by Nina Lane
Everything about the West house and family seemed perfect. Direct from the glossy pages of a magazine.
“What do you do, Olivia?” Joanna West asked me during dinner.
I glanced at Dean. “Er, I work in a coffeehouse. Jitter Beans. And I’m majoring in literature and library sciences.”
“Oh. How nice.” She smiled vaguely, and that was the end of that conversation.
“And what do your parents do?” Richard West asked.
“My father passed away years ago, and my mother is in travel,” I said. “This fish is delicious. Whatever did you put in the sauce?”
Later that night as Dean and I were getting ready for bed, I said, “I’m not sure they like me.”
“Doesn’t matter. I like you.” He kissed my forehead. “Don’t let them get to you, Liv. No one can meet their expectations.”
Including him. I knew that without needing to ask, but I still didn’t fully understand why. Dean West was the epitome of the perfect, successful son. Not even Joanna and Richard West could say a word against him.
Reminded me of me, I thought as I tucked myself against Dean in bed. I’d been the same way when I lived with Aunt Stella and Henry. Just in a far less prominent way.
I slept restlessly that first night, feeling out of place in the huge bed, waking at every sound the house made. Even the silence was strained, as if it were stretched tight.
The sky was just starting to lighten with dawn when I woke. The clock read five-forty. Dean’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets and covers rumpled. I crawled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash water on my face. I shrugged into my robe, finger-combing the tangles from my hair before heading downstairs. A rectangle of light came from the kitchen.
As I approached, the low rumble of male voices stopped me. My heart stuttered with a strange sense of foreboding.
“You fucked it up once, you’ll fuck it up again,” Dean hissed.
“Just because it’s not what you’d do,” another voice snapped. “Give me the goddamn money, and I’ll get out of here.”
“No.”
“Then welcome me home for Thanksgiving, brother.”
Archer. My breath stopped in my throat. The deadbeat brother had returned. Unable to stop myself, I peered around the kitchen door.
Dean stood with his back to me, clad in his running clothes, his shoulders rigid. Across from him was a tall, younger man with overlong, unkempt black hair and a sullen expression. Dressed in jeans and a dirty T-shirt beneath a worn leather jacket, he stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips in a stance of insolent defiance.
“You’re not staying here for the weekend,” Dean said.
“Aren’t I? Mom will love it. All of us together for the holidays.”
Dean’s hand shot out to grab the front of his brother’s T-shirt. “You little bastard.”
“Don’t fucking—” Archer stopped. His gaze jerked to me, pinning me to the spot. “Who the hell are you?”
Dean spun around. “Liv, what…”
“I… I couldn’t sleep. Must be the time change.” I pressed a hand to my chest and backed up a step. “I’m sorry.”
Archer looked from me to Dean and back again. Understanding dawned in his expression suddenly. He smiled.
Dean crossed the room and stopped beside me, putting a protective hand on my lower back.
“Hello.” Archer approached, his brow furrowing as he looked at me. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Archer West, Dean’s brother. And you’re Dean’s…?”
Yes, I’m Dean’s.
“Liv Winter,” I said.
“Liv.” He extended a hand.
Up close, Archer was handsome in a scruffy way, with thick eyelashes and a wide mouth. His features were smoother than Dean’s, almost pretty in the way his cheekbones sloped to his jaw, but his eyes contained a gleam that was unnerving at best.
I shook his hand, disliking the way his long fingers tightened around mine. As he drew his hand away, he slid a forefinger across my palm.
A shudder of revulsion raced through me. I pulled away and wiped my hand on my robe.
“Um, I’ll leave you to talk,” I said. “Sorry for the interruption.”
“No, stay,” Archer suggested. “Dean was just making coffee, right, bro?”
Dean shook his head. “Get the hell out, Archer. Liv, sorry he’s such an ass.”
“Liv,” Archer said. “Short for…?”
“Olivia.”
