, or if I was supposed to laugh, so I said, “Thanks.”

  “Shit, have a seat,” Andrew said, turning in his chair and pushing a pile of papers and debris off an old sofa. “Do you want coffee? Nick will make you coffee.”

  “No coffee,” I said, lowering myself onto the sofa, which had clothes and a pair of old sneakers still piled onto the other half. This was definitely the den of a guy who lived alone. Nick’s condo was tidier than this, but not much. The similarities between the two brothers was amazing. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, I want coffee.” Andrew looked at Nick. “Nick, make coffee.”

  “Be nice, fuckwad,” Nick replied. “I didn’t bring her here for you to scare the shit out of her.”

  “Evie looks fine to me, dipshit,” Andrew replied. The insults weren’t sharp, but were spoken like everyday language. “Go make coffee or something.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Nick said, and left the room.

  It was weird. It was kind of funny, yet the tension was as thick as a steak. There was love between these two brothers, and insults, and something else unspoken. Something in the history between them that I didn’t know. Something that had to do with me, yet had nothing to do with me at all. I couldn’t make sense of it. But Andrew had obviously sent Nick out of the room for a reason, so I waited to see what it was.

  When Nick had gone, Andrew pressed his hands together again, pressing his fingertips to his chin. His expression softened, and it was only when I saw it that I realized his expression had been tense in the first place. When he spoke his voice was lowered, quiet and sincere. “He talks about you,” he said. “You’re the only woman he’s ever talked about.”

  I sat up straight, my stomach flipping. “What?” I nearly whispered it, like we were keeping a secret.

  “He’s never brought a girl here before,” Andrew said. “Never.” He sat back in his chair. “Let me guess. He hasn’t told you anything about me?”

  I shook my head.

  Andrew let his voice fall back into normal range, so Nick could probably hear it. “I’ll tell you what happened to me,”
he said, “since you’re probably wondering. People always do, though they’re too polite to ask. It’s why I don’t leave the house very much. I could, but what’s the point?”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything,” I said to him. “It’s none of my business.”

  “I disagree,” Andrew said. There was a bang from the kitchen, and Nick swore. Andrew flicked his gaze to the doorway, and for a second his look was fond and exasperated and so full of love I nearly got up and kissed him. Then he looked back at me and said, “I was in an accident five years ago. I was at a party, drunk. One of my buddies offered me a ride home. He was as drunk as I was, but I got in anyway.” He shrugged. “The rest is history.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. Then I winced. “Do I sound like a jerk? I sound like a jerk.”

  “You sound fine,” Andrew said. “It’s shitty. But my buddy died, and I didn’t. So technically I got the better deal.” Behind my shoulder, Nick came back into the room, and Andrew’s gaze flicked to him again before he looked back at me. “I’ll tell you the other thing people always wonder,” he said, “since you’re practically family and all. I can’t walk, but the equipment works, if you know what I mean.”

  Nick banged the mug down on the desk next to Andrew, then sat on the sofa next to me. “Welcome to my world,” he said. “You see why I didn’t bring you before?”

  “Just being honest,” Andrew said, a glint of humor in his eye. It was dizzying, watching the Mason brothers piss each other off. Nick sat with five inches between us, not touching me, his whole body stiff with tension, like someone had buzzed him with an electric shock. I’d never seen him like this before. I’d never known he could be like this. And I realized I was seeing a side of Nick Mason, of his life, that no other woman had ever seen, if Andrew was to be believed. It wasn’t Andrew that Nick had been hiding from me all this time, hiding from everyone he met. It was Nick himself. Who he was here. What this meant to him.

  There was only me to see it. Only me. And I didn’t know what that meant.

  “Okay, we got that out of the way,” Andrew said. “Evie, I hear you work in a bank. No, wait—you almost got fired from the bank. Right?”

  “That’s true,” I said. Funny, since that night at my mother’s I didn’t feel embarrassed about it anymore. Especially with these two. “I’m pretty much fired, because I threw a mug of tea at my ex-boyfriend when he said I was dressed like a slut.”

  Andrew took a second to close his eyes in happiness. “That story gives me total joy,” he said. “I like any woman who can whip a mug at a man’s head. Go on.”

  “There isn’t much else to say,” I said. “Except that I’m not going back.”

  Andrew opened his eyes again, and I could feel Nick looking at me, too. “No?” Andrew said.

  “No.” I hadn’t even thought it, hadn’t formed the words in my mind, but when I said them I felt the truth of them. I wasn’t going back there, to work with those people. To work with Josh. I decided right there on Andrew’s ratty sofa. I’d rather do nothing, and starve, than go back there.

  Except maybe I wouldn’t do nothing. I had the beginning of an idea.

  “Okay,” Andrew said. “You’re not going back to the stupid job where you have to work with the ex-boyfriend who screwed what’s-her-name. That sounds legit. Jobs are overrated anyway. I have plenty of money, and so does Nick. We can help you out if you need it. Just say the word.”

  I looked at Nick. He was watching me, but I couldn’t read his expression. “Sure,” he said. “Don’t sweat it, Evie. The rent’s paid for as long as you want.”

  I had that knee-jerk reaction: No way, I don’t need any help, I’ll be fine. But my savings weren’t endless, and no way was I going to Mom for money after I flunked out of college. So I said, “Thanks for the offer. I’ll be okay for a little while, I think.” Besides, if what I was thinking worked out, I might be able to figure it out. I wanted to try.

