by Emilia Finn
She throws her head back in a loud laugh, only to whisper back, “Somewhere upstairs. Right where I left it.” Then she leans in close and sniffs me. “You smell like you’re holding onto someone else’s… who was she? Is she okay? Does she need a therapist?”
I roll my eyes and release Brooke so she can sit. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. And I don’t appreciate your doubt.”
“So the rumors I hear around town about your… friendliness toward women aren’t true?”
“Who the hell is gossiping about me?” I snap. “And I’ll have you know that I actually tried to save an idiot from bad choices last night. I get the bad rap because I’m me. But this teen,” I look to Iowa while he pours a coffee, “she was seventeen! Comes up, tries to slide on in to my business, and when I tell her she’s gotta take her patootie,” I add for Lyss’ sake, “home, she starts crying and making me out to be some kind of monster.”
“Not all heroes wear capes, Bry.” He sets the coffeepot back down and gives an indecent, man-that-just-got-laid, eyes-closed groan as he leans back against the counter. “Seventeen-year-olds are too young to be making those kinds of choices. You did good.”
“You’d know,” Brooke smirks and steals a marshmallow from my bowl. “Seventeen years old, and think they know everything.”
Miles purses his lips, then flashes a grin for Lyss. “Daddy thought he was invincible when he was seventeen.”
“Yeah, well, though I love the consequences of your teenage choices,” I point a spoon at Iowa, “not all people need to follow that trend. That chick last night was way too young to be out. And she was definitely too young to be hitting on me. She was just a child.”
I turn to Lyss, and work on my serious face. “You’re not allowed out until you’re thirty. I don’t care if Daddy says it’s okay. I don’t care if Miss Brooke says it’s okay. You still have to get past me. And I’m gonna lock you down till I decide you can go out.”
She remains completely unruffled and goes back to eating. “I like being with you guys. I don’t have to go out.”
Brooke laughs. “We’ll revisit this in ten years.” Then she looks to me. “So, you were the gentleman last night, and still copped flak because your gallantry wasn’t taken well?”
“I’m so misunderstood,” I pout. “It sucks.”
She inhales the scent of her coffee, and snickers when her lungs are full. “It must be so tough being you, Bry. So handsome, so free and wild. And these girls, good lord, they just throw themselves at you.” She turns to me with wide, innocent, mocking eyes. “I’m so sorry for your misfortune.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumble. “You just shared a shower with someone of the opposite sex. I sure as hell didn’t.”
Brooke looks to Lyss and pops her bottom lip. “Poor, poor Uncle Bry.”
“I don’t come here to be treated this way.” I pick up my bowl and chug the last of my leftover milk. Then I lower the bowl back down and stand to take it to the sink. “I came here to get some Lyss love. Instead, I had to learn that my sister is living up to the Kincaid name in the shower.” I point at her, narrow my eyes. “You’re disgusting.”
“Filthy.” She nods and flattens her lips. “I know. Completely filthy. That’s why we showered.” She bursts out in giggles.
“I hate you.” I push her head forward, and grin when she squeals.
Any other man pushes Brooke around, and Iowa would end his life. But me… I get brotherly rights, I suppose.
Then I turn to Lyss and show her I love you with my hand.
Her eyes light up, then she lifts her hand and returns my love.
Before I leave, I step in and pull her straight out of her chair until her arms wrap around my neck, and her legs around my hips.
I never believed in love at first sight. I honestly thought it was absolute bullshit they make up in romantic literature. But then I met Alyssa Walker, some dude’s kid – not even my sister’s kid – and bam! The curse of the Kincaids got me.
In our family, when a man knows he’s in love, he knows. There’s no hemming, no hawing. There’s no confusion. No wondering. There’s a magnet in our blood, and when we know, we know. We head north, and we don’t stop for any reason.
I love my mother dearly. And as proven with my behavior around Jackson, my sister comes before anyone else. I love my cousins, my aunts. I love them all, but I was born into that family, and therefore, that love was a given.
Then Alyssa walked into my life, and I got my first taste of a Kincaid knowing what he knows.