“Shakespearean.” He raised a black eyebrow. “Nice. I like it. Reminds me of that quote, you know, live fast, die young. Do you live—”
Before he could finish, Dean stepped forward and shoved his brother to the side. Archer’s shoulder hit the doorjamb with a thud. Anger flared, and he whirled toward Dean.
Just when I thought Archer was about to throw a punch, Dean took another threatening step toward his brother. They locked gazes for half a second, then Archer retreated.
Hah.
“Asshole,” Archer muttered, embarrassment coloring his face.
“Come in, Liv.” Dean closed his hand reassuringly around my arm. “If he makes you uncomfortable again, I will fucking kill him, and he knows it. Right, bro?”
Archer shot me a glare, then grabbed a beat-up duffle bag by the refrigerator and stalked out of the kitchen. The instant he left, Dean’s shoulders sagged.
“Sorry.” He pulled me against his side. “I didn’t expect him to come back. No one did.”
“He doesn’t come home for the holidays?”
“He doesn’t come home unless he wants something,” Dean replied, his tone bitter. “What he wants is the money my grandfather left him.”
“Why does he want it from you?”
“My grandfather set what’s called a condition precedent for Archer’s inheritance. That means Archer has to finish college, get a steady job, prove he’s capable of handling the money. My grandfather also designated me as the person who determines if and when Archer has fulfilled the conditions and what percentage of the money he should get at any given time.”
“You?” I wondered why Richard West wasn’t the designated “person in charge,” then remembered that Dean told me his father and grandfather had been estranged.
“Has Archer received any of his inheritance yet?” I asked.
“No.”
“And that’s why he’s mad at you.”
“One of the reasons.” He filled the coffee grinder and watched as the blades pulverized the beans.
“What are the other reasons?”
He didn’t respond, his expression set. A sudden trepidation rolled through me.
“Dean, what—”
I stopped when Dean glanced to the doorway. The sound of heavy footsteps preceded Richard West’s entry into the kitchen.
“Morning.” Richard strode in dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, smelling like cologne. “Liv. Dean. Coffee ready?”
“Couple of minutes.” Dean filled the pot with water. “Dad, Archer is back.”
Richard frowned. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs. He said he’d traveled most of the night.”
“If your mother gives him anything, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“He comes to me because she won’t.”
“She’d better not. You make sure of it, you hear?” Richard picked up the paper and snapped it open.
Animosity radiated from both men. Dean glanced at me, the lines in his face easing into a forced smile.
“What do you want for breakfast, Liv?”
“Just toast, thanks.”
“Happy Thanksgiving.” Joanna West entered the kitchen, dressed in a straight linen skirt and blue silk blouse, her hair and makeup done perfectly. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day out.”
She paused to kiss Richard’s forehead. He ignored her.
“So much to do before our big dinner.” Joanna went to the coffeepot. “I told Alma to make both pumpkin pi
e and pecan this year. Oh, and those maple-syrup carrots you like so much, Richard.”
I looked at Dean. He was watching his mother. A sudden pain filled his eyes, one that seemed both ancient and weary. My chest constricted.
Dean lowered his gaze to his cup. In that instant, I saw him as a child reading books about knights and stories of a boy detective who solved mysteries and made things right. I knew that Dean had been trying to do the same thing for years.
But to no avail.
“Oh, it’s lovely, Joanna! So delicious.”
The West home buzzed with women’s melodious voices and men’s liquor-enhanced laughter. A crowd of at least forty people—friends, relatives, neighbors—milled around the house and terrace. An elaborate Thanksgiving buffet stretched across the dining room. Richard West manned the bar, while Joanna fluttered around ensuring everyone had enough to eat and drink.
I made an effort to socialize, watching with amusement as matronly and not-so-matronly women fawned over Dean and batted their eyelashes at him. I caught snippets of conversation about Archer West, faint murmurs of disapproval.
Archer sat out on the terrace, his feet up on a wooden chair, chatting amiably with anyone who stopped to greet him. Paige West, stunning in a clingy, tie-dye print dress and dangly silver earrings, basked in the glow of attention from several young men.