  I wanted to try doing things the way I wanted for once. Living my life the way I wanted. I was only beginning to figure out what that was.

  “I hate my job, too,” Andrew said, sipping his coffee. “I’m a programmer. Freelance.”

  “I know,” I said. “I found your business card in the pocket of a jacket I borrowed from Nick.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows went up. “What jacket?”

  “A jean jacket,” I said.

  “So that’s where that went.”

  “She’s keeping it,” Nick said. “You’re not getting it back.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Andrew said, “You’re right, she should keep it. Evie, it’s yours. It probably looks hot on you.”

  I shrugged. “I was wearing it when I got called a slut.”

  Andrew laughed, a real belly laugh that echoed around the room. Beside me, I felt Nick relax, his body practically transmitting to mine through the old sofa cushions.

  “I never pictured it,” Andrew said, his laugh winding down, “someone getting called a slut while wearing that jacket. I think that means I have good taste in clothes.”

  “It doesn’t,” Nick said.

  Andrew shook his head at him. “You’re just jealous because no one called you a slut. Anyway, I’m a good programmer, but it’s fucking boring. The other thing I’m good at is illustration.”

  Nick went tense beside me again. There were so many undercurrents to this conversation, I was starting to feel exhausted. “Andrew,” he said in a low voice, “don’t. Fucking don’t.”

  I looked from one brother to the other. Maybe Andrew illustrated something disgusting or violent. Or porn. “I’m not sure I want to know,” I said.

  “It’s not what you think,” Andrew said, catching the meaning of my worry. “It’s comics. They’re great. Good stories, great characters. It started as a hobby after my accident, but you know what? Lately I’ve been thinking I really like it. Like, a lot. I want to spend more of my time doing it instead of just a hobby. I’ve been thinking I could really make something if I committed myself, you know? Create something that matters. I think that would be worth it.”

  Nick sat back on the sofa and rubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus, please don’t,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about my brother,” Andrew said. “He’ll be fine. I can show you. Want to see?”

  Again I looked from one brother to the other. “You guys are making me crazy,” I said frankly. “What’s going on?”

  Nick dropped his hands. “What’s going on is that Andrew is going to show you his comics,” he said, his voice resigned. “Apparently.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked him. “Are they terrible?”

  “The drawings are great,” Nick said. “The stories are terrible.”

  “The stories are not terrible,” Andrew insisted. He had turned to one of his computers and was clicking. The screen behind his shoulder, facing me, woke up.

  “They are,” Nick insisted, which I thought was a little rude. He didn’t have to insult his brother’s creative work, after all. “It’s like an amateur wrote them. An amateur in kindergarten.”

  “Amateurs in kindergarten can write great things,” Andrew said calmly, flipping through some files on the desktop. “Especially if they believe in themselves.”

  I was going to ask another question, or maybe tell Nick he was being a jerk, when Andrew clicked an icon and a comic showed up on the screen. It was four panels, two on top and two on the bottom. The illustrations were awesome—some kind of devil-type man, with smoke trailing from his nostrils, holding a planet in the palm of his hand and grinning evilly at it. “My great experiment finally worked,” the character said in the panel. “I’ve split the atoms in tiny planet Pluto. Now the entire planet is a live nuclear bomb!”

  I got up from the sofa and walked to the screen, getting closer to read on.

  The next panel featured a pretty girl with dark-framed glasses staring at a laptop. “Lightning Man,” she said. “Get over here! The readouts I’m getting from
outer space are strange. The radiation levels are changing by the second. Something weird is going on!”

  The third panel showed a man leaning over the girl’s shoulder. He had longish hair, brushed back from his forehead and tucked behind his ears. Slashes of brows and a sharp chin. He was wearing all black, the effect a little sinister and very cool. Apparently, he was Lightning Man. “You’re right,” he said to the girl in glasses. “It is unusual. And I think I know what it is…”

  “You like it?”

  I turned. Andrew was watching me read, his hands laced in his lap again. He was grinning. Behind him, Nick sat on the sofa, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “It’s awesome,” I said to Andrew. “You made this? It looks amazing.” It did. It was cool and creative and beautifully drawn. “How much have you written?”

  “Good question. Let me think.” Andrew twisted in his chair and looked over his shoulder at his brother. “How much did you write, Nick?”

  I stared at Nick, who looked uncomfortable.

  “You wrote this?” I asked him.

  He didn’t meet my eyes, and then he did. He looked right at me. “Six volumes,” he said. “Ten issues per volume. So sixty issues of Lightning Man so far, give or take.”

  “Give or take,” Andrew agreed. “He writes them, I draw them.”

  This was amazing. I couldn’t take it in. “Do you publish them?”

  “You’re looking at it,” Andrew said. “This folder on my desktop. That’s where Lightning Man is published. That’s it.” He looked thoughtful. “In fact, you’re our first reader. Ever.”

  “But this is crazy,” I said. “You should publish them or something. Put them online.”

  Andrew looked at Nick again. “See, I told you. She agrees with me.”

  “No,” Nick said. “No fucking way.”

  I was still staring at him, trying to process the fact that Nick wrote comics, and apparently had been for years. “Why not?”

  “I told you, the stories are no good. You think I know how to write a fucking story? I don’t.”