Eternal Brand

by Sami Lee

  You showed her.

  Brand wanted to throw up as he remembered how he’d shown her. Physically, she hadn’t backed down an inch, but emotionally… She’d begged him with her eyes, begged him for something he couldn’t give her—the man she thought he was. Gentle. Decent. Caring.

  He was none of those things. It was all a façade Emily had created with her optimism and that he’d played along with because it had felt good to believe in the possibilities. But he wasn’t decent, he wasn’t caring, and he sure as shit wasn’t gentle.

  He still felt the dampness of her tears seeping onto his hand as he’d covered her mouth.

  Lifting the heavy-bottomed glass, Brand took another swig of the scotch. He hated the taste of it, but he figured if he drank enough he’d start to feel numb. Numb was better than the unending torture of reliving Emily’s quiet sobs, the sobs he’d caused.

  She was so much better off without him.

  A cheer rose from the gathering of family and friends. Brand turned to see Emily and Hope bringing the cake out from the kitchen. Their faces glowed from the orange light of the twenty-five candles decorating the blue-and-white cake. Emily was grinning, but even in the strange orange aura the smile appeared dim.

  Because of him. It wasn’t the first time Brand had killed Emily’s smile, but he figured it had to be the last. She didn’t deserve this. She deserved so much better than him.

  The whole family was singing happy birthday—Emily’s big supportive family who would help her through whatever pain his leaving would cause.

  Now, Brand. Just do it.

  Brand skirted the crowd of Irvings—as he’d always done, he realized. He’d remained on the edges of their loving family life, both unfamiliar with and untrusting of it. He’d had nothing like that growing up. He didn’t understand it. The closest thing he’d ever come to having a family was being a foster kid at the Durantes’. But that was charity, not love. Then there was the army, but after a while he hadn’t understood that either.

  Perhaps he simply wasn’t meant to be around people.

  He made it to the door but before he could push it open Jet was there. “Where are you going?”

  Brand looked at Jet and had to shove aside the memory flash of kissing him just that afternoon. Jet’s soft lips, Jet’s hard body yielding so easily to his. He steeled himself against the weakness the remembrance evoked. “Getting some air.”

  “Bullshit.” Jet narrowed his eyes. “You’re taking off.”

  Brand cocked a brow. “So what?”

  Brushing past Jet, he pushed open the glass door of Briscoe’s and stalked into the cold night air. He hadn’t brought a jacket and his black shirt was thin, but the crisp temperature refreshed his senses. He’d hardly touched that second scotch, so he’d be able to drive.

  “Chickenshit.”

  Jet’s taunt followed him into the night. Brand continued heading across the street to the car park. Jet’s boots thumped on the asphalt as he remained in pursuit.

  “You’re going to leave her in the middle of her sister’s party. Are you really this much of a bastard?”

  Brand scoffed. “You ought to know, Durante.”

  Jet’s steps quickened. He caught up to Brand as he entered the car park. He grabbed a fistful of Brand’s shirt and yanked until Brand had to stop and turn around.

  Jet’s eyes were dark and imploring. “You’re going to break her heart.”

  “Too late for it to matter.” Brand could hardly push the words out of his constricted throat. “I already broke her.”

  “What do you mean?” Jet shook him. “What he fuck did you do to her?”

  “I showed her the truth, that’s all. I’m not cut out for this…this life she thinks she wants. She idealized it. She idealized me.” Brand grasped Jet’s wrists and squeezed until he was forced to release his shirt. “She doesn’t anymore. She wanted the real Brandon Walker? She got it. And believe me, she doesn’t want what I am.”

  “What is that, Brand?” Jet yelled, spreading his arms as though asking the night itself for an answer. “Explain it to me for Christ’s sake. What is it you think you are?”

  “Nothing.” Brand shook his head. Started backing away. “I’m nothing.”

  “No.” Jet walked forward. When Brand’s shoulders collided with his truck, Jet was there, pressing him into the passenger door. He wrapped a hand around Brand’s nape and glowered at him with angry, passionate eyes. “You’re not nothing. Not to Emily. And not to me.”

