Brant

by D. B. James

  Averill.

  Her face slams into my mind. I see her smiling up at me with love shining in her golden, whiskey-colored eyes. If this is Averill's blood, what did I do? There’s no way in hell this is Averill’s blood. She left this morning for Ireland—I dropped her off at the airport myself a few hours ago. Why is it her face I see when I’m asking myself whose blood this is?

  Panic sets in as I begin to do as the officer asked of me.

  Quickly dropping the knife, I hear it clatter to the ground before it bounces back up once then lands with a solid thud.

  I place my hands behind my head, fall to my knees, and start to scream.

  CHAPTER 1

  Eighteen Months Prior

  There are three reasons why the ringing of my alarm is pissing me off. One, I didn’t fucking set it. Two, it’s a Saturday. Three, it’s barely ten AM. Maybe I did set it, and forgot to shut it off last night from yesterday morning. It’s a weekend and normally I don’t use an alarm to wake up. Could be as simple as my forgetting to turn it off last night before passing out.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it—normal people get up at a decent hour on the weekend.

  Not me.

  I’m not normal.

  Never have been or claimed to be.

  I’d like to think my parents are to blame. After all, they’re the ones who named me Rhys. With a name such as mine, can you blame me for not being normal? The first day in my fourth-grade elementary school class, my teacher pronounced my name as “Rice”. My mistake lay in correcting her by saying, “It’s Rhys. You know, like Reese’s Pieces.” Trust me, a bunch of eight and nine-year-olds never let you live that down, hence why my school years were less than ideal.

  I learned to recognize my own kind of normal. Embracing my newly minted candy-based nickname, I started carrying around mini-sized bags of that peanut-buttery deliciousness with me in my backpack. Literally overnight, I became the sugar source for all my fellow fourth graders. Instant friendship happened to be included with my new nickname.

  Twenty years later, and there’s still one person in my life I allow to call me by it. Granted, if I hadn’t met him back in the fourth grade, I probably wouldn’t still let him call me by my old nickname. Unluckily for him, I’ve stopped carrying around the candy.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my name; it’s the spelling that makes it weird. If it were spelled Reese, my teacher never would’ve called me Rice. But, since it is, she did, which meant I made those friends and kept Brant as the best damn friend in the world. It’s all gravy. Normal is overrated anyway.

  Since I’ve lain here listening to the alarm buzz for nearly ten minutes, I may as well greet this day. It might be before noon on a Saturday, which would normally mean I’d still be asleep, but I’m choosing to receive this day as the gift it’s meant to be.

  After stretching for a solid two minutes, I walk into the kitchen, hit power on the Keurig, and continue on into the bathroom. After taking care of business, I hop in the shower, remembering that I have plans later today, so I may as well get bathing out of the way.

  Brant has a business proposal he’d like me to look over before he meets with his potential client again on Monday morning. Normally I don’t conduct any business over the weekend, but it’s Brant we’re talking about here and I owe him a solid, to say the least.

  Making my way back into the kitchen, I grab my Detroit Tigers coffee mug and a K-cup then proceed over to the Keurig, which I know for a fact I powered up before heading into the bathroom. Despite that fact, the digital screen is flashing Descale. Whatever. It’s the third time this week, so either the machine is broken, or it’s actually dirty. This is the second machine I’ve gone through in as many years, so it has to be a product malfunction—otherwise I’m a plain idiot who can’t operate a simple coffee machine.

  Swearing to myself, I set my mug on the counter along with the K-cup, grab my truck keys, and head out the door. Looks like Starbucks will be getting my money this morning. Hello six-dollar cup of joe.

  One of the best bonuses about living in the city is easy access to instant coffee. It may be expensive, but ’Bucks truly does save my life some mornings.

