The Mistake

by Elle Kennedy

  I straighten up and close the hood. “Sorry, I was finishing up. I’ll stop by the house before I go.”

  “You better, because he just gave me shit for it, and I’m not even the one who didn’t say hello!” Jeff’s dark eyebrows draw together in a displeased frown. He looks like he wants to lecture me some more, so I speedily change the subject before he can.

  “So what did the doctor say?”

  Jeff responds in a flat voice. “He needs to stop drinking or he’s going to die.”

  I can’t help but snort. “Fat chance of him stopping.”

  “Of course he won’t stop. He’s drinking to die.” Jeff angrily shakes his head. “Before the accident, it was an addiction. Now I think it’s a purpose.”

  Jesus. I’ve never heard a more depressing assessment in my life.

  I can’t argue, though. The accident really was the game-changer—it had pushed my dad right off the wagon and pretty much erased all those years of sobriety. Good years, damn it. Three whole years of having a father again.

  When I was fourteen, Dad’s latest stint in rehab had miraculously stuck. He’d been sober for an entire year before Mom left, which was the only reason she agreed to let us stay with him. During the divorce, we had a choice about which parent to live with, and since Jeff didn’t want to change schools and refused to leave his girlfriend, he chose to stay with our dad. And I chose to stay with my older brother. Not only because I idolized him, but because when we were little, the two of us made a promise to always watch each other’s backs.

  Dad had stayed sober for two more years after that, but I guess the universe decided that the Logan family wasn’t allowed to be happy, because when I was sixteen, my father was involved in a massive car accident on his way back from dropping us off in Boston to see our mom.

  Both his legs were crushed. And I mean crushed—he was lucky to escape without being paralyzed. He was in a shit ton of pain, but the doctors were hesitant to prescribe painkillers to a man with a destructive history of addiction. They said he needed to be monitored twenty-four/seven, so Jeff left college to come home and help me take care of him. Mom’s new husband offered to take out a loan in order to hire someone to care for Dad, but we assured David that we could handle it. Because at the time, we honestly believed we could. Dad’s legs would heal, and if he went to physical therapy like the doctors had instructed, then he might be able to walk normally one day.

  But again, the universe had another fuck you for the Logans. Dad was in so much agony that he turned to drinking to numb the pain. He also didn’t finish his PT, which means his legs didn’t heal the way they were supposed to.

  So now he has a bad limp, constant pain, and two sons who have resigned themselves to the fact that they’ll be taking care of him until the day he dies.

  “What do we do?” I ask grimly.

  “Same thing we’ve always done. We man up and take care of our family.”

  Frustration twists my gut, tangling with the pretzel of guilt already lodged there. Why is it our job to sacrifice everything for him?

  Because he’s your father and he’s sick.

  Because your mother had to do it for fourteen years and now it’s your turn.

  Another thought bubbles to the surface, one I’ve had before, and which makes me want to throw up every time it enters my mind.

  Things would be so much easier if he died.

  As bile burns my throat, I banish the selfish, disgusting notion. I don’t want him to die. He might be a mess, he might be a drunk and an asshole sometimes, but he’s still my father, damn it. He’s the man who drove me to hockey practice, rain or shine. Who helped me memorize my multiplication tables and taught me how to tie my shoes.

  When he was sober, he was a really good dad, and that just makes this whole situation so much fucking worse. Because I can’t hate him. I don’t hate him.

  “Listen, I’ve been thinking…” I trail off, too afraid of Jeff’s reaction. Coughing, I fish another cigarette out of the pack and head for the door. “Let’s talk outside for a sec.”

  A moment later, I take a deep drag of my smoke, hoping the nicotine will bring me a much-needed dose of confidence. Jeff eyes me in disapproval before releasing a defeated sigh.

  “Give me one of those.”

  As he lights up, I exhale a cloud of smoke and force myself to continue. “I’ve had some interest from an agent in New York. This really big sports agent.” I hesitate. “He thinks I’ll have no trouble signing with a team if I test out free agency.”

  Jeff’s features instantly harden.