  Jet slanted his lips over Brand’s, drawing him into a kiss brimming with frustration. Brand kissed him back, because he could never, ever resist Jet’s kisses, but his response was as violent as the thumping of his blood. He shoved his tongue into Jet’s mouth, bit his lip, grabbed Jet’s ass and ground his cock into Jet’s groin. He tried to show him that callous side of himself, the one that had scared Emily so much. But it only seemed to incite Jet’s arousal.

  Should have known. Jet had always been turned on by Brand’s rough side. He’d always accepted it.

  But Emily hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. She was a woman, sweet and soft, and he’d practically abused her. The thought made his anguish rear up again, and Brand tore his mouth away from Jet’s. He shoved against Jet’s chest, pushing him back so hard he slammed into the car in the next space. He was about to say something—he had no idea what—when an unfamiliar voice came at them from the dark.

  “Well, well. What have we got here?”

  The owner of the voice emerged from the shadows. He was big and drunk, his stocky body weaving as he headed toward them. He was dressed in black from head to toe, and he carried a brown-paper-bag-wrapped bottle in one hand. “Hey, guys. Looks like we got a couple of fags.”

  Beside Brand, Jet tensed. Brand was already as tense as a spring, had been from the second he’d heard the voice and the contemptuous sneer in it. He watched the newcomer closely, refusing to dignify his comment with a reply.

  Out of the shadows, two more strangers appeared. One guy was bald with neck tattoos creeping out from the collar of his T-shirt. The other had a beard that reached down to his rounded stomach. They were all huge and wearing matching leather jackets.

  There were a few Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs scattered up and down the coast. These three appeared to belong to one of them. They rarely hung out in Leyton’s Headland, but it wasn’t unheard of. The coast road was a popular travel route for all types.

  Bikies had a bad reputation, mostly earned. Brand flexed his fists and felt the twitch in his muscles.

  This is trouble.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brand had a low tolerance for homophobes at the best of times. Right now his patience was nonexistent.

  “Yeah, looks like it,” the big guy’s bald companion said. He directed his next comment at Jet. “You like sucking dick, do ya? I got something you might like.”

  He made a show of lewdly grabbing his crotch. Brand’s blood pressure spiked. “You seem to like the idea. So who’s the fag?”

  The guy swung his gaze toward Brand. In the light from the street lamp, Brand could see the hatred in the thug’s eyes. “I’m not a fucking fag.”

  “The irony of you asking my friend to suck your dick must be lost on you.”

  The man took two angry strides forward. Before he could reach Brand, Jet stepped into his path. “Guys, come on. There’s no need for this.”

  “Don’t touch me.” The guy shoved at Jet’s hand, which he’d held up in a placating gesture. “Are you trying to fucking touch me, fag?”

  “Sorry. You’re not my type,” Jet quipped.

  Brand’s pulse hammered. Damn you, Durante. You can’t joke your way around guys like this. Brand moved forward and to the right, doing his best to draw the bikies’ attention away from Jet. He had to take Jet out of harm’s way. “Don’t worry, mate. You’re definit
ely mine.”

  Neck tattoo swiveled so he was facing Brand once more. “What?”

  Snickers rose up from the other two. The guy carrying the bottle doubled over. “Oh shit, Bulldog. He likes you.”

  Bulldog sent his two companions a glare which promptly shut them up. Brand backed up a step, knowing that every inch he moved away from the truck was another inch he would draw Bulldog away from Jet. If the prick tried to touch Jet again…

  Brand’s blood surged. He was afraid to think of how he’d react if one of these guys tried to rough up Jet.

  “Come on.” Brand lifted his hand palm up and drew his fingers toward him. “You want a kiss? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  It was the last straw for Bulldog. The veins in his forehead stood out in fury as he lunged toward Brand. Brand used the other man’s forward momentum against him. He stepped to the side and brought his clenched fist in low so it connected with Bulldog’s gut.

