by Shandi Boyes
I did everything to weaken the adrenaline coursing through my body that night. I paced for over twenty minutes before taking a bitterly cold shower. Nothing worked. So you can imagine my annoyance when Jacob arrived home with guns blazing. He was ropeable his prank backfired, but instead of accepting some of the blame, he tried to lump it all on my shoulders. I wasn’t having any of it—hence our disagreement.
If that wasn’t enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth, after returning home from dropping off the girls, Jacob revealed Lola was driving when his car veered off the road. His confession utterly blindsided me, and it made me do something I hadn’t done in a long time. I ran straight toward the demon who’s held my emotions hostage the past six years.
I went home.
The haunting silence of my childhood home is a brutal reminder of why my brother Chris left, but like a ray of sunshine on a stormy day, some good came from my rare visit. I realized I needed to man up and admit my errors like I wish my brother had done instead of taking the easy way out.
With a majority of my agitation centering around Emily’s welfare, she was the first person I reached out to. Our phone call was brief, but long enough to soothe the violent storm forming above my head. When she confirmed she wasn’t irreparably scarred by her adventurous night, I contemplated telling her the truth—that I was partly responsible for Jacob’s car veering off the road—but the idea of disappointing her made me keep my mouth shut. I’ve disappointed enough people in my life and didn’t want to add another name to my very long list. I was acting like a coward, but with my emotions on the edge of a very steep cliff, I palmed off the responsibility for another day.
A smirk tugs on my mouth when I spot Jacob scratching his brow. He only does that when he’s nervous. He’s a terrible poker player, as his nervous twitch is evident from a mile out.
“Is it safe to come in?"
I wave my arm through the air, indicating that he can enter. He takes two steps before stopping to scan the desolate space for a place to sit. Huffing in disgust, I drag my fingers over my scalp. My home situation is as fucked-up as they come. I have a duffle bag full of clothes lying open, a handful of Rolling Stone magazines piled up in the corner, and my stinky old mattress dumped on the floor. Other than that, my room is bare.
My living conditions are nothing new to Jacob. This is the shit hole I’ve lived in the past six years. It isn't that my mom is poor; the rest of her house is nicely furnished. She just figures if she makes me as uncomfortable as possible, she can finally wash her hands of me.
Her plan was working. For the past few years, I’ve been at Jacob's house more than my own, but I haven't stepped foot there since our argument. Call me soft, but I’ve missed Jacob. He’s my brother even though we don’t share the same blood. I’m just too stubborn for my own good.
Thank fuck Jacob isn’t as pigheaded as me.
Happy to accept the olive branch he’s holding out, I lean my guitar against the wall, stand from my mattress, then greet him with a fist bump and a pat on his back. My heart beats at an unnatural rhythm when he draws me in for a man hug. "You know you don't have to stay here, man; my home is your home."
Its rapid beat is heard in my words, "Yeah, I know, I just had to sort my shit out.” My headspace has been a bit awry the past few weeks. I’ve always felt a little lost, but it’s been more intense this month.
After pulling back, Jacob lowers his eyes to mine. “This is the longest you’ve been away.” He bumps me with his shoulder, almost knocking me over. “Dad keeps asking why the fridge is full.”
Loving the roguishness in his tone, I flash him a cheeky grin before throwing a left, right combination into his midsection. Jacob is a huge bastard, but he’s a little slow off the mark. If I put enough strength behind my hit, I'm sure I could knock him on his ass. My dad often said, “The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” but I’ve yet to see anyone brave enough to take a shot at Jacob, so his theory could be wrong.
"Maybe if you switched your steroid-loaded shakes for food, your dad would be none the wiser to my absence.” When Jacob cocks a brow, denying both my false claims he uses steroids, and the fact a full fridge isn’t the only reason his dad has noticed my lack of presence, I murmur, “I’ll pop over and see the old man this week."