  “That could mean a decent signing bonus. And a contract. Money, Jeff.” Desperation tightens my throat. “We could hire someone else to run the garage, a full-time nurse for Dad. Maybe even pay off the house if the contract is big enough.”

  My brother barks out a derisive laugh. “How big of a contract do you think you’ll actually land, John? Let’s be serious here.” He shakes his head. “Look, we talked about this. If you wanted to go pro, you should’ve gone the Major Junior route. But you wanted the college degree. You can’t have it both ways.”

  Yeah, I did choose the degree. Because I knew damn well that if I picked the alternative, I’d never leave the league, and that would mean screwing over my brother. They would’ve had to pry that hockey stick out of my cold dead hands to stop me from playing.

  But now that the time for Jeff and me to trade places is drawing near, I’m terrified.

  “It could be a lot of money,” I mumble, but my feeble attempt to convince him doesn’t work—Jeff is already shaking his head.

  “No way, Johnny. We had a deal. Even if you signed with a team, you wouldn’t get all that money up front, and it would take time to get everything here in order. I don’t have time, okay? The second they slap that diploma in your hand, I’m out of here.”

  “Oh, come on. You expect me to believe you’re just going to skip town at the drop of a hat?”

  “Kylie and I are leaving for Europe next May,” Jeff says quietly. “We’ll be gone the day after your graduation.”

  Surprise slams into me. “Since when?”

  “We’ve been planning this for a long time. I already told you—we want to travel for a couple of years before we get married. And then we want to spend some time in Boston before we look for a place in Hastings.”

  My panic intensifies. “But that’s still your plan, right? Living in Hastings and working here?”

  That was the deal we’d struck after I graduated high school. Jeff mans the fort while I’m in college, and then I take over for a few years before he and his fiancée settle down in this area, at which point he’ll run the shop again and I’ll be free.

  Granted, I’ll also be twenty-five by then, and the odds of playing professional hockey won’t be as favorable. Yeah, I might land in the AHL somewhere, but I don’t know how many NHL teams would be interested in taking me on at that point.

  “It’s still the plan,” he assures me. “Kylie wants to live in a small town and raise our kids here. And I like being a mechanic.”

  Well, that makes one of us.

  “I don’t mind taking care of Dad, either. I…” He breathes heavily. “I just need a break, okay?”

  My throat has clamped shut, so I settle for a nod. Then I put out my smoke and force a smile, finally finding my voice. “I still need to change that headlight. Better get back to it.”

  We walk inside, Jeff heading for the office while I wander back to the Buick.

  Fifteen minutes later, I hang up my coveralls on one of the hooks on the wall, call out a hasty goodbye, and practically sprint to my pickup.

  Hoping like hell my brother doesn’t realize I didn’t say hello to our father.

  9

  Logan

  All I want to do tonight is sprawl on the couch and watch the first playoffs game of the season. I don’t even care that Boston isn’t playing—I’ll watch any game you put in front of me during the post-season. Nothing gets your
blood going and heart racing more than playoffs hockey.

  Dean, however, has other plans. He waits for me in the hall when I leave the bathroom after my shower, his green eyes narrowed in impatience. “Jesus Christ, bro, what the hell were you doing in there? Shaving your legs? Thirteen-year-old girls take shorter showers than that!”

  “I was literally in there for five minutes.”

  I brush past him and duck into my bedroom, but he follows me in. No sense of boundaries, this one.

  “Hurry up and get dressed. We’re going to a movie and I don’t want to miss the previews.”

  I stare at him. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  That gets me a middle finger. “You wish.”

  “No, you wish¸ apparently.” I grab a pair of boxers from the top drawer and shoot him a pointed look. “Do you mind?”

  “Seriously? I’ve seen your cock hundreds of times in the locker room. Get dressed already.” He folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot.

  “Go away. I’m watching the Red Wings game tonight.”

  “Aw, come on, you don’t even like Detroit. And it’s half-price ticket night at the theater—I’ve been waiting like a week to see this Statham movie just so we could go tonight.”