My niece bumped my sister down. She bumped my mother. My grandmother. That cherubic baby bumped a whole bunch of people down my totem pole to make room for herself at the top.
And then last night, I met another woman. She crushed my balls, stole my hat, told me no, and rode with my fucking enemy.
And yet…
“What are you doing today?” Brooke asks. She lowers her mug and finally loses her teasing expression, her filthy smirk, her playfulness. Now she’s just the baby sister that is literally less than a year younger than me. Irish twins. The perfect sister.
I shrug. “Might head to the gym for a bit. I feel like a little sparring would do me good.”
“All that pent-up frustration,” Iowa chuckles. “You need to find you a shower buddy.”
I point my finger and glare. “You need to shower on your own. I let you get away with a lot of shit, Iowa. Because you gave me Lyss, I give you a lot of leeway. But if you don’t pull your head out soon, I’m gonna do it for you.”
He scoffs. That’s all he does, because he knows I’m full of shit. Hell, if he wanted to marry my sister today, I’d toss her at him. Because a guy knows when another guy is in love. He knows that guy will treat her right. He knows everything he needs to know, because his seven-year-old daughter is a walking, talking character reference. A prick couldn’t raise someone so beautiful and perfect the way he raised Lyss, largely on his own.
He could put on an act for a little while, but kids can’t.
“Whatever.” I snag my sister’s coffee and chug it. When I’m done, I let out a long hiss as the liquid burns my esophagus, then I come around and press a kiss to the top of Lyss’ head. “Have a good day, baby. Call me if you wanna hang out. My schedule is always open for you.”
“Can I come to the gym with you?” She looks to Iowa, to Brooke, then back to me. “Can I?”
I look to Iowa. “It’s cool with me. I’ll keep watch.”
Miles Walker has trouble sharing his daughter. She’s allergic to damn near everything, she’s had one too many close brushes with peanuts and death. And then there are the threatened legal proceedings from the girl’s biological mother – though that seems to be resolved now. But still, the trauma from all that tends to stick to a guy.
His eyes turn panicky the very second I finish speaking; his Adam’s apple bobs, and his hands flex around his coffee mug. But then he looks to Brooke, his safety net, and she gives him a reassuring smile.
“Um…” He clears his throat. “Okay. I guess.” He looks to Lyss. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere on your own. Not even inside the gym. You can’t go to the locker rooms alone. You can’t be out of Uncle Bry’s sight.”
“I got her.” I grab her down from the stool and set her on her feet. Then I pat her butt and send her skipping out of the room so she can do whatever it is girls do before they leave the house – new outfit, sparkly shoes, grab a purse. But in Lyss’ case, her purse contains EpiPens and pre-packaged snacks.
“Bry…” Iowa is half a second from a panic attack.
“Relax. You know I won’t risk her.” I dig a hand into my pockets and search for my car keys. “I’ll take Twain too, since you know he won’t leave her side. I’ll take your car, since she’s still in the booster.” I toss my keys to the counter and meet his eyes. “You can borrow the Camaro, but you’re absolutely not allowed to speed, don’t crash.” Then I look to my sister. “And no fucking. You’ve g
ot a whole house to filthy up. Don’t do it in my car.”
She only shrugs. “I can’t make any promises. If the opportunity is there…” She grins as my glare tightens. “I’m not gonna stop if it’s already happening, Bry. But I can promise to lie to you later when you ask.”
“I hate you.” I shove the back of her head again, then I swap my scowl for a grin when Lyss bounds back through the door with a little bag on her back, a teddy clutched in her arms, and light-up shoes still flickering from her steps.
She lifts a hand in the sign for I love you, shows her dad and Brooke. Then she turns and waits for me to lead her out. She’s ready to go.
I walk to the key rack on the wall, snatch up the keys to Iowa’s much older, much lamer car, then I turn back to Brooke. “I have her. You have my car. That’s the same kinda trade.”
She laughs.
“Don’t hotdog in my car. It’s dangerous.”