Although my pledge isn’t a lie, it sounds like one. I’m not a guy who likes to sit down and talk shit through— words won't change anything, so why hash out old shit? —but Jacob’s dad is a massive fan of expressing emotions. He listens as good as he lectures, but your head needs to be in the right mindset to handle his round of verbal boxing. I’m not there yet.
Jacob smiles a big, beaming grin before returning my jabs. The strength behind his hits has me wondering if he handled our break up as he usually does his love interests. He’s got some power behind his punches—more than you’d expect a teddy bear to have.
We go a few rounds of playful boxing before Jacob’s thirst gets the better of him. "Wanna grab a beer?"
His smile jumps onto my face. This is one of the reasons we’ve been friends so long. Our disagreements end as quickly as they begin.
"Sure.”
After ruffling his sweat-slicked hair, I snag my guitar and songbook off my mattress before collecting my duffle bag from the floor. I’m not jumping the gun. When Jacob offers you a beer, don’t assume he’s bartering for an hour or two of your time. Accepting his offer is the equivalent of signing up for a lifetime commitment. Jacob is lucky his personality makes up for his attachment issues, and even more fortunate I lack attachments.
While shadowing Jacob outside, I try not to let it bother me how absurd it is that in a matter of seconds I gathered all my valued possessions. I miserably fail. My life is pathetic.
I stuff my bag into Jacob’s trunk before slipping into the passenger seat. While buckling my seatbelt, I glance back at the sizable two-story brick house I used to call home, praying I’ll never step foot in there again. No amount of whiskey can drown out the demons in that house. Believe me, I’ve tried to silence them the past six years. It’s impossible.
Chapter 6
Noah
“Thanks for your help today, Noah.” Nick slaps me on the shoulder, his good mood reflected in his smile. "This place will get crazy over the next hour. Did you want to stay here or head back to Mavericks?" He nudges his head at the two-way mirror barely concealing the thumping music keeping guests at his brother’s nightclub enthralled.
A dance club is not a place where I generally hang out—I’m not a dancing type of guy—but this club has an invigorating vibe. I'm dying to discover why there’s so much hype about it. I get you’ve got the younger patrons who can’t go to a standard nightclub, but from what I’m seeing, there are more people here over the age of twenty-one than under.
While giving Nick’s offer more thought, I drink in the vibrant surroundings from the manager's office perched at the back of the club. The main walls are black, the perfect contrast to the silver-framed mirrors hung at various heights on each wall. Two silver dance cages shackled to the ceiling by steel chains give the club a risqué touch, but the giant chandelier dangling over the dance floor adds elegance. The burgundy velour curtains draped from the ceiling to the side walls make it feel as if I’m under a giant teepee. Roomy black booths line the outer walls of the club, and a luxurious curved mahogany bar stretches across one wall. In the middle of the bustling space is a large dance floor. Even this early, it’s lit up with several dancers.
After taking in the pricy dresses and designer pants on the dozens of people on the dance floor, I glance down at my dirty jeans before doing a quick sniff test under my arm. Trust me when I say it isn’t pleasant. I’ve been working the past six hours, not prepping for a night out. I won’t attract anyone in the state I’m in—not that I’m looking.
Grimacing, I hint for Nick to look at my filthy, stained clothes. Seeing things as clearly as me, he strolls past his brother’s paper-covered desk to reveal a bathroo
m hidden behind thick wood paneling. "You can grab a shower in Isaac's bathroom?"
Nick's big brother, Isaac, is the owner of this brand-new dance club called the Dungeon. After hearing Isaac had fired his stockman for stealing, Nick offered our help to unload and connect the kegs for tonight. With Saturday night being the busiest day of the week, Isaac was quick to accept his offer. I didn’t get a say in the matter, but I would have helped either way. I’m not afraid of getting my hands a little dirty.
"If Isaac is cool with me using his shower, I have some spare clothes in my truck.”
Before Nick can reply, Isaac walks into his office. His dark gray business suit makes him appear older than his nearly twenty-six years. I’ve only met him a handful of times. He’s a couple of years older than Nick, so by the time Nick joined my band, he was already in college.