  One of the downfalls of city living? Lack of privacy. Being an army brat, you’d think I’d be used to not having much when it came to a private life, but you’d be wrong. When I left home for basic training, that’s when my real lack of privacy began. You get used to it after a while, and as much as I bitch about it, I swear I’d go insane if I didn’t know all I needed to do to have some company is literally walk out my front door.

  Pulling into my nearest ’Bucks, I see the drive-thru line is wrapped around the building. I may as well go inside and order since it’ll take just as long to wait in my truck.

  Opening the door, I’m hit with the smell of coffee and am instantly thankful I decided to come inside. I’m even more thankful when I see the redhead sitting in the corner—she’s definitely worth the early alarm and my malfunctioning coffee maker. Without looking like too much of a creeper, I sneak in quick glances at her while the line continues to inch forward. Something about her seems familiar, but I’m not quite able to identify how I know her. Before I can give it much thought, it’s my turn to order.

  “Welcome to Starbucks, what can I start for you today?” asks the barista behind the counter, pulling me from my thoughts about where I’ve seen the redhead before. It’s such a unique deep red hue, I feel like I have to know her.

  “Triple espresso con panna with two pumps vanilla syrup and a venti Pike Place roast, black.” Since I’m here, may as well order two.

  “May I have your name for the order, please?”

  “Rhys.”

  “Okay, that’ll be $9.73.” Scratch that six-dollar coffee thought I had earlier. Then again, I did order two, and one is a triple shot of espresso. If I’m starting my Saturday early, I may as well start it off with a bang.

  After paying, I stand over near the pickup counter, stealing glances to my right every few seconds to see if I can place her. It’s unnerving. Normally I can place names with faces within a few seconds, but for some reason this one doesn’t click for me. Her face hasn’t been fully visible, which doesn’t work in my favor either.

  A small female barista who can barely reach over the tall counter calls out that my coffee is ready. “Order for Rhys.”

  Smiling, I grab both cups from her and get a couple napkins before sitting down at a table adjacent to the redhead. I pull out my phone and am loading up the CNN app to see what’s happened in the news overnight when the seat in front of me is suddenly filled.

  “Reese’s Pieces, is that you?”

  Glancing up, I see a charmingly delightful face smiling across from me. Eyes that are equally as striking as all that deep mahogany hair stare back me; they’re the most exquisite shade of whiskey I’ve ever had the pleasure of staring back into. Until the moment my eyes met hers, I thought I’d be leaving here never knowing who the beautiful lady sitting over at the corner table was. It just takes five little words and direct eye contact for me to know exactly who she is: Averill.

  “Tiger Lily, what has it been…fifteen years at least?”

  Since she called me by my childhood nickname, I figured it was fair game to call her by hers.

  “You’re still good with simple math, I see.”

  Her quip makes me choke on my espresso. This girl always was a feisty one. Before I can get myself under control, she’s out of her seat and gently patting me on my back.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh—you know, make you choke.”

  Once I’m under control and am positive I’ve found my voice, I quickly work on reassuring her that it wasn’t her fault.

  “Don’t feel bad, at all. What happened was, I was taking a drink when you made that snarky math comment, which in turn made me want to laugh. Unfortunately for the both of us, it turned into a choke. In essence, what I’m trying to say is, I’m the one who’s sorry.” Reaching for her h
and so I can gently squeeze it to let her know it’s no big deal, I continue on. “Do you live here? Just visiting? If you have time, I have time. Fill me in on the last fifteen years, Averill.”

  “Ahh, you do remember my real name, not just some silly childhood nickname.”

  I’m half tempted to tell her I remember everything about her, but that would be a lie—well, a partial lie. As of three minutes ago, I didn’t know who she was, and if I hadn’t come inside to order, odds are we probably never would’ve run into each other.

  Don’t get me wrong, Averill has always been memorable. She moved away when we were thirteen. Our fathers were both military, and trust me, we considered ourselves lucky if we spent more than four school years in most places. For some reason, that fourth grade move that led to my nickname actually stuck, and I was in the same school district for the rest of my normal childhood school years. When my parents eventually moved away, I had already been in the service myself for a couple of years. Until today, Brant was my only link to my old life.

