TYSON CAINE: Book 1 in the Brothers in Arms Series (Brothers in Arms Book 1)

by Aleya Michelle

  Her aqua blue eyes gaze into mine, and then she reaches out her hand to squeeze mine. We share a moment, and like the other times, my skin tingles and my breathing becomes erratic.

  “Don’t worry yourself, Ty. You can’t always be there for your brothers. Tyler made his bed, so to speak, and now, he has to lie in it,” she tells me smiling slightly.

  The thing about Brooklyn is that she can always calm me and knows exactly what to say.

  “Thanks, Brooke, I have to keep remembering that. I don’t know what I’d do without you, girl,” I state honestly and lean in to kiss her cheek. It’s so soft and warm beneath my lips that I hesitate for longer than I should. Then, as realization hits, I hastily exit the car then turn around to wave.

  “See ya,” she calls out.

  “Bye,” I mouth, kind of hoping I can slip in through the backdoor unnoticed. But something tells me that is not going to happen. Shit …

  Mom is at work tonight too. I always feel safer when she is around. It’s like Dad will eventually stop and calm down with her pleas and tears, but tonight, I know I will have to take her place.

  Fuck, I hate my family sometimes.

  ****

  “Over my dead body, Tyler. You will not be leaving this house until you are eighteen, and that is my final answer,” Dad screams furiously at Tyler.

  “You don’t control me, old man. It won’t be that long till I’m eighteen. I’m my own person, not just your son,” Tyler yells back. Oh man, he just can’t help his smart mouth.

  I decide it’s now or never to enter the house.

  I slowly open the back door and walk inside. I find them eyeing each other with utter hate and anger.

  “Hey, guys.” I try to break the ice and hopefully ease the tension in the room a little.

  “Hey, Tyson,” Thomas calls out. He is sitting on the lounge watching a Simpsons rerun, looking a little bewildered; I’m sure from all of the screaming.

  “Well, if it isn’t the golden child,” Tyler declares immediately trying to stir me.

  “Glad to see you finally came home, bro,” I reply sarcastically.

  “Did you know that Tyler here wants to fucking move out?” Dad asks angrily. Great. Now, I’m involved.

  “It has nothing to do with Tyson,” Tyler interrupts saving me.

  “Of course, it does. He is the oldest, and he has responsibilities. One of those is keeping you and Tommy in line,” Dad responds firmly.

  “No one can keep me in line. It’s always the same argument with you, so this is why I avoid it. I need to move out and get some space. It will be better for us all if I’m not here,” Tyler states his case, looking hopeful Dad will agree with him.

  “It’s not your decision to make. I can’t make that part any more clear. You do not have my permission,” Dad growls back at him.

  “Look, guys, it’s late. Can we finish this tomorrow? Tommy has school and needs to get to bed.” I take my chances and suggest the truce, but Dad has other ideas.

  He takes a large sip from his glass, and as I suspected, it’s fucking rum.

  Jesus Christ.

  Of all nights for Mom to be at work, this is not going to end well.

  I look at Tyler, pleading with him not to antagonize him anymore.

  “We will finish this tonight. As soon as Tyler shows me some goddamn respect,” Dad proclaims.

  I look over at Tyler. He is squinting his eyes closed tightly. He looks stressed. Can’t he see there is no way for him to win?

  “Come on, Tyler, you have it so easy here. Just tell Dad you will stay until you are eighteen,” I plead with him and then give him a wink. Just lie, dude, just for tonight. We can’t deal with this now.

  “What and stay here so I can get beat on some more? I’m better than that. I’m not in prison or a concentration camp—he has no right to lay a hand on me,” he replies, and I see Dad’s eyes widen in anger.

  “I’m your goddamn father, and you will respect me, obey me, and do what I say!” he screams, and even Tyler jumps from the loudness.

  “Or what, Jimmy? You will beat me some more? Kick me out?” Tyler protests stupidly. Either that or he has balls of steel. “Well, you know what? I’m done. Touch me again and I’ll have the police here. I’m leaving and never coming back,” he yells back.