"No worries, Noah, you guys really helped me today, so you’re more than welcome to use my shower. I also let Tina know your drinks are on the house," Isaac assures, talking around the cell phone attached to his ear.
After grinning in thanks, I head down to my truck to grab my duffle bag. Getting out of the club is easier than the patrons vying for entrance. A line three people wide stretches halfway down the block and around the corner.
I snag some fresh clothes from my truck before bolting back to Isaac's office. My shower is quick, but it brings me back to an acceptable standard. While dragging my fingers through my wet locks to give them a messy look, I join Nick at the end of the bar. Patrons are swarming the five staff members manning the counter, but Nick is promptly served by a short bartender with a slender frame and an impish glint in her eyes.
"You weren't kidding about this place getting packed.” I nudge my head to the dance floor that’s growing more crowded with each minute that passes.
Nodding, Nick hands me a bottle of beer before making his way to a booth on our right. From this location, we have a birds-eye view of the entire club. The bar sits on our left; the toilets are down a hall on our right, and the dance floor is front and center. I almost feel like a VIP with such a prime spot.
Over the next thirty minutes, the line outside descends into the club, crowding the dance floor with writhing bodies. People dance provocatively under the strobing lights synced with the music booming out of the speakers above their heads. The seductive scent of sweat on overheated skin lingers heavily in the air. Its intoxicating smell adds to the tantalizing visual. Although I’m still not convinced this is the scene for me, I have more appreciation now than I had earlier.
When a club remix of Nelly Furtado’s classic “Man Eater” comes over the speakers, Nick jumps from our booth. "I have to go get myself a man eater!" He waggles his eyebrows. "You coming?"
I shake my head. "No fucking chance."
With a grin that calls me out as a sucker without words, he takes off for the dance floor. He quickly catches the attention of a handful of ladies unaware of his infamous reputation. Nick moved to Ravenshoe after his parents separated. He was sixteen. Rumors are, he initially moved to Florida with his mom, but when she married a wealthy plastic surgeon, her battle to become an elite socialite made her realize she couldn’t have both that and a teen son, so she shipped Nick off to live with his father.
We often joke that Nick looks like a young Liam Hemsworth—but with his brother’s hair when he played Thor. He has the same shaggy blond hair, blue eyes, and chiseled facial features. He isn't the type of guy I’d usually be friends with, but when I heard him playing his guitar one afternoon while walking past the music room of our high school, I knew I had to introduce him to my band members, Slater and Marcus.
His eyes were closed as he played the introduction to Metallica’s song “Enter Sandman,” but his accuracy was unsurpassed. His fingers strummed the guitar chords with such ease, I was in complete awe.
Slater and Marcus were hesitant to add a new member to the band, but I couldn't continue juggling being both the lead vocalist and guitarist. When Nick handled the inane number of guitar riffs Slater and Marcus requested during his impromptu audition without any hesitation, even they had a hard time denying his talent.
He had so much skill, we were shocked to learn his gift was self-taught. I had begun playing guitar from the moment I was old enough to hold one. My dad was a talented guitarist, and his passion for music was passed down to me. Only a moron would deny Nick’s skills, so after a unanimous vote, he was invited to join our band. When he accepted, our group Rise Up was complete. It’s been a rocky few years, but I’m confident it will all pay off.
When my gaze returns to the dance floor, it doesn’t take long to spot Nick grooving in the middle of it. The club is considerably more crowded than it was when we arrived. A swarm of sweat-drenched bodies move in sync to a thumping beat.
Catching my gaze, Nick waves for me to join him. When I shake my head, denying his request, a flurry of yellow captures my attention. The strobe lights bouncing off the brunette’s mini dress make it glow in the dark, while its tight design awards me an uninterrupted view of a perfectly round pair of ass globes.
My cock twitches when she moves toward the dance floor. I’m not the only one eyeing her arrival. Several men—and even a handful of women—avidly watch her and her two friends as they weave their way through the cramped space.
