One and Only Boxed Set

by Melanie Harlow

  “I haven’t agreed to anything,” I said quickly.

  “I know. I just wanted you to hear his opinion.” He paused. “I also wanted to let you know that I feel really bad about our conversation yesterday.”

  “Don’t worry about it. No point.”

  “Yes, there is, Dallas. You’re the only brother I’ve got. And I haven’t done a good enough job seeing things from your point of view or trying to understand your feelings.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “And how can I expect you to listen to me or believe I care when you feel I’m not on your side? But I’ve never been against you.”

  “No, you’ve been above me. There’s a difference.”

  “Fair enough. I admit, I have judged your choices because they’re not the ones I would have made. But I’ve been talking to someone about things, and—”

  “About my things? Talking to who?” I demanded.

  “No. About my things,” he said calmly. “I see a therapist.”

  “Oh. You do?” It surprised me. Finn’s life seemed fucking perfect. He seemed perfect.

  “Yes. Everyone’s got issues, Dallas. Not just you. But I’ve been talking a lot about you lately, and my therapist really thinks repairing our relationship is important. I do, too.”

  “Frankly, I’m not sure what’s there to repair,” I said. “We’ve never had much of a relationship. I’m closer to your kids than I am to you. I relate to them better.”

  “So let’s change that. When you get here, let’s get to know each other as adults and put the past behind us. Do you think we can?”

  “Maybe. Did you ever talk to Mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she ask a million questions?”

  “Of course. But I didn’t tell her anything.”

  “I can’t believe she hasn’t been calling me nonstop.”

  “I told her not to bother you while you were on vacation and you’d call her from here.” Finn’s tone was firm.

  “Thanks.” My phone buzzed, indicating a text message. A quick glance at the screen told me it was from Maren. “Okay. Look, I better go. I’m having dinner with a friend tonight.”

  “You mentioned seeing someone before. Who is it? Anyone I know?”

  A lie was on the tip of my tongue, but at the last second, I decided to be truthful. I wasn’t even sure why. “Maren Devine.”

  “Your old girlfriend, right? Any sparks left?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Jesus, Finn.”

  “Sorry. But I’d like to hear about your visit with her.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. My flight gets in around one or two.”

  “I’m really glad you’re not driving. Safe travels.”

  “Thanks.”

  We hung up and I read Maren’s message saying she’d meet me here at the hotel. Just seeing her name on the screen made my heart beat faster. I replied, offering again to pick her up. I wanted to do things for her.

  You could tell her the truth.

  Gritting my teeth, I shoved the thought aside and read her response assuring me she didn’t need me to come get her and she’d be here soon.

  Me: Good. I missed you today.

  Maren: I missed you too. Can’t wait to see you!

  That’s because you don’t know the kind of person I really am.

  Tossing my phone on the bed, I undressed and got in the shower. Being in there reminded me of showering with her, and I recalled the way she’d looked as she stood naked beneath the spray, water streaming down her body. I remembered the way she’d tasted, the way she’d touched me, the way she’d whispered the sweetest things in my ear—I missed you, I want you, I trust you.

  I was hard in no time, and so fucking tempted to do something about it, but I denied myself. I didn’t deserve the pleasure.

  After I got out, I dressed in jeans and a dark blue button-down, put in my contacts, and wrangled my hair into something respectable. I glared at the Depakote in my travel bag for a moment, but ended up taking one. The last thing I needed was to have an episode at the dinner table. I was still humiliated by the one Maren witnessed yesterday.

  When I was ready, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. It nauseated me.

  You’re a miserable, lying prick. But you’ve got one last chance to make this right. Don’t blow it like you’ve done with every other good thing in your life.

  I wasn’t sure whose voice it was—my father’s? Finn’s? my own?—but I knew what it said was true.

  I had to tell her.

  She knocked on my door just after five. I opened it, unprepared for the way my knees nearly buckled at the sight of her.

  “Hi.” She smiled and came toward me with open arms. “I missed you.”

  “Hi.” I hugged her close. “You look beautiful. And you smell delicious. You’re probably not even wearing perfume.”

  She laughed. “Nope. Just a little lavender oil.”

  I released her and looked her over, head to toe. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

  Her cheeks bloomed with pink. “Thank you. How are you feeling?”

  “Better now that you’re here. I have something for you.”

  Her eyes brightened. “You do?”

  “Yes.” I took her by the shoulders and put her in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door. “Close your eyes.”

  She did as I asked and I dug the little box with the necklace in it out of my suitcase and opened it up.

  “No peeking,” I told her, taking it from the box and undoing the clasp.

  “I’m not. I promise.”

  Reaching over her head, I draped the necklace around her throat and fastened it at the back of her neck. “Okay. You can look.”

  She opened her eyes and gasped. Her fingertips immediately went to the gold lotus pendant, which looked stunning against her skin. “Oh, my God. Dallas.”

  Our eyes met in the mirror and hers misted over.

  “Do you like it?” I asked.

  “I love it. It’s beautiful.” She sniffed. “You’re going to make me cry.”

  I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her temple. “No crying. It’s no big deal. I was on a walk today and saw it, and it made me think of you.”

  “It’s perfect.” She placed her arms over mine and squeezed. “I’ll wear it all the time.”

  “I’m happy you like it. It reminded me of your tattoo.”

