by P. Dangelico
I kiss her again, harder this time. Slip my tongue in her mouth and taste the orange she ate an hour ago. With my hands on her waist, I place her on the granite bathroom counter. Her legs dangle and widen to welcome me, her dress rides up.
In the mirror, I watch myself slide the zipper of the same black sleeveless dress she wore on Thanksgiving down slowly and push it off her shoulders. I watch myself kiss a path from the curve of her neck up her throat, her pale skin glowing in the shaft of sunlight from the skylight.
I need her. I can’t tell her, though. The words won’t come out. No matter how much I want them to.
“We’re going to be late,” she whispers in my ear and a shiver races over my skin, which is hot and tight and uncomfortable. She shoves the jacket off my shoulders and my hands slide up her bare thighs. We’re so good together. Like I knew we would be.
“Then we’ll be late.” One finger hooks around her underwear and pulls down. Rocking her hips, she lets me take them off.
Her slender fingers squeeze my shaft over my pants and a low groan slips out. I’m hard as fuck. A few strokes over our clothes isn’t going to cut it. I need to come. I need relief. I need her.
The pants get unbuttoned. The zipper comes down. Her cool hands slide beneath my boxer briefs to grip my ass. My dick gets free, standing erect between us.
Out of the drawer, I grab a condom and rip it open with my teeth, roll it on in a hurry because I can’t wait another minute to be part of her, to lose myself in her body, to forget everything and everyone outside of the two of us and this bathroom.
She’s all that matters, all that exists to me anymore. Let the world catch fire. Let it all fuck off.
Her head tips back and her dark hair sways. She sucks in a breath as I thrust inside of her. And them I’m gone, so gone, far away. With my mouth attached to her neck, I fuck her hard while she holds on to me tightly. I come as soon as she does, with the full weight of my body collapsing against her. And this small girl, a third my size, holds me up, holds me together.
I hug her tightly. She doesn’t say anything, just lets me hold her. I love her. I think I’ve loved her for a long time and didn’t know it.
Alice
Dallas and Brock follow in Cole’s car. The rest of the guys on the team meet us at the Episcopalian church in Beverly Hills. Inside, it’s wall-to-wall flower arrangements. The expensive kind. Not a single carnation to be found anywhere in the entire church.
A closed, lacquered maple casket sits in the middle. A glamorous picture of a young and very handsome Brian Reynolds sits up on an easel next to it. I can see the strong resemblance now. Not so much when I met him in person.
By the time we arrive, late, it’s already standing room only. Judging by the ages, most of the people here must be friends of the Dr. and Dr. Reynolds.
As we walk up the aisle, Reagan stops to hug and backslap a small black man with silver hair. His dark eyes move to me, and when I hold out my hand, he hugs me.
“Foz Whitaker. You must be Alice.” I hug him back and pull away far enough to speak but he beats me to it. “Brian told me all about you.”
Inexplicably, tears burst from my eyes. Embarrassed, I hurriedly wipe them away while Foz pats my shoulder.
“You better get on up there,” Foz tells Reagan and he nods in agreement.
As we continue up the aisle, I spot his parents for the first time since we got the call. Sitting in the first row, Deborah Reynolds’s expression is stoic. Her makeup flawless. Her hair a hip, carefully styled mess. The dress she’s wearing––tailored, black, and sleeveless––contours every inch of her slender body. It actually looks a lot like my dress with the exception of the price tag. I’m fairly certain hers had a few more zeros attached at the end.
Pat Reynolds is wearing a navy suit and his usual expression of boredom. As if he has somewhere better to be.
Can I say that I hate them? Is that allowed?
Noting our arrival, they move down the pew to make room for us. “You’re late,” I hear Pat Reynolds tell his son.
“Where’s your tie?” his mother adds.
Garbed in an ivory robe with gold trim, Pastor Peterman, who looks exactly like an older Brock Peterman, walks to the podium––or whatever you call those things. Clearly church is not a thing in my family.