Once she reaches the middle of the packed floor, she swings her hips in rhythm to the music. The seductive sway of her body naturally seduces me, much less the way she dances with both grace and dignity. Although the pulsating disco lights make it hard for me to see her face, her skintight mini dress leaves nothing to the imagination. She’s insanely sexy.
I watch her from afar for the next several minutes, my cock too hard to consider joining her. My band is finally getting the recognition it deserves, so I don’t want anything tainting that—specifically, me being caught in a packed club with a raging boner.
As the tunes pumping out of the speakers switch from heart-thumping to mellow, a large pair of breasts blocks my vision of the brunette. "Hi, I'm Meg."
A perky blonde wearing a skintight shirt and a microskirt bobs down in front of me, awarding me an uninterrupted view of her more-than-ample cleavage. "Is this seat taken?"
Not giving me a chance to reply, she slides into the booth. She sits so close, our thighs aren’t the only parts of our bodies touching. Her erect nipple scratches my bicep as the nauseating smell of bottled perfume smacks into me. If her micro clothing didn’t set me straight, I would have assumed she had never heard of the saying “less is more.”
Meg twirls her curly blonde hair around her finger as her teeth rake her bottom lip. "I haven't seen you here before.”
She clears red lipstick from her teeth as she peruses my body, only stopping her avid scan when her eyes settle on the crotch of my jeans. I wait for her heavy-hooded gaze to return to my face before explaining, "It's my first time here."
When she smiles, wrinkles crinkle the corners of her eyes, revealing she has notched a few more miles in her time than I have. “Hopefully not your last.”
My brow arches when she places her hand on my jean-clad thigh to claw my leg. Her eyes are filled with desire, but even if they weren’t, I’d still hear her private thoughts. Her needy breaths are louder than the thumping bass keeping the clubgoers raging.
I have to give it to her: she knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go after it—claws and all—but the boner I’m sporting isn’t for her. It’s for the beauty in the yellow dress still on the dance floor.
With her seductive moves heating my blood, I turn my gaze back to the cramped floor. It doesn’t take me long to spot the fluorescent yellow dress I’m seeking in the dense crowd, but instead of dancing as she was previously, the brunette beauty is standing at the edge of the crammed space, staring at my booth.
After squinting to adjust my eyes to the blinding lights thumping in rhythm with my pulse, a grin curls on my lips. A million years could pass before I’d forget the sparkling light bro
wn eyes staring back at me. They belong to Emily.
From the stern look on her face and the thinness of her eyes, it doesn’t take a genius to realize she's not as happy to see me as I am her. Actually, come to think of it, she looks pissed.
I shouldn’t be pleased by the thought, but for some silly reason, I am.
Chapter 7
Emily
Mortified I’ve been busted spying on Noah and his busty date, I grab ahold of Nicole's hand then make a beeline for the bar. Jenni, Nicole, and I only arrived at the Dungeon nightclub thirty minutes ago, and although I’m being scorned by an immense amount of jealousy I shouldn’t have, I’m not ready to call it quits just yet.
I sat in a salon chair for over two hours having my waist-length locks cut into a fresher, more manageable style before an additional two hours was gobbled up stomping the floors of our local mall to find the perfect dress for a night out on the town. Then I risked death to borrow Lola’s ID without permission. That much effort deserves more than a thirty-minute bump and grind on the dance floor. Besides the strength I exuded restraining myself from walking over to Noah’s booth to pull the slutty blonde away from him by the strands on her pretty little head, I’ve barely worked up a sweat, so no matter how many tiny knives are being stabbed into my heart, we’re staying.
When Nicole and I reach the bar, we’re quickly served by a petite bartender with a fierce pixie haircut. I thought I was daring when I requested for Jenni’s aunt to cut nine inches off my hair before adding caramel highlights to my usually bland palate. My boldness doesn’t compare to the fieriness this female oozes. She’s compact and sexy and one hundred percent aware of her appeal.