by D. M. Burns
Bundling myself up tightly in my winter coat, I finish off by wrapping my royal blue scarf around my neck and pull my matching beanie over my head. It’s cold but I only live five minutes down the street. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper on the weekends and I know I can make it home faster on foot than I would if I catch a taxi.
Pushing through the doors, I cut back to the right watching as my breath puffs out in waves of cloudy smoke. The light snow falling all around propels me further into the Christmas spirit. My eyes wander aimlessly catching glimpses of the twinkling lights hinting to the festive time.
“I know you’re not walking home all alone.” Comes a husky low voice from right over my shoulder.
Before I can stop myself, I squeal at the top of my lungs and scramble out of the way. But in my drunk and stupor state of mind, I’m caught off balance as my heel catches in the cracked cement and I start to topple over. Only I get snatch upright before landing in a fresh pile of shoveled snow by Channing.
“Damn, that could’ve ended badly.” He chuckles.
“For the love of almighty. Back off, Creed. You’re soooo the wrong brother.” I say on a half-drunken, half relieved smirk.
“The wrong brother, huh?” He chuckles.
“Yeah. The wrong brother. As in not Brogan.” I wave my hand in the air dramatically.
“Maybe you need to reevaluate your selection in siblings.” He quirks his eyebrow at me. The brotherly similarities are uncanny except this guy is so much bigger in bulky muscle. “You’re cute, you know that?” He asks.
I watch as his breath comes out in smokestacks too. Our fog intertwines together in a sexy smokey dance then evaporates. The guy really is sex in a suit. Jesus. Why me?
“You’re scary, you know that?” I ask. It dons on me that he still hasn’t let me go. His brows crease. Then he chuckles while standing me up straight.
“Scary… How so?” He asks.
I pull my coat tighter and sidestep around him continuing my way to the home front. “Your eyes are haunting, sorta.” I turn my head to look at him then look straight ahead again, “Like they see things that I don’t even know about. It feels intrusive.”
“Huh, that’s a new one, Miss. Winters.” His voice sounds like he’s contemplating my statement.
“Why are you here, Channing? Shouldn’t you be back at the bar? A date, maybe?” I ask.
“Nope, no date. I’m a solo type of guy. Last I checked, this is a public sidewalk and I’ll round back to the bar after I make sure you get home safe. Plus, my little brother would surely kill me if I let his country fascination walk the streets of New York alone. But if you want to discuss scary topics then let’s talk about him.” He smirks.
That has me stopping in my tracks. I whirl around and poke him in the chest with my finger shank. Nails are awesome sometimes. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you two but that’s your brother. Younger brother at that. If you don’t know which side your loyalties should lean, then let me be the one to enlighten you. In his direction, that’s where.” I cross my arms over my chest with attitude dripping from the motion. Not that he can really tell because I’m bundled up better than Mrs. Clause at the North Pole.
Channing is staring at me like I’m a loose cannon. Which I’m not. I’m just drunk and angry and aggravated that he’d want to talk about Brogan. He cracks a smile while rubbing at his coat covered chest where I poked him. I look down at the motion feeling a twinge of regret for finger prodding him in my anger fueled alcoholic daze. My country cushy heart is too soft sometimes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to puncture you with my nail. I’m just a little tipsy. Plus, your topic of subject matter is aggravating.” I quickly turn myself back around and move my little feet at a faster pace. This man makes me anxious and unsteady. After the alcohol consumption, I was already feeling woozy. His presence only intensifies the effect.
“You really care about him, don’t you?” He asks.
“Well, yeah. Don’t you? He’s your baby brother. I’d give anything to have a sibling, Mr. Creed.” I turn back to him and wonder what the heck happened to these two brothers. “To have someone care for me and vice versa. To have each other’s back. You’re lucky to have that but you’re acting like a butthole.” I let out a frustrated sigh.