  The breath fell out of the other man with a satisfying oomph. As he doubled over Brand brought his knee up and smashed it into the guy’s face. When Bulldog sprung back into an upright position, there was blood dripping out his nose.

  But Brand wasn’t done. He thought of the guy leaning into Jet, calling him a fag. His fury was cold, lending his actions an air of control. He swung his foot up into the guy’s groin.

  The guy screamed in pain. Even the biggest men were vulnerable to a well-placed kick in the balls. Doubled over and panting, Bulldog shot a furious look at his companions. “What the fuck are you waiting for,” he wheezed, “an engraved invitation?”

  The other two sprang into action, as fast as their inebriated states could allow anyway. The sound of breaking glass rent the night air as the guy who’d first approached them smashed the bottle he’d been carrying. He ripped the brown paper off it and stuck it out in front of him, advancing on Brand.

  “Jesus, Brand.” It was Jet’s voice. “Don’t.”

  “Get out of here, Jet.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  Fuck. Loyal to a fault, that was Jet. He was going to get his ass beat, all because he wouldn’t leave Brand’s side when he should. Jet and Emily were so much alike. Both a couple of good-hearted fools who had too much faith in him.

  Forcing himself to ignore his fear for Jet, Brand focused on his assailant. Years of training in hand-to-hand combat had honed his reflexes. The numbing effect of the scotch he’d drunk had disappeared, leaving him with a clarity of mind. When the guy swung the bottle, he ducked, spun around and elbowed him in the groin. Then he grabbed the guy’s forearm and brought it down over his shoulder. Brand heard the crack of bone and the guy’s scream. There was the sound of glass hitting bitumen as he dropped the bottle.

  Brand pushed backwards, digging his shoulder into the guy’s midsection. The thug weighed a ton, but Brand flipped him forward until he landed on his back on the pavement. Bulldog was back on him in a flash, but Brand moved too fast. He swung his leg wide, kicking the guy’s legs out from under him.

  Brand whirled around, fists raised. He hadn’t forgotten there were three of them. But when he turned he saw the bearded loser wasn’t coming for him. He was swinging at Jet.

  Jet managed to duck and avoid the guy’s punch. Other than being quick to move, Brand had no clue what other fighting skills Jet had. Terror and rage filled him, turning what was a clarity of mind into a sea of red. He ran forward, ramming into the bearded guy from the side and knocking him against the truck.

  The guy tried to take a similar swing at Brand, but Brand got in first. He smashed his knuckles into the guy’s face. First with his right, then his left, then again with the right hook. The guy flailed against the car but Brand kept punching, seeing in his mind’s eye how he’d tried to hurt Jet. The man he loved and who had always deserved better than the trouble Brand had given him. Seeing in his memory how his father had taught him to deal with issues—with intimidation, with violence. Seeing his mother’s dead, staring eyes, his buddy’s head exploding in a fireworks display of blood and bone against the Middle Eastern desert.

  And he saw Emily, crying as he pushed into her, loving him as he hurt her. Brand let out a primal roar, a sound of agony and sorrow as he hit the bearded guy with all the strength of his self-hatred.

  “Brand, enough!”

  Brand’s arms whirled as Jet grabbed him from behind. With some immense show of strength he pulled Brand off the bikie. Brand kicked out with his feet, still hurting, still needing to cause hurt. But the bearded man was already sidling away, holding his face with a hand that was covered in blood.

  “Brand, don’t. For God’s sake you’ll kill him.”

  A cold chill washed over Brand as he realized Jet was right. It would have been so easy. Bulldog and his mates were worthless thugs who’d provoked him. They’d enraged him, grated on nerves already frayed. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to take it too far and cause one of them to expire. In the war it would have gone down as justifiable, part of his duty.

  But he wasn’t in the war now. The training, the lethal abilities, remained within him, but he didn’t belong in the army anymore. He didn’t belong at Mulholland Homestead.

  He didn’t belong anywhere.

  “Oh my God, somebody call the police.”