  Dad snaps, and he has Tyler pinned to the ground in five seconds flat. His right fist is pulled back ready to strike. I can’t just stand by and watch him demolish my brother, so I grab Dad’s arm trying to pull him back.

  “Dad, just stop. Hurting Tyler isn’t going to fix things,” I plead with him, but I feel his strength and no amount of me tugging will be able to budge him.

  Then it’s as if God up above hears my pleas for help.

  “Jimmy, stop. Get off Tyler,” I hear Mom’s familiar voice, and the creak of the hinge as the door opens.

  Why is she home from work? Who cares; thank God she is here.

  “He deserves punishment. Tyler walks all over us, Rose. I can’t let him get away with it,” he shouts back. I release Dad’s arm and distance myself, hoping Mom can work her magic.

  “Please, Jimmy. Stop for me, baby. You are killing our family. Just stop,” Mom cries out, with tears streaming down her face.

  Jimmy finally releases his grip on Tyler and looks over at her. His hostile face softens, and he runs to her side and throws his arms around her.

  “I’m sorry, Rose. I’m so sorry. I promised I would stop drinking,” he tells her. She hugs him, looking at us over her shoulder.

  She signals for us to go into our rooms. I nod and collect Tommy, grateful that we share a room because the poor kid looks pale. Who the hell knows what would have happened if Mom didn’t come home.

  Okay, I think to myself, enough is enough.

  Tonight, I lost a shit ton of respect for my dad.

  Thursday night, I work until eight and end up at Brooklyn’s. She twisted my arm to come and watch one of my favorite movies Percy Jackson. Something about a hero slaying mythical creatures I just can’t resist. Plus, I can avoid being at home.

  It’s amazing how much we actually have in common. Other girls I know mostly have interests in handbags and shoes, but Brooklyn likes sports and movies that most people don’t like. We both have an eclectic taste when it comes to music too. It’s almost as if she is my mirror image, a female version of myself. One thing I do know is that being with her makes me want to be a better person.

  Even Jacob and my other guy friends don’t get me the way Brooklyn does. Some days, I find myself telling her too much; especially when it comes to Dad’s drinking and Mom’s more frequent crying. But getting it off my chest really helps.

  The truth is no other girl on the planet is like Brooklyn. She is relaxed and easy-going, so serene and effervescent, and not too much in life fazes her. For someone who has her time occupied dancing four nights a week and on the weekends, she is extremely intelligent. Of course, she can be a bookworm at times.

  I gaze at her flawless skin—it is a warm caramel tone not overly tanned or fake but not white or ivory either. The perfect balance. Everything about her magical cobalt blue eyes draw me in. They seem to brighten when we talk, and her smile beams those perfect plump lips and straight white teeth. I have seen the pictures of her with braces, still adorable with a mouth full of metal.

  Brooklyn’s oval shaped face really is model material with or without makeup. Every aspect of her features is well proportioned. She’s so damn perfect. Her dimples are cute, and when she gets embarrassed, her cheeks blush a soft shade of pink.

  I find myself staring at her, and I notice her thick black eyelashes and the way they accentuate her gorgeous eyes. Without a doubt, she is the one person I know I would do anything for. This next part puzzles me, though … When in the world did she get so hot?

  Her outstretched legs are sexy and toned, and I can imagine just how silky soft they would be to touch. She has the same style shorts on that she has worn every summer for years, bu
t her body is much curvier now. Her simple white t-shirt with the writing ‘Just Dance’ is much lower cut than I remember, and I can see that she has on a floral bra that is poking out and showing some slight cleavage. I’m startled when my groin starts to throb.

  Shit, Tyson, get a hold of yourself! This is your best friend; you can’t look at her this way. What is wrong with me? I ask myself and shake my head. I need to get out of the room. It feels like the walls are closing in, and I might combust.

  “I’m just getting a drink,” I say as I hurry to the kitchen feeling flustered. I splash the cool tap water over my face, trying to snap myself out of this craziness.

  “Get me one too, Ty.” There’s something about her voice. It has also changed; it’s developed a huskiness I’d never noticed before. I hear her as a woman not just as the girl next door Brooklyn Waters anymore.

  Something tells me I’m in deep trouble.