“A butthole?” He chuckles. “And you can call me Channing. Save the Mr. Creed bullshit for the other brother.” His silver bullets flash out with humor. It’s the first sign of life in them that I’ve seen. “Your vocabulary is refreshing considering that the vast majority of the Manhattan female population uses profanity like it’s a designer fad with a middle finger flip motion of sign language to bring closure to their sentiments.”
“I wasn’t raised that way but believe me, when I get angry all that can change.” I rub my forehead with my ice-cold hand remembering that I forgot my gloves. “Never mind, it’s really none of my business what’s going on between you two no matter how much my curiosity seeks understanding. I’ve got to get home. Thanks, but I can make it just fine from here. Enjoy your evening, Channing.” I continue my agitated strides forward. I hear him behind me, but I don’t bother with any more chit chat.
“Listen Brealyn, my brother and I have somethings to workout. It’s complicated but you’re right, okay?” I’m not sure which part he thinks I’m right about. He reaches out grabbing my hand and I stop instantly.
Surprisingly, his hand is like a gloved furnace infusing me with warmth. I try to snatch my hand from him but he’s not willing. His face looks confused and his forehead crinkles. Those eyes look down at my tiny hand in his as if he’s not quite understanding the concept of touch, like the connection is foreign to him.
The snow around us suddenly starts to fall in waves. Huge fluffy beautiful flakes clutter the atmosphere. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. His throat bobs harshly and he drops my hand then pulls his coat tighter while tucking his bear claws into the pockets.
“You’re freezing and it looks like the snow isn’t going to let up anytime soon.” He shrugs. “We better get you home.”
I look around at the falling blankets of flickering flakes and true to my goofy form, I hold my hands out turning in a full circle while releasing a giggle like the loon this man probably believes I am. I truly don’t care. This unpredictable snowstorm is gorgeous. When I compose myself, Channing is smirking at me, so I continue forward with a smile and shake of my head.
“Sorry, but this is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever witnessed. Back at home we hardly ever get snow like this. My grandparents taught me to take the time to enjoy life’s little wonders, Channing. It's hypnotic, don’t you think?” His eyes seem to pierce through me, and he nods his head.
“Miss. Winters, yes. I’ll agree with you there. It’s most definitely enthralling.” His voice is hinting to more than the winter flakes.
That has me moving my booty again and dropping my excitement for the moment. It feels like I’m wronging Brogan by entertaining this conversation and this man. My cheeks are slightly burning with embarrassment too.
“Georgia sunshine.” He whispers at my side and I perk up.
“Pardon me,” I ask.
“You’re the perfect definition of Georgia sunshine wrapped in a layer of skin.” He studies his shoes as we walk. Like he’s analyzing the wintery slosh spread about the sidewalk but not at all.
“Uhm, well that was a nice thing to say. Thank you.” I look up and see my building just ahead. “Told ya my humble abode wasn’t far. Do you have big Christmas plans?” I ask.
“Nope, it’s just me.” He says. Those two brothers need each other badly. “How about you?”
“I try to spend it with my best friend, but I think she has work. We’ll see though. That’s me. Right above the Italian pizzeria of perfection.” He looks up and points at my building and I shake my head yes.
“Mr. Maggio has the best calzones in New York. They can’t be beat.” He states as a matter of fact.
My s
mile grows wide because he’s right. I’m a little caught off guard that this rich high fluting business shark knows anything at all about what I consider to be my Italian eatery.
“You know my landlord, Mr. M?” I ask.
“Hell, anyone that doesn’t know about this particular hot spot of eating pleasure is exactly the type of people I’d rather not associate with. Five-star dining isn’t what it’s made out to be, trust me. I’d rather eat here any day of the week.” He chuckles as we step up in front of my stairs. “This is my favorite spot for Italian food.”
“I’ve never seen you here.” I study him. Yelp, I’d remember his face had I ever seen him here before.
“I come at least once a week so, maybe I’ll see you again soon.” He winks at me.
“Well, thanks for walking with me.” I turn and climb quickly up my steps.
“Hey, sunshine…” I turn around and his eyes look eerily coated in what seems like confusion but mixed with resolve. It’s weird. “There’s one thing that I know to be facts.”