The service is a short one. No mention of all the years of struggle, or the demons that haunted Brian. Only a passing mention of the pitfalls of human desire and how we should do our best to curb them. Along with a short list of his accomplishments in high school.
Reagan keeps hold of my hand on his lap throughout the service.
Once it’s over, we all file out slowly. The sun shines brightly in a cloudless sky, the air crisp and cool. I wonder if Brian is at peace now. I wonder if he can see us. I wonder about my mother. I wonder.
We all get in our cars and a long, fancy procession follows the hearse to the graveyard. At the grave site, we crowd around the casket. His parents take a seat while Reagan remains standing among his friends, with me by his side. Pastor Peterman begins to speak.
That’s the first time I see her, a lone tall figure in the distance smoking a cigarette and shifting nervously on her feet. She’s painfully thin with stringy red hair and dressed in tattered jeans and a dirty, oversized L.A. Lakers t-shirt. It’s kind of hard to miss her.
When she catches me looking her way, she moves behind a giant oak. I squeeze Reagan’s hand. He looks down at me and I motion with my chin in her direction.
Once Reagan’s intense green stare locks on to her, everything happens quickly. He immediately drops my hand and strides in her direction. Everyone turns to stare. Even Pastor Peterman pauses the service.
“Reagan? Where are you going?” His mother makes a feeble attempt to stop him, outrage in her voice. She has no clue who her son is.
We all watch as Reagan approaches her with his hands raised. She looks ready to run so I understand the gesture. Her gaze flies between the casket and Rea while he talks. Then slowly, together, they begin walking back to us. Halfway, she gets antsy, her steps sticky, and he reaches out and takes her hand.
I love him. I love him like I never knew I could love someone.
The crowd parts to make room for her, this tall skinny stranger with hollow eyes and weathered skin, and her face cast down––too scared to make eye contact with anyone. With her comes an undeniable smell, and still, Reagan holds her hand.
I love him. I love him for everything he is and even more for everything he’s not.
The skinny stranger gets major credit for bravery. This is an intimidating crowd but she came anyway. I give her credit because she did it for Brian.
Chapter 28
Reagan
“The G wagon is, at best, a second car. Too uncomfortable for everyday use. I always end up driving my S-class,” says one of my father’s asshole friends to the other.
The idle chatter is like battery acid on my nerves. I finish off my whiskey, my third, and glance around from my chair in the corner of the room. Leave it to my mother to have the service at the Beverly Hills Hotel because she “didn’t want people traipsing all over her rugs.”
Priceless.
The only kernel of anything good to come out of this shitshow was Lisa. She refused to come along, but at least she took my number and promised to call if she needed anything. I have to help her. I want to help her. I’m going to get her into rehab. Brian would want me to.
“How are you holding up?” Brock asks. Grabbing a chair along the way, he plants it beside mine and drops in.
I shrug and shake the leftover ice in my tumbler. “I could use another drink.” Alice is at a small table with her friends. She catches me watching her and frowns at my glass.
Brock side-eyes me. “I know you’re in a shit place right now, but getting drunk is not the answer.”
“Do you ever get tired of being perfect?” I can’t help it. The last thing I need right now is anyone giving me advice.
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“Good whiskey is always the answer. As a matter of fact, I’ll join you.” Dallas walks over and does the same, grabs a chair, drags it close to ours. He turns his around and straddles it. “Let’s get trashed. I can make a couple of calls and get some Molly.”
I can’t be responsible for that. I’m responsible for too much already and I’d rather not load more guilt on my plate. “I’m not helping you off the wagon. If you wanna get wasted, find your own excuse.”
“Dude––” His brows pull down. “You’re a mean drunk.” There’s no heat to his words. Just Dallas being Dallas.
“I’m not drunk,” I grumble. And convince no one.
“You’re definitely on your way,” Brock argues.
“I know you’re going to law school next year, but could we shelve the debates for today?”