  I perch myself on our cream leather couch, cramming for exams. My brain tells me I have overdone the caffeine today; I feel shaky and jittery from the overload.

  For some insane reason, instead of focusing on my notes, I can’t stop thinking about Tyson. I keep thinking about how much he has grown and changed into a man this last year with those firm biceps and muscly chest. I stare at his toned muscles much more than I should.

  Should I really be thinking of him that way? Would he be horrified? I must admit I have caught him checking me out more than once—especially when I have a pair of tiny shorts on, but my legs are kind of a good asset of mine. All of the dancing and cardio I do for concerts and practice really do pay off.

  Oh and I’ve seen him look at my cleavage when I tie my shoelaces. It makes me feel all hot and bothered, in a good way. Is that typical male behavior or something more? Could two friends really end up dating or would it be a mistake?

  Shit, Brooke, focus, I tell myself feeling frustrated. “Exams, remember,” I say out loud to bring myself back to reality. I shake my head and force myself to stop thinking about Tyson. I keep busy by making more notes on the history of Tutankhamen. He was an Egyptian Pharaoh and became ruler of Egypt at the age of nine. Wow. Pressure much?

  That study session only lasts thirty minutes before the thoughts are back. They’re mostly of Tyson in nothing but a towel, which I had the privilege of viewing yesterday. He still had little droplets of water dripping down his chest. For some reason, I wanted to lick the drops. Wow, that was totally impure.

  “Jesus,” I can’t help but say out loud from the way my brain won’t shut up. A second later, there is a knock on my door. Holy shit, who the hell is that going to be? Startled from the timing, I calm myself enough to answer the door.

  It is none other than the man himself. Damn, Tyson is standing on my porch smirking. I wonder if his ears have been burning from my thoughts.

  “I’m not Jesus, Brooke, but I’m definitely a God of some sort,” he says in his suave manner. This guy is incorrigible.

  “Ha-ha, when did you become such a comedian, Tyson?” I question him, trying to remain serious even though he never fails to make me laugh. “Maybe you major in smartassery or drama instead,” I reply smiling and joining in with my own light humor.

  He is still grinning like he won first prize in a raffle. Just as I knew he would, he opted to get in the last word.

  “I really don’t need a teacher to instruct me further, especially when I have a younger brother who is extremely fluent in smartassery,” he replies brazenly. I nod knowing exactly who he means.

  I swear Tyler has become super annoying with the way he is so cocky and always sarcastic. But the chicks throw themselves at him, and I really don’t see why. Well yeah, his muscles are smoking hot, but being an asshole is such a turn-off. Good thing he doesn’t give me too much shit since I can be a real bitch.

  “Please don’t pick up any bad habits from Tyler. One of him is bad enough,” I tell him honestly, but I know that Tyson is better than that. He is everything that Tyler is not. He’s smart, charismatic, and down to earth—three of my favorite traits.

  “I do my best not to. But he’s like bacteria—infectious and growing at a rapid rate, very hard to shake,” he replies. I wonder where these lines are coming from—it’s some funny shit.

  “He thinks he is the next Justin Bieber. You should try living with him,” he adds as he makes himself at home on my couch. He starts eating the popcorn I fixed for myself to pep up my boring study session. If it were anyone else, I would be irritated, but for some reason, it doesn’t bother me.

  “That’s kinda ironic since Justin’s latest song is ‘Love yourself.’ It matches him to a T.” I giggle, having a turn at hassling the hustler. Tyson starts laughing a full-bellied laugh and nods his head in agreement while smiling widely.

  “Good one, Brooke. I’ll have to steal his phone and make it his new ringtone,” he adds, and now, I’m laughing loudly. Oh God, that is a perfect idea. Tyler would be mortified, but I’m sure his bimbo groupies would love it.

  After school Friday, we meet up at the front gate, and our plans to party at Chad’s are in full force. I’m one of the designated drivers, so after three trips full of people, I can relax. Well, as much as you can with a truck blaring music and full of drunken teenagers. Now that the real celebrations are already getting messy.

  I guess I had better keep my eye on Tyler tonight; if Coach hears about anyone behaving badly, they will miss a game—no questions asked. Whether it’s the star quarterback or just a reserve, he treats everyone equally.