“We probably won’t even leave the house.” She climbs off the stool and crouches in front of Lyss. “Love you, Princess. Have a good time with Uncle Bry, okay? We’ll be right here.”
She nods and throws her teddy-holding arm around Brooke’s shoulder. “Love you too, Momma.”
She pulls back when Brooke tenses, when her eyes fill with moisture, when she and Iowa both hold their breath.
“It’s okay I call you Mom?” Lyss’ voice cracks from insecurity. “Is that okay, Miss Brooke?”
Instead of crouching, Brooke simply drops to her knees and pulls Lyss back in for another hug. “Yes, baby. You can call me that. You’re allowed to have two moms, and you’re allowed to love us both. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Okay.” Lyss holds on tight and slays every man in the room when she closes her eyes and lets out a relieved sigh. How long has this baby been sitting on that question? Wondering, worrying about whether her request would be denied? “I love you. I’ll be home soon.”
Pulling back, Brooke takes Lyss’ chin between her fingers, then she leans in and presses a kiss to her sweet lips. “Hurry home. I already miss you.”
After a similar goodbye with her dad, Lyss lets me lead her and Twain into the warm sun outside, past her dad’s car, down two houses, and up to the front door of what was a long time ago dubbed a ‘haunted house’.
This estate we live on is closed, with security gates to keep the crazies out and the family in. Seven homes line the property, three on each side of a narrow private road, and one at the top of the street. The one at the top belongs to my mom and dad. It’s the home I was born and raised in. The home I lived in until the past winter when I decided it was no longer cool to stumble into my childhood bedroom at four in the morning.
I never brought girls home to that house – I never bring girls home, ever – but still, stumbling up the stairs only an hour before the sun was set to rise, and then to sleep away half of the day… it didn’t feel very good.
So I took the final vacant home, and moved my shit in, that way I get to stay close to everyone, but I’m not disturbing anyone’s sleep when I stay out on weekends.
This house used to belong to my uncle Jack. He’s my mom’s brother, and back in the day when he first moved out, he had this girlfriend, Stephanie. She died in a car accident – tragic, since the first Bryan Kincaid met the same end. Jack couldn’t cope, and he swore the house was haunted with her spirit. I was just a kid when he moved ‘back home’ – as in, back in with us – for a few months while he worked through his grief. And then after that, he met my aunt Britt. She helped him heal, they moved into another vacant home in this estate, and thus, the haunted house remained empty for all these years.
It’s not actually haunted. No ghosts walk the halls. Nothing weird happens when I sleep. Moving out was Jack’s coping mechanism. So I happily opened all the doors and windows for a weekend, aired out the deserted and stale home, moved some furniture in, and now I have a home just one door away from my mom, and two doors from my sister. The other houses are filled with my uncles and aunts, my cousins, my friends. And hell if I’ll ever leave.
Twain is first to dart through the front door, and he races a circle through the living room, the kitchen, back around to the front foyer, then stumbles up the stairs with loud thumping steps until he skids on the tiles at the top, and sniffs his way through the bedrooms.
“Uncle is just gonna get changed.” I release Lyss’ hand and head toward the stairs. “Two seconds, then we can go.”
“Okay.”
Since the houses were all built off the same plans – as in, we have seven identical homes – she knows which way to go to find my living room. She wanders in there, so I move up the stairs at a jog, switch out my jeans for shorts, my boots for sneakers, and my shirt for a tank.
Twain watches me with a head cocked to the side, then spins his wheels when I snatch up the keys I tossed onto the bed, and we head back down the stairs.
“Lyss?”
“In here,” she murmurs.
I walk into the living room to find her standing in front of a six-foot-tall plastic statue in the shape of a soft-serve ice cream cone. He’s my hat rack, and my companion when we binge-watch TV. He’s… part of the family at this point.
“You miss him, baby?” I snatch up a hat – damn Madilyn for taking my favorite – and drop it on top of my head.
“He used to live at my house,” she pouts. “Then you took him.”