“Reagan,” my father calls from a few feet away. He’s standing next to someone I’ve never seen before. Tall, tight expression, expensive suit. Basically looks like all of my father’s acquaintances. What the hell is he doing inviting strangers to my brother’s wake?
“Care to tear yourself away from your buddies for a minute to be with your family. Dean Sullivan would like to have a word with you.”
Fucking hell. “No, I don’t care to,” I shout back. The entire room goes silent. All hundred or more people turning to watch us. None of which are here for Brian. At the edge of my vision, I see Alice stand.
My father’s blue eyes narrow. “I’m only going to ask you one more time––come here.” His jaw twitches. “And out of respect for your brother, keep your voice down.”
A molten-hot wave of rage breaks over me, turning me blind and deaf and unable to keep it all down anymore.
“Me?” I shout. “All I’ve ever had was love and respect for him. Can you say the same, Dad?” I stand, the rage demands it. “Do your friends know that you cut him out of your life, out of the family, years ago? That you haven’t seen or talked to him in three years?”
“Reagan,” my mother hisses, leaving her friends a few tables away to get in the middle of this.
“That you had him arrested for trespassing when he showed up at the house, and that you and Mom threatened to have him arrested for breaking and entering if he ever set foot on the property again?! Do they know that you don’t give a fuck that he’s dead?!”
My mother grabs my arm and I shake her off. “Outside, right now!” she orders between clenched teeth.
“Why? Am I embarrassing you?” I’m still shouting. Now that I’ve started I can’t seem to stop, years of repressed thoughts and feelings coming out at once.
“Yes.”
“Well––here’s the good news.” I raise my hands and make sure everyone is watching the show. “The junkie son is dead. Murdered for his sneakers. Sneakers I gave him”––I pound on my chest, tears burning my eyes––“and insisted he wear because I was worried about his feet. He was stabbed eighteen times for them!”
“Shit,” comes from my friends. A gasp from Alice.
“He won’t be embarrassing you anymore,” I continue. “And the one that’s still alive never wants to see either of you again.”
With that, I turn and make for the door. Ten minutes later, as I’m walking up Sunset Blvd., I hear a familiar voice call out, “Need a ride?”
I stop and take a long look at Alice in the driver’s seat of the Jeep. She’s wearing black Ray-Ban Wayfarer today. I just noticed that. The dark bangs, the sunglasses. They look cool on her. Like a girl out of the fifties. My cool girl is the only thing that looks right in my world anymore.
Taking my hands out of my pockets, I grab the roll bar of the Jeep and jump into the passenger side.
“Where to?”
My eyes drink in the sight of her. Damn, she’s beautiful. “You feel like fish tacos?”
“I could eat.” She gives me a small smile and I lean over the partition, cup her face, her skin soft and cool in my hands, and kiss her.
Words are limited. There are only so many ways you can put them together. And when it comes to Alice, I love you doesn’t seem enough.
Alice
There are times in life when silence speaks louder than words. I’m not purposely trying to avoid talking about the bombshell he dropped at the wake, but the look on Reagan’s face when he kissed me a few minutes ago said to give it time.
We drive up Pacific Coast Highway with the sun beginning its journey down, the sky turning every shade of red and orange edged in purple. By the time we pass campus and head north for Neptune’s, it’s close to sunset.
Reagan tells me to wait in the Jeep while he picks up our food. When he returns, he gets in the driver’s seat.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he pulls back onto the highway.
“You’ll see,” he tells me.
A few minutes later we’re driving down a dirt road that leads to a small alcove, and further down below, a deserted beach. He parks the car and gets out.
I can see why he wanted to show me this place. The view is breathtaking. A kaleidoscope of colors paints the horizon. The small cliffs that drop down to the beach are a cool gray. It makes for an interesting contrast. There’s not a soul in sight. The only sound is that of the gently crashing waves.
He takes off his suit jacket and throws it in the back, rolls up his shirtsleeves. Then he sits on the hood and pats the spot next to him. Reaching down, he holds out a hand and pulls me up. In silence we sit side by side and eat our fish tacos watching the sun dip into the water.