The afternoon sun shone bright and cool, shimmering on the grass. An orange tree swayed in the light wind. Laughter floated. The aromas of herbed turkey, roasted apples, fresh-baked rolls, and pumpkin pie drifted in the air.
Dean maneuvered through the crowd with the ease of a blade cutting through silk. He’d spent the first hour beside me, introducing me to guests and being attentive, until I insisted I’d be fine on my own. Still, his gaze met mine every so often, as if he were keeping an eye on me while he joined conversations and asked if he could get anyone anything.
As an observer, I saw it in full force—the ideal West family with the successful, wealthy parents and attractive children. The flaw of Archer’s rebelliousness marred the perfection just enough to make them even more intriguing.
After most of the food had been devoured, the men gathered in the den to watch football while the women gossiped and fixed coffee.
“You ever been to California before, Olivia?” Archer West pushed a chair away from the patio table and sat down beside me. Too close.
“It’s Liv,” I said, edging away a little. “And yes.”
“Yeah? Where?” His voice was friendly, conversational, unlike the sly tone he’d used earlier that morning.
“LA,” I said. “And Santa Cruz.”
Santa Cruz was just over the mountain, less than forty-five minutes away. My heart clenched at the thought of Twelve Oaks, of North.
Archer lifted a hand to shield the glare of the sun. “Otherwise you’re from Wisconsin?”
I nodded. “Where do you live?”
“Wherever the wind takes me.” He gave me an engaging grin, his teeth flashing white.
“Do you work?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Doing what?”
“Wow.” He leaned forward, studying me with a gaze that was unnervingly like Dean’s. “Third degree, huh? You majoring in law?”
“Literature and library sciences.”
Archer laughed. “Good lord. No wonder you like big brother.”
I got the dynamic. Archer was the baby of the family, the messed-up dropout who couldn’t hold a job and tried to mooch money off his mother. And eldest brother Dean was the responsible overachiever who excelled at everything.
“Hell of a starched shirt, though, isn’t he?” Archer continued. “He was like that as a kid. No surprise. Got all his weekend homework done on Friday night. Took AP courses. Was always on time. Class president. Football hero. You name it, big brother succeeded at it. He could do no wrong.” He shook his head. “Jesus, the fawning that went on over him…”
“Resent it much?” I asked, unable to prevent the challenging note in my voice.
“Nah.” He shrugged. “No one has any expectations for the screw-up.”
No one had had any expectations for me either, but that was exactly the reason I’d had to create them for myself.
A rush of animosity filled me. Archer West came from a wealthy family who’d likely tried to give him everything, and for some reason he’d thrown it all in their faces. Dean had had the same upbringing and hadn’t made a mess of his life. Just the opposite.
I shaded my eyes from the sun as Richard West crossed the lawn and climbed the terrace steps.
“Hey, old man.” Archer tilted his head toward me. “I was just chatting with Dean’s new girlfriend. Nice that he brought someone home, isn’t it?”
“I want you out of here by tomorrow morning,” Richard told him.
“Hey, did I tell you I’m looking for an investor for my new bar?” Archer examined his fingers, digging a ring of dirt out from beneath his thumbnail. “If I find one, I could be on the road in half an hour. If not—”
Richard moved forward so fast that I flinched at the blur of motion. If there hadn’t been people milling around nearby, I swear he would have hit his son. Instead he stopped right in front of Archer, his voice lowering. “Don’t you threaten me.”
“Dad.” Dean’s voice cut into the sudden fury. He pushed himself between his father and brother. “Back off, both of you.”
Richard held up his hands, his eyes shooting daggers at his younger son before he stalked inside.
“Have a seat, bro.” Archer recovered his composure as he slouched back into his chair. “Liv was telling me all about her studies. You got yourself a girl who’s both smart and pretty. Nice work. Better than that cold fish Helen.”
“Shut up, Archer.” Dean took my arm and tugged me to my feet. “Come on, Liv.”