  Brand thought he recognized Alicia Irving’s voice. The altercation had drawn the attention of partygoers. A nauseating dread came over Brand. He looked across the street and saw some of Emily’s family staring into the car park. Her father was on his mobile phone.

  And at the front of the group, wearing a horrified expression, was Emily.

  At the mention of the police, Bulldog and his mates once again grew animated. They headed for three motorbikes that were parked in the shadows and hopped on them. Brand figured a complaint about him beating the shit out of them wasn’t going to be forthcoming. It ought to have been a relief.

  But as he stared across the street at Emily’s stricken face, Brand couldn’t find the will to care.

  If what he’d done earlier hadn’t been enough to push her away, this surely was. He wasn’t leaving Mulholland because he chose to. He was leaving because Emily wouldn’t ask. Because she refused to believe she should have chosen more wisely than him.

  Maybe Jet would stay, he wondered, unsure if the idea made the hurt worse or salved it. Either way, he couldn’t. Brand dug his keys out of his pocket and headed for his truck.

  “Brand, don’t do this,” Jet said. “Don’t go.”

  Brand’s steps faltered. He didn’t turn around though. He’d never been able to look Jet in the eye when he walked away from him. “I have to. Make sure Emily’s okay, will ya?”

  Jet swore softly, the sound harsh and defeated. Brand got in the truck and started the ignition. As he pulled out of the car park with a roar of tires, he saw Emily running into the street, her mouth open. She was calling out to him.

  Brand pressed his foot on the accelerator and drove until she was out of sight.

  As soon as Jet’s motorbike pulled up beside the house, Emily shucked the helmet and hopped off. Her legs trembled, but not from the effects of riding on the Harley. Every part of her was shaking from the outside in. She couldn’t stop seeing Brand assaulting a perfect stranger in front of Briscoe’s. Funny, although she knew he’d belonged to a highly trained commando unit for years, Emily had never thought Brand capable of that kind of violence. Her image of him was pushed off-kilter.

  Again.

  How could she have been so naive? Brand had serious emotional issues. He needed help—from her, from Jet. Maybe even from a psychologist. The worst thing she could have done was cry and turn away from him the first time he told her something real and painful.

  My mother was a drug-addled whore and my father liked to beat on women…I killed people…

  Her soul ached for him.

>   Emily’s hand shook as she lifted her keys to the front door. The locked front door which signaled clearly that Brand wasn’t home. Jet had tried to tell her he wouldn’t be. Back at the bar as they’d gathered their things, he’d said, I’m sorry, Em. He’s gone as though delivering news of a death. Emily refused to believe it. Brand wouldn’t leave now—he couldn’t. He needed her more than ever.

  Inside the house was as quiet as a morgue. Even Gus and George barely made a peep as Emily entered. They wagged their tails uncertainly instead of bounding over like they usually did. It was as though they sensed disaster.

  “He’ll be here.” Emily wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself or Jet, who came in behind her and softly closed the door. “He’s just driving around for a bit, letting off steam.”

  Jet’s voice was gentle. “I don’t think so, Em.”

  “He’ll come back. He has nowhere else to go.”

  “I think nowhere is where he wants to be right now.”

  Emily sent him a sharp look. “Stop being fatalistic.”

  “I’m being realistic.” Jet stepped forward and put his hands on her upper arms. “This is Brand’s MO. As soon as anyone gets too close, he runs.”

  “He’s never run from me. He runs from you.” Emily couldn’t keep the accusatory tone out of her voice. She wasn’t sure she tried. “What did you do, Jet? You said you pushed him. How?”

  Jet paled and dropped his hands from her arms. “I tried to get him to admit he loved me. That’s all.”

  “It was obviously too soon,” Emily pointed out. “What were you thinking?”

  “Too soon? After fifteen years?” Jet rounded on her. “I’ve loved him since I was sixteen years old. Excuse me if I don’t feel like being lectured to by a woman with two years’ experience.”

  They glared at each other across the living room. Emily’s heart was beating so hard she thought it might crack. “All I know is, we were fine. Then you came along and we weren’t fine anymore.”