  Now I’m gaping at him, because is he for real? “Hey, asshole, you’re filthy rich. If anyone should be paying full price for movie tickets, it’s you.”

  “I was being nice, asshole. Waiting for the cheap day so you’d be able to afford it.” Then he flashes his trademark grin, the one that makes chicks drop their panties and dive onto his dick.

  “Don’t give me your sex grin. It’s creeping me out.”

  His mouth stays frozen in the sex-grin position. “I’ll stop smiling like this if you agree to be my date tonight.”

  “You’re the most annoying pers—”

  The grin widens, and he even throws a little wink in there.

  Ten minutes later, we’re out the door.

  The movie theater in Hastings only has three screens and carries one new release a week, which really limits the selection. Luckily for Dean, the Jason Statham movie he’s got a hard-on for is playing there. Dean’s a huge Statham fan. If someone told me he stands in front of his mirror speaking in a British accent and pretends to transport things around his bedroom? I’d buy it.

  I’m still not in the mood to see a movie, but after Dean twisted my arm, I realized that getting out of the house might not be the worst idea. Hannah usually comes by after work on Wednesdays, so hopefully she and Garrett will already be asleep by the time Dean and I get home. And yes, I know her work schedule, sad pathetic loser that I am.

  On the bright side, I haven’t been obsessing over her as much as usual. The person who monopolized my thoughts all weekend was not Hannah, but Grace. Christ, and don’t get me started on Monday’s oral spectacular. When I jerked off last night, it was to the memory of Grace’s firm, creamy thighs and hot, tight—

  “Logan. Hey.”

  I blink in confusion as Grace enters my line of vision. For a second, I wonder if my dirty mind somehow conjured up the image of her, but nope. She’s actually here, standing five feet from the box office.

  “Hey,” I greet her.

  She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s in a tight sweater, black yoga pants, and an unzipped blue windbreaker, looking like she stepped off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue. I kind of like the whole comfy-but-hot look she has going on.

  I hear a soft ahem and notice there’s someone standing beside her. A curvy, raven-haired girl in a brown leather skirt and fuzzy red top. And she’s gaping at me. Like, jaw-scraping-the-floor gaping.

  Someone pokes me from behind. “Dude,” Dean says irritably. “Stick to the plan. You, tickets. Me, popcorn.”

  I thrust out the twenty-dollar bill in my hand. “Change of plans. I’ll grab the snacks.”

  He rolls his eyes, then spares an admiring glance at Grace’s friend’s tits before ambling off to grab the tickets.

  “What are you guys here to see?” I ask Grace.

  She grins. “What do you think?” She holds up two tickets and I chuckle when I glimpse the title of the Statham movie.

  Of course. I forgot what an action nut she is.

  “That’s what we’re watching too. We should all sit together.”

  Her friend makes another squeaky noise. Actually, it’s more of a gasp, with a bit of a wheeze thrown in there. There’s a lot going on in that one little sound.

  Grace gestures to her friend. “This is Ramona. Ramona, this is Logan.”

  The friend looks me up and down. “I know who he is.”

  Aw, hell. I’ve seen that look before. Many, many times, on the faces of many, many women. As if she’s picturing me naked and inside her.

  Too bad I’m not interested in fulfilling that fantasy. I’m wholly focused on Grace, and the parade of wicked images flashing through my mind. Like the way her eyes glazed over when my tongue first touched her clit. And the breathy noises she made when she came. And—

  “It’s Grace’s birthday,” the friend announces.

  Grace’s features crease in discomfort. “Ramona.”

  “Shit, it is?” I grin at her. “Happy birthday, gorgeous.”

  I don’t miss the way her friend’s jaw slackens again, or how Grace shifts in visible embarrassment.

  “Thanks.” Her bottom lip juts out glumly. “I’m nineteen today. Go me.”

  I snicker. “I take it you’re not a birthday person?”

  “Absolutely not. My mother scarred me for life.”

  Her friend suddenly snorts. “Hey, remember the year at the spring fair? When your mom crashed the stage during that folk band’s set and performed a birthday rap for you?”