I finish before he does and lean against his warm hard body. He puts his arm around me and when he’s done eating, throws the bag with our trash into the car and pulls me onto his lap. He buries his face in the curve of my neck.
“You always smell so good…Alice…”
“Yeah.” The silent pause goes on for so long I start to wonder if he’s okay.
“I love you.”
My entire body braces. As if I needed to ready myself to absorb the words. Little by little my muscles relax, mold themselves to his, and a slow-spreading heat starts in my chest.
There’s absolutely no doubt about how I feel about him. My fingers trace the hard bar of his collarbone, move over his Adam’s apple, travel up the closely shaved skin of his throat and jaw, and brush over his lips. “I love you too.”
He places a kiss on my fingers and I slide off his lap, stroke his thighs as he watches me with heavy-lidded eyes. I unbuckle his pants and he slides off the hood of the Jeep.
Looking into his eyes, I slip my hand inside his underwear, palm his erection, fully hard already, and cup his balls. He grunts, gripping my shoulder for support as his chin falls forward. I push his pants down his hips, far enough that I can wrap my fingers around the base of his shaft. Bending, my mouth covers the head and he gasps. His grip on my hair tightens.
“Is this okay?” I hear him ask in a husky, broken voice.
I run my tongue up and down his perfect penis, suck on the tip. “It’s okay,” I tell him. I play with his smooth balls and he widens his stance. “Is this okay?”
“Fuck yes,” stammers out.
I swallow down the urge to laugh. Those are the last words we exchange for a while.
Two nights later, I wake up to find his side of the bed looking mauled. The sheets twisted and sliding off. A cold, empty dent in the mattress. It looks like the pillow suffered the worst of the unprovoked attack.
No need to guess where he is––I can hear the water splashing as soon as I step into the hallway. From the edge of the patio, I watch him swimming slow laps. He doesn’t notice me watching. That’s not unusual. Lately, he’s often lost in his head, far away from me. I’m trying not to push him to talk. I’m trying to give him the time he needs to process his emotions, but it’s starting to worry me.
He comes to a full stop in the middle of the pool, sucks in a deep breath, and goes under.
I’m lost in this love for him. His pain is my pain. I feel it acutely, a weight sitt
ing on my chest growing heavier every day as I watch him slip further and further into depression. I don’t know how to make him believe that it wasn’t his fault. That his brother’s blood is not on his hands.
Jumping in the water, I sink to the bottom and open my eyes to see the blurry outline of him illuminated by the pool floodlights. He’s sitting cross-legged at the bottom. I take his face in my hands and he opens his eyes. Together we kick to the surface and come out of the water sputtering.
“You’re scaring me,” I whisper.
The stricken look on his face makes me feel even worse. “I’m not trying to hurt myself if that’s what you’re thinking…” He takes my silence as a sign that I don’t believe him. “When I was younger and the trouble with Brian started, I used to do that a lot…it helps to block everything out.”
“It’s dangerous,” I point out. “People have blacked out that way and drowned.”
“I know,” he murmurs quietly and brushes the water sliding down his face off. With his arms around my waist, he pulls me closer and in turn I wrap myself around him.
“Your mother keeps blowing up your phone. I don’t know how in the world she got my number, but she even texted me to have you call her.”
“I’m going to block them. I don’t want to see or hear from them again.”
I understand where all the animosity is coming from. His parents sunk to a new low at the funeral. I also know that carrying a grudge isn’t going to do him any good. I save that discussion for another day, however. All that toxic emotion won’t allow him to hear what I have to say.
“I don’t think my father ever wanted me and Brian,” he murmurs absently. “He loves my mom, worships the ground she walks on. He’d do anything for her…I think he had us because she wanted kids.”
He sounds heartbreakingly certain of it.
“He’s always treated my brother and me as a burden, a chore…I can’t remember a single moment that he looked happy to see us.” A bark of dry, humorless laughter comes out of him.