“Dean doesn’t like cold fishes,” Archer continued. “And you don’t look like one to me, Liv, I can tell you that.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snapped.
The instant Archer looked from Dean to me, I saw a realization click in his brain. Apprehension filled my chest.
“Stay away from him,” Dean told me as he pulled me away from his brother, back toward the house. “He’ll be gone tomorrow morning.”
Dean didn’t leave my side for the next couple of hours. By late afternoon, several of the guests had gone home while the others sat out on the terrace with the last of the coffee and pie to watch a pickup football game between neighbors.
The Coleman brothers were three athletic-looking men in their late twenties and early thirties who had greeted Archer and Dean like long-lost friends. I learned they’d all grown up on the same street and had known each other since they were kids. Two cousins joined the game, along with the Coleman patriarch Brian to even out the teams.
I sat to the side on the terrace as the players haggled back and forth about the teams, where the goal lines would be, and which trees would serve as sidelines. I was glad everyone else was worn out from food and conversation because it meant there were no distractions as I sat watching Dean in motion.
A thing of beauty, if ever there was one.
He had changed into frayed jeans and a T-shirt, and his lean, muscular body arched with natural grace as he leapt to catch the ball and run. The sight of him was enough to get my pulse racing—his thighs flexing beneath his jeans, the way his T-shirt rode up to expose the flat, hard muscles of his abdomen, the wind ruffling his thick hair. He was playing quarterback and threw an interception.
“Still got that rag arm, big brother,” Archer called as he dashed just past Dean’s outstretched arm and beyond for a touchdown.
After Dean’s team got the ball back, he threw a long pass down the sideline to Matthew Coleman. Matthew turned to run upfield. Archer was right beside him, thrusting out his arm to knock the ball from Matthew’s hands.
With eight testosterone-and-turkey-fueled men playing, the game soon took on a hard, competiti
ve edge. Archer had a more hotheaded style than Dean, which didn’t surprise me. Whereas Dean’s power was coiled, contained, Archer moved and reacted with a barely leashed energy, as if he were about to explode at any moment.
It also became clear that Archer and Dean brought their personal stuff into the game. Dean eyed his brother every time they lined up, and Archer made a point of going after Dean whenever he had the ball, several times tackling him with what seemed like unnecessary force.
The game progressed with lots of running, shouts, taunting. Archer’s team led by a touchdown. Dean gripped the ball with both hands and dropped it, his right foot connecting with it several feet from the ground.
The ball sailed forty yards into the crisp breeze, and it looked like the other team might let it bounce through the end zone. At the last moment Archer lunged and grabbed the ball, turning upfield in one smooth motion. James Coleman brought him down with a thud that made Joanna West stand up.
“Is he all right?” she asked as Brian helped Archer back to his feet.
“He’s fine, Mom.” Paige sounded bored.
The men lined up. Archer got the ball and ran for the goal line. Dean closed in on him. Archer thrust out an arm, slamming his elbow into his brother’s chest. Dean grunted. He stumbled backward, but managed to strip the ball loose from Archer’s hands and fall on it as he was going down.
The players lined up again. Dean’s mouth set into a hard slash. Grass stained his jeans and shirt, and there was a scrape on his jaw. Matthew snapped the ball. Dean caught it and backed up, looking downfield for an open receiver.
“Go deep!” he yelled at James.
“Hey, Dean, that’s what your hot girlfriend said to me last night!” Archer shouted gleefully from the other end of the field.
My heart lurched.
Joanna West gasped.
Dean froze. For half a second.
Then his anger exploded. He slammed the ball to the ground and raced toward his brother. He was a blur of movement as he passed the terrace, but I saw his face—a mask of rage and hatred.
Oh, no. No…
Dean lunged at Archer so hard that the thud of their bodies hitting the ground shook the earth. Shock paralyzed everyone. Dean wrestled his brother to his back, then threw a leg over him and straddled him. He drew a fist back, his whole body unleashing in a series of fast blows.