  “You mean do I remember the day I researched how to emancipate myself from my parents?” Grace replies in a dry voice. “Vividly.”

  Ramona shoots me a conspiratorial look. “I wanted to invite some people over to the dorm to celebrate, but she threatened to cut off both my arms and feed them to me if I did. So we compromised by going to the movies.”

  We’re interrupted by Dean, who frowns when he sees my empty hands. “For fuck’s sake, do I have to do everything?” Then, as if remembering he’s in the presence of two very pretty girls, he breaks out in a grin. “Also, are you gonna introduce me or what?”

  “This is Grace and—” Shit, I’ve already forgotten the friend’s name.

  “Ramona,” she supplies, and that hungry gaze fixates on Dean now.

  She can ogle him as much as she wants, but I can pretty much guarantee that the moment he finds out she’s a freshman, Dean won’t be ogling her back.

  For all his manwhoring, the guy has a strict rule about not doing freshmen. I’m not sure I blame him, considering our little stalker incident at the start of the year. Dean had hooked up with a freshman, who, after one night of exquisite passion, decided they were madly in love. She then proceeded to show up at our house at all hours of the day and night, sometimes wearing clothes, other times not wearing clothes, usually armed with flowers and love letters and—my personal favorite—a framed photo of herself wearing Dean’s hockey jersey.

  Sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I can still hear her wailing Deeeeeeeeean outside my window.

  Needless to say, Dean’s avoided the young ones ever since. He calls them level ten clingers.

  The four of us stop at the concessions counter so Dean can get his popcorn, and a few minutes later, we enter the dark theater, where the previews have just started. The auditorium is packed. There’s a better chance of Jason Statham himself showing up to offer commentary on the movie than of us finding four seats together. But from where I stand, I spot several available two-seat blocks.

  The girls are walking ahead of us, so I lean closer to Dean and murmur, “Mind if we split up? I want to sit with Grace. It’s her birthday.”

  His gaze rests on Ramona’s undeniably great ass. “I can liv
e with that.”

  Both Grace and Ramona nod in agreement when I suggest sitting separately. Ramona instantly links her arm through Dean’s and whispers something in his ear that makes him chuckle, and then they shuffle forward in the dark to look for seats.

  Grace and I do the same. We find two empty spots halfway up the auditorium, right on the aisle, and once we’re settled, she slides closer to whisper, “Are you sure your friend is okay sitting with Ramona? Because she’s absolutely going to hit on him the whole time.”

  Her lips are practically on my ear, and she smells incredible. I can’t name flowery scents to save my life, but hers is sweet and girly, and when she runs a hand through her hair, a whiff of it floats into my nostrils.

  “Don’t worry. Dean can handle himself,” I whisper back with a grin.

  We turn to the screen, which is showing a preview that instantly captivates Grace. It’s some shoot-em-up explosion porn with big stars and even bigger guns, and her excited expression makes me want to kiss her so fucking bad. Her love for action movies is a major turn-on.

  Before I can stop myself, I reach out and take her hand.

  She jerks in surprise, then relaxes and looks over with a smile before refocusing her attention on the screen.

  I still can’t figure her out. She’s sweet, but she doesn’t come off as naive. She gives off an innocent vibe, but she also seems incredibly secure with herself. She doesn’t barrage me with questions or flirt up a storm. Hell, she hasn’t even brought up the fact that I play hockey, which is usually the first thing chicks do when I’m around.

  It’s crazy how I hardly know a thing about her, yet I had my face between her legs a couple days ago and—oh shit, now I’m thinking about her pussy.

  Wonderful. And now I have a boner of monstrous proportions.

  I clumsily shift in my seat, resisting the urge to slide my hand down my pants and do some discreet rearranging. Or maybe to slide my hand down her pants and give her a birthday present to remember.

  I do neither. The sounds of crunching popcorn and crinkling candy wrappers echo all around us, a blatant reminder that we’re surrounded by people. I try to concentrate on the opening credits flashing on the screen, but ten minutes into the movie, and my boner’s still going strong.