“Oh, yeah?” I snicker. This should be good.
“Oh, yeah. Your future is beautiful and stands to offer you a life, unlike anything you’ve ever imagined. No matter what, try to keep an open mind about that.”
Without waiting for my reply, he turns and heads back the way we came while whistling out a tune that’s unfamiliar to my ears. I watch until his large frame disappears into the Manhattan snowflake filled shadows. This night has turned out to be so darn weird.
chapter 20
brogan
Stalking behind Channing silently, I follow my demon brother from another mother with great restraint in every secret stride. I contemplate murdering his massive ass with wild like animalist eagerness.
The impulse to jerk him up off the wet sidewalk, flinging him about abruptly with malice intent behind my every action is profound. The futuristic visual I have, consists of bouncing him off the aging brick buildings until blood covers every inch of his body. Then I’ll finish him off between the nasty ass structures leaving him in a final resting place of a shit covered alleyway. He’s not the only one with future planning and plotting abilities.
Not so surprisingly, Channing doesn’t return to the bar, no. That fucker’s plan was to get close to Brealyn. My controlling and protective instincts are unparallel when it comes to her. For the most part of the night, I’ve been right by her side until now. Try not to judge me too harshly. This shit is new for me.
I’m not at all understanding of my newfound stalking and psychopathic ways. It’s unfamiliar territory. I’ve never given a shit nor felt connected to someone like I do her. Hell, come to think of it, I’ve never been attached to anything other than statistic sheets. No dog. No cat. No pet fishes. Not even a god damn gerbil, nothing.
Rationalizing my mad behavior and or comprehending it is out. I’ll try to break it down later, much later. For now, walking this bastard home is my focus. It’s going to fulfill those other fundamental requirements that I have. Mainly my hostile desire to break his bones if I don’t get my obsessive thoughts under control real quick.
After about thirty minutes, he turns down a well-known elite side street that I’m awfully familiar with. The immaculate street post lighting illuminates and lines each side beautifully. It’s a well-established, more prominent, and privileged side of town that corners up with the housing for the affluent assholes such as myself. It’s exactly where I’ve known him to reside ever since he materialized in my boardroom last week.
When Channing turns and enters the Westinghouse Building, I follow right behind as the doorman nods him in. The asshole doesn’t even acknowledge the elderly man’s existence. His manners are shit. I accidentally stick my foot out watching the bastard trip up and fall flat on his ass. Tile to face action is a beautiful thing, for him.
“Oh, Mr. Creed. Are you okay sir?” The elderly man attempts to help him off the floor while swiping the non-existent wrinkles out of Channing’s coat. I smile deviously while crossing my hands over my chest watching this shit show playout. That asshole is deserving.
“Yes, Frederick. I’m fine. Thank you.” Channing looks behind him and frowns at the tile like it wronged him in some type of way. No, asshole. That was me, you punk-ass bitch. “Have a good evening,” Channing says as he rakes his hand through his hair continuing for the elevator and I fall back into step behind him.
When Channing filters into his home headquarters, I survey the place while he shrugs his coat off and moves into his open living room then tosses it onto the back of his leather couch. Other than the obscene number of candles littered everywhere, his place is much like mine. Massive, cold, and void of any warmth. I turn around and scan his cream-colored walls noticing his love for artwork.
I observe as my bastard brother disappears down his long hallway. I stay rooted but spin in place to take it all in. The enormous paintings adorning his place is that of New York’s most famous artist creations. He likes high priced art that looks a lot like a child splashing paint about in a messy array. Each to their own but I wouldn’t pay for the nail that hangs this overpriced shotty shit.
Sauntering through his vast hallway that opens into a large cutlery kitchen, I stare at his black marble island, stainless steel appliances, and stark white walls coupled with cherry textured cabinets that seem to warm the atmosphere slightly. His counters are crisp and clean with nothing obscuring the fancy black shine except for a massive flower arrangement of tulips, various in color. The fresh scent of bleach and pine waft in the air around me.