  “Well, I remember we called you Tiger Lily because you didn’t like being called Averill too much when you were eight, but you did love your middle name and Peter Pan, thus Averill Lily became Tiger Lily.”

  “Gah, was I always such a twat?”

  Her question causes me to laugh loudly and a headphone-wearing douchecanoe sitting nearby gives us a cruel look, gets up from his table, and moves to the other side of the store. His reaction makes me clench my left fist tightly under the table, and he’s lucky I don’t react the way I truly want to or he’d be wearing my scalding hot coffee at this moment.

  “You’d think this was a library instead of a Starbucks,” I say while nodding to the asshole I’m referring to. “Hipster crotchrocket over there needs to chill out. It was only a laugh. I mean, who wouldn't laugh at a beautiful woman calling her younger self a twat?”

  Now it’s her turn to laugh.

  “That’s some pretty creative name-calling you have going on. I’ll have to remember crotchrocket—it’s destined to become a personal favorite.”

  “When you work in my profession, it’s almost a class you have to master—Creative Name-calling 101. I have a whole mental list, could provide you with names to use for years to come.”

  “Ah. You didn’t go into the army like your father, I take it?” she ponders.

  “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”

  Listen, I know my answer is asshole-ish, but I don’t know Averill now, and you can’t count our knowing each other as kids. Trusting people doesn’t come easy for me, and it sure as fuck doesn’t happen in five short minutes.

  My profession isn’t exactly one that tolerates room for questions. Most of the time I can get by with a little white lie, an omission of sorts. If I say I work as a lawyer, most people buy it. If I say I work for a cleaning agency, people ask questions, and in my line of work, that’s a bad thing. My boss’s name is Martinelli. With an Italian surname like his, not much is left to the imagination.

  Am I military trained? Yes.

  Am I in the army like my father? Fuck no. Not anymore.

  Did I attend law school for three long years? Yes.

  Technically I can get away with saying I work as a lawyer because I took the state bar exam—passed that shit with flying colors. Saying I’m a lawyer is technically still an omission of the truth, but it’s not an outright lie like saying I work in sales would be. Most of my days are spent going over legal documents. Some days are not. Vague? Sue me. That’s the only answer I can give you at the moment, the only one I know I can give that won’t get me into any messy conversations.

  Seeing the look of confusion in her eyes, I attempt to clear the air between us, take her confusion away—as much as I can without revealing too much.

  “I enlisted as soon as I turned eighteen, and was out a few weeks shy of my twenty-second birthday. Unlike my father, I never wanted to be a lifer. When I’d served my four years, I went straight into law school. Right now, I primarily work in law.”

  “Sounds interesting…I guess.”

  She stops to take another sip of her coffee. She still hasn’t answered my questions, which makes me think she has some secrets of her own. Before I can give it much thought or ask again, she finally answers one of them.

  “I only recently moved to the area. Work had an opening for a store manager-slash-partner here in Grand Rapids, and I hopped on the opportunity. It was a much-needed change of scenery. How long have you lived in the area? I’m sorry if I keep staring at you but it’s weird, you know? Seeing someone from my childhood in a place we never lived in—I’m a tad…off kilter.”

  “Believe me, I know the feeling. If we stay in contact, it’ll be weirder. My best friend Brant? He lives here as well, and yes, before you ask, he’s still a dickhead.” A chuckle escapes as I call him a dickhead, but that shit is true. He’s never been what you’d call nice. Why he’s my friend, I have no idea. I’ve asked myself the same question at least a million times. He’s a cocky son of a bitch. Aren’t we all?

  “That seals it then. We’re doomed. I’m afraid this is our one and only conversation. Sorry, Rhys.”