I pull her into my side so her arms come around my hips, and her cheek rests on my ribs. “Sorry. It’s part of the rules. He has to move houses every year, otherwise we might get caught with him.” I lower my voice, whisper, “We stole him, baby. It would be a rookie mistake to leave him in one place for too long.”
“You stole?” she hisses. “Stealing is bad!”
“Well…” I clear my throat. “I didn’t steal him. My aunt did. But now we’re all responsible for hiding her crimes.”
“From the police?” she whispers.
“Uh huh… except, you see… her brother is the cops. So our job is extra important,” I laugh. “And extra hard. Because he’s a good cop, and he doesn’t suffer fools. Now we have to move this stupid thing around all the time, and make sure we don’t get caught.” I purse my lips. “It’s a very important task. Someday, baby, he’ll be yours.”
I laugh at the concept. Instead of passing down empires, homes, businesses, or rare jewels, we’re planning to hand down stolen contraband, and a mission to keep it hidden. This statue is like our holy grail, and the Kincaids are The Knights Templar.
We’re classy like that.
“Come on, beautiful. Let’s go beat people up.”
“Okay!” She spins with a giggle and races to the door with Twain on her heels.
Walking back to Brooke and Iowa’s house, I help Lyss scramble into the back seat of her dad’s station wagon – it literally hurts my racing soul to climb into this damn thing, but I help her buckle up, then I slide into the front and wave when Iowa comes to the front porch and wrings his hands like an old woman.
“Wave goodbye to your daddy, Lyss. He’s worrying.”
Instead of waving, she winds her window down and screeches, “It’s okay, Daddy! I’ll see you soon!”
“I’ll come to the gym in an hour,” he calls back. “I miss you already, baby.”
She lifts her hand, shows him the love sign. Then she giggles when he points at his heart, then to her.
I roll my eyes and amble toward the security gate as they open wide to let us through. “He’s so soft on you, Lyss. You have no clue how many men you control.” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “You’re the puppeteer.”
“I like puppets.” She sits back and leaves her window down. “Except not the creepy ones. They give me nightmares.”
I shake off the memory of Slappy, my childhood nightmares, and drive onto the road outside our estate. “I don’t like the creepy puppets, either. They’re scary. Hey, you wanna spar today?”
“Really?” Her eyes snap to m
ine in the mirror. “For real?”
“Uh huh. Uncle will teach you.”
“I don’t have any gloves.” She lifts her hands and studies them. “Miss Evie said I have to ask Daddy to buy me some.”
“I’ll get you a pair.”
It takes only ten minutes to drive from the estate to the gym my family owns across town. You’d think that with all that Kincaid world champion money, our gym would be some kind of multi-story, fancy pants place where the rich and the famous come to take their Insta pictures.
In reality, it’s a shed.
The outside is unremarkable, a single sign that shows our name “The Rollin On Gym,” and that’s about it. But once you step inside, that shed turns into something else. A world that can’t be guessed at from the outside. The equipment is world-class quality, competition standard. But still, the floors are concrete, except for where we’ve laid out rubber mats. There are fans installed high in most corners, but no air-conditioning.
In the winter, we freeze. And in the summer, we puke from heat exhaustion. But we do it together.
Our family, our champions; we create them, we train them, then we spew with them.
With Lyss’ hand in mine, and Twain close behind us, I lead her through the front entrance and stop at the cabinet that displays the stuff we sell: wraps, mouthguards, cups, tanks, pants.
And on a shelf of their own, gloves.
I select a pair of pink and white kid-sized gloves, pull them out, and tug off the price tag. I shove that in my pocket, then I turn to Lyss and grin. “For you, baby.”
She accepts them with shaking hands. With awed eyes. “Only for me?”
“You don’t have to share them. You can leave them here with Uncle’s, or you can take them home. You can do anything you want with them, but only if you promise to use them.”
Her wide eyes come up to me.
“If I check them in a month, and they still look brand new, I’m gonna be a little sad.” I lift a brow. “Make sure the knuckles are scuffed up. That’s when we know you’ve worked hard.”
“I could take them outside and drag them along the road. That would scuff the knuckles.”