  Chad lives in a townhouse. It’s fresh and modern with rendered brickwork and an immaculate interior. It’s just him and his dad. His mother has a new life in New York with some guy she met online, and now, his dad has hooked up with one of our teachers. It’s been quite the scandal. Chad’s father is spending the night at her place, and he gave Chad permission to have a few friends over.

  These kinds of parties can quickly get out of hand, so once we are all inside, the gate is locked.

  Well, it was. Turns out someone brought a bolt cutter and the rest is history.

  There are like fifty extra people swarming the yard, someone has turned the music to an insane level, a few random guys are throwing a football around, and I can just envision a smashed window.

  Not the way Chad envisioned having a few friends over.

  ****

  I’m feeling insanely relieved it’s Friday night—with dance rehearsals and studying, it’s been a busy, draining week. I’m feeling exhausted physically from dancing and mentally from studying for exams. I haven’t been sleeping the best either. Waking up in a sweat thinking about a certain someone is not a great way to start the day.

  “Have just a couple of drinks with me, Brooke,” Cassie pleads as she hands me a bottle. I eagerly retrieve it and take a sip. I can’t say no to a wine cooler. I’m feeling lightheaded and giggly already.

  “It’s so good, Cas,” I say as I take another few sips.

  I wasn’t intending on drinking, but something about Cassie and her persuasions always get me. Plus, it tastes so damn good—it’s crisp and refreshing as the bubbles hit my palate. It is hard to stop. Dad would be fuming mad if he found out I’ve had alcohol, so I won’t have any more. Adding extra stress to him is not something that I want to do.

  Tyson and the boys are playing pool. Chad’s father spent a ton of money on his man cave. The pool table is brand new, the bar is fully stocked, and his top of the line stereo system is blaring. A few of us are dancing. The tiled floor in here is perfect to use as a dance floor. Rihanna is playing as I sway and become lost in the lyrics.

  I risk a glance over to see who is winning so far. I notice Tyler is nowhere in sight; I’m sure he is probably getting into trouble in town. It's Tyson’s shot, so I watch as he grabs the pool cue and I can’t help but take in every inch of him. It’s a warm summer’s night, and he is wearing a white wife beater. It’s showing off his muscles, and his biceps are so hard and bulging. His singlet is c
linging to his chest, and I can see his washboard abs imprinted underneath. His jeans encase his tight butt perfectly, giving me a great view of his ass. I imagine squeezing it. Shit. This drink has definitely intensified my feelings and the lust I feel for him.

  As if he can feel my eyes on him, he turns and gives me a wink, then takes the shot and wins the game. I roll my eyes since it’s typical Tyson—he is ridiculously good at everything. Yeah, sure, Tyler has a lot more muscle; it’s ridiculous, really, that a sixteen-year-old can have that amount of muscle. The age gap between the two of them is only eleven months, yet Tyler could be on steroids he is that well-built.

  “In my Head” by Jason Derulo comes on, and I shift all of my focus onto the dance floor. Especially after a few drinks, I feel my body go wild to the beat. My hips were made to dance, and the black top I bought the other night really doesn’t leave much to the imagination, what with my denim skirt rising up my legs.

  I zone out and dance, forgetting about school, dance rehearsal, and the real world that keeps getting in the way of my being a carefree teenager. I’m shocked when I feel two hands around my waist. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I assume it's Tyson. Dancing isn’t really his thing, but I’m flattered he would try for me. I keep dancing with my eyes closed. But then I feel the guy’s body glide much closer. Too close. I open my eyes and see Cassie is shaking her head. I turn and see it isn’t Tyson after all. It’s fucking Sean Randall. He is the quarterback for our rival high school’s team and a well-known douchebag.

  “Get your hands off me!” I shout angrily pushing him away.

  “Easy, sugar, you were enjoying it a minute ago,” he states in his cocky demeanor.

  “That was until I saw it was you, and then it became repulsive,” I say. He looks pissed. I don’t think he gets rejected often, or ever for that matter.

  “I bet you’d be a cougar in the sack,” he says, licking his lips. I want to deck the guy so badly.