Circling back out into the hallway, I continue until I find his master suite. It’s assertive and domineering; masculine like mine. Even our furniture matches. It’s like an angry assault to the ball sack seeing this. A striking slap in the face of how much we’re alike. I don’t like it and the low grunt in the back of my throat is evidence of that fact. That’s some weird Twilight Zone bullshit that I’m not evening going to try and understand.
Backing away, I move to the next door and find him sitting in his spacious office. The circular row of lights overhead is set to dim giving off a soft glow, inviting you in. Hell, even I can admit that this is a badass in-home business headquarters.
Leaning into his door jamb, I spy as he digs his fingers through his hair while tilting back in his leather seating, eyes locked on his dual computer screens. My white globes filter over his many accomplishments decorating the walls but my high beams close in on a framed Ph.D. of medicine credentials, who knew?
The obscene mahogany structure he’s seated behind is scarce of clutter but holds multiple screens. There’s one of those slow-moving fucking desk decoration contraptions, that’s supposed to be calming when it’s anything but, resting on the edge. There are two chairs positioned strategically right in front of the glossy wooden plank. It’s an offering to the assholes who occupy his time. Inviting an eye to eye sit-down with the captain of the ship.
Channing has shelves lining the walls on both sides that are filled with various books. There’s no one genre, multiple works of literature. But I do see that there are more topics about law and medicine than any other. They look strangely organized with OCD tendencies. One thing that I’m noting in all of this is the simple fact we have a lot of similarities. That within itself is fucking frightening.
Stepping in, I waltz over to one of the offered chairs and fold in. I smirk knowing I could reach out and slap his bitch-ass if I wanted to. It’s a warming and comforting thought.
The guy finally tears his eyes away from his computer displays and swivels around in his chair to stare out into the nothingness of the night beyond his windows. He looks much like I did the first night my lips grazed those of one unique small-town country girl. Oh, I get how baffling it is brother, but you’ll never quench your thirst. I’ll kill you first.
When he touched her hand tonight, I felt that gesture like a third-degree burn to my fingertips and oddly enough my non-existent soul. I wanted to twist his neck usi
ng my bare hands, snapping it into nothing more than a bone-crushing powder. If this asshole is anything like me, he’s trying to figure out why he’s strangely drawn to her and most importantly how to get close to her again and soon.
“Fuck…” He growls. “This is going to get dirty and complicated, but she’s worth it.”
Channing pushes up from his chair moving out of the room leaving me to agree with him. Dirty and complicated. Two things I’m well versed in. I’m slow to follow my big brother but in the move, I catch a glimpse of one of his screens, and my eyes squint as rushed fury flames out through my veins. Rounding his desk, both screens come into view, and staring back at me is my blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Southern Comfort.
It looks like Brea was at the park with her best friend, Tamera. (After spending the majority of the night next to Brea, I learned a lot more than I ever wanted to know about her two best friends. Over-sharing hell.) They're sitting at a bench together and Brea’s head is held back in laughter at something that was said, I imagine. This asshole must’ve stolen that moment in time from her.
Admittedly, the only reason I’m so pissed off is the simple fact that I hadn’t thought of this myself. This beautiful framed square sight on his computer is a bold statement. It says crazy fucker, period. How long has this asshole been stalking her?
Well if this isn’t the pot calling the whole god damn bakery cabinet of pans black. I remind myself that I was the invisible asshole hulled up in a corner all night rationalizing my actions by telling myself I was her silent and unseen protector. I’m just strung tight because I didn’t get the chance to speak with her all day. There was a certain business deal I was obligated to see through. Priorities, right?
Making my way back to the living room, I walk in between the large white columns and see my asshole brother is nowhere to be found. I make myself at home on his oversized leather couch, folding my arms out across the back, and let my flesh form fade in while keeping my eyes focused on the entrance. When my brother comes strolling in with his eyes buried in paperwork, I smile. This fucker is so clueless.