  Wait, is she for real? She doesn’t want anything to do with me because of Brant? You have got to be kidding me. Her face isn’t giving anything away. Apparently she’s serious.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh you heard me,” she answers with a poker-straight face, no look of mirth in her eyes at all. If she’s bluffing, she’d make a killing at the casino.

  Now my mouth is gaping open and my head is shaking slightly back and forth. I’m sure the look of shock on my face is pretty comical to see, but she doesn’t break. She has to be serious. All I can do is ask again because, what. The. Fuck?

  “No seriously, are you kidding me? You don’t want us to be friends because of Brant? Didn’t you like him back in school? Unless early onset dementia is setting in, I recall y’all being friends same as we were, so I’ll ask again: Are. You. Kidding. Me?”

  Suddenly she breaks and her laughter booms off the walls. I’m not exaggerating in the least, and it seems to be contiguous, because I can’t help myself and soon join her.

  “Oh my—wait I can’t—catch—my breath—good—give me—a minute.” She manages to get that much out in between bouts of full-on belly laughter.

  If I thought the hipster asshole that moved across the shop was giving us dirty looks before, you should see the looks he’s giving us now. If looks could kill.

  Before I can think it through, I’m pushing my chair back and stalking over to him. Grabbing him by the neck of his button-down plaid shirt, I yank him out of his chair. “Do you have a fucking problem, man?”

  He’s attempting to shove my hands off but my grasp on his collar is too tight. I’m stronger than he thinks.

  “Answer me,” I demand.

  “No. No issue man. Now let me the fuck go before I ask someone to call the cops. Judging by the look in your eyes, I don’t think you want me to call them, am I right?” He manages to say all that while successfully shoving one of my hands off his collar.

  Without answering him, I let go of the other side, which was still grasped tightly. I do so abruptly and he falls back down into his chair.

  By the time I make it back over to Averill, she’s running out the front door. Shit.

  Leaving my coffee forgotten on the table, I run out the door after her. Don’t ask me why, but I don’t want to let her slip away. It’s probably better for her if she does, but I couldn’t care less. I want to know her now, not the girl she used to be, but the woman she’s become. If my temper scared her away, I’ll apologize. Sometimes I can fly off the handle, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever hit a chick. Besides, the dude deserved to be scared. Maybe in the future he’ll think twice about shooting off cruel looks.

  “Averill, wait up. Please.”

  She’s already getting into a sporty newer model black car, but she does glance back when I call out to her. I’
ll choose to see that as a good sign.

  “This is a bad idea, Rhys; I should follow my gut instinct and leave,” she replies without turning around to face me head on. She’s only showing me so much, but from her slight lean on her car door, I can tell she wants to give in. Deep down, she wants us to reconnect.

  “You’re right, it is a bad idea, but I’m asking you to give me another chance. That guy in there? The angry Rhys who stalked over and went slightly psycho? I’d be lying if I said he’s not a part of me because obviously, he is. But, you already know that. I’m the same angry kid I was years ago. All I did was grow up. If you give me another chance though, I’ll show you that I’d never hurt you, Averill.”

  Because I’m a selfish prick, I’m praying her answer is yes. Knowing my flying off the handle and into the deep end a moment ago scared her, I’m sure her answer is going to be no, can feel the rejection being said without her saying it. When I hear her breathily whisper, “Yes,” it takes me by complete surprise.

  Again, without thinking, I move forward, taking the last few steps to her car and hauling her into my arms. Not wanting to scare her away twice in one day, I don’t do what I truly want to, instead simply kissing her on the cheek and whispering my own reply of “Thanks.”

  Breaking the contact, I pull out my cell phone, grab her hand, and place it there. “May I have your number?”

  Instead of answering me, she quickly inputs her number, climbs into her car, and abruptly leaves.

  Glancing down, I see she saved her number under Tiger Lily. Smiling to myself, I walk over to my truck, whistling the entire way.

  And to think, I was pissed when my alarm sounded and woke me before noon.

  Purchase