  She looked down at her arm. “I love this tattoo. It was my first one.”

  “Yeah? What does it mean to you?”

  “I’ve always liked the symbolism of the lotus flower—rebirth, resurrection, revival. Its roots are in the mud at the bottom of ponds or rivers, and its petals emerge above the water. Every night they close up and duck beneath the surface, and every morning they rise up and open again. I got it at a time in my life when I needed to be reminded of my capacity for resilience. The lotus flower never gives up. It gives me strength when I need it.” She twisted in my arms so that she faced me, her arms going around my neck. “Thank you. Not just for the necklace, but for coming here, for spending time with me.” Rising up on her toes, she pressed her lips to mine.

  Tell her, I thought as I slanted my mouth over hers and slid my hands down over her ass. Tell her, I thought as I walked backward toward the bed, bringing her with me. Tell her, I thought as I turned her around, laid her back on the bed, and lifted up the long white dress.

  But I didn’t. Instead I knelt down between her legs, pushed her white lace underwear aside, and devoured her like a starving man, her hands fisted in my hair, her hips bucking beneath me. After she came, she begged me for more, and I couldn’t stop myself from fucking her in that pretty white dress, her legs over my shoulders, her honey-colored hair spilling over the blankets, her fingers clawing the sheets.

  With my hands wrapped tightly around her calves, I was rough with her, like I was trying to show her the truth about myself, so rough I hoped she’d plead with me to slow down. Tell me I was hurting her. Pu
sh me away. I wanted her to hate me like I hated myself.

  But she didn’t. She moaned and gasped and turned her face to the side, throwing her hands over her head, her angelic features contorted with pain or pleasure or both, and I rammed my cock deeper inside her, making her cry out with every vicious thrust, but she never asked me to stop. And it felt good, indulging the villain inside me—wicked and sexy and selfish and greedy and powerful, so powerful I was drunk with it.

  I let go of her legs and leaned forward, pinning her wrists to the bed with one hand and taking her beneath the jaw with the other. “Look at me,” I demanded, forcing her head in my direction. “I want you to watch me fuck you. I want you to see who I am. I want you to know exactly who you think you love.”

  She tried to say something and I stopped her by sliding my palm up over her mouth. I didn’t want to hear her tell me she loved me. She couldn’t possibly. Not now and not ever. I wouldn’t accept it. “Shh,” I told her, driven even closer to the edge by her helplessness, by my audacity. “Just watch. And feel. How hard you make me. How wet you are. How deep I am.”

  Her fingers curled into fists and she whimpered beneath my hand, but she did as I asked, and the prolonged eye contact as I pounded mercilessly into her body sent me hurtling toward ecstasy. The muscles in my lower body tightened as unimaginable heat unfurled inside me. It was lust and anger and need. It was lies and truth, past and present, betrayal and devotion. It was love and it was hate and it was rushing, rushing, surging, cresting, erupting over and over again as my body stiffened and I poured myself into her in hot, uncontrollable bursts.

  When it was over, I took my hands off her and braced them on the bed above her shoulders. I could hardly believe I was still standing. “Fuck,” I said, closing my eyes. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d hit me. “I’m sorry, Maren.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  I opened my eyes. “I was rough with you. It was selfish.”

  “Did it seem like I wasn’t enjoying it?”

  “I have no idea. I was only thinking about myself.”

  She shook her head. “No, you weren’t. You were watching me the whole time.”

  “I shouldn’t have put my hand over your mouth. You could have been trying to say no.”

  “But I wasn’t.” She smiled. “I might be sore tomorrow, but I actually thought that was really hot.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.” Her smile turned a little shy, her eyes adoring. “You were all manly and dominant and strong. Power is sexy. I mean, I don’t want to be pushed around anywhere else, but you can get a little aggressive with me in the bedroom. I’m tougher than I look.”

  “I know you are.”

  She took my face in her hands. “And I’m crazy about you. All of you. Don’t feel like you have to hold back with me, okay? You can be your real self. That’s what I want.”

  I swallowed hard. “Maren, I have to tell you something.”

  “You can tell me anything. But can I have one second? I’m afraid of getting something on this dress, because I don’t have anything else to wear to dinner.” She squirmed, trying to make sure her dress wasn’t underneath her.

  “Oh, sure. I’m sorry.” I carefully pulled out and watched her ease off the bed.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, giving me a sheepish grin as she headed for the bathroom.

  “Take your time.” I pulled myself together and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

  Could I do this? Was I really going to admit everything? Was I ready for what her reaction was going to be? Tears and pity and sorrow and pleading with me to have the surgery—and that was if she forgave me for keeping it from her all weekend. She’d be a mess at dinner, unable to explain why, and our last night together would be ruined.

  Then there was the thing she’d said about power. You were all manly and dominant and strong. Power is sexy. If she knew the truth, she’d never see me that way again. She’d see me as sick and weak and at the mercy of other people. Smarter people. Like Finn.

  The bathroom door opened, and she came out looking as perfect as she had when she’d walked in. “All good,” she said, her smile fading as she got closer to me. “You okay?”

  I stood up. “I’m fine. Ready to go?”

  Her head tilted to one side. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”

  “It was nothing,” I lied. The disappointment in her face gutted me.

  “It didn’t sound like nothing. Come on, tell me.” She slipped her arms around my waist.

  “I just—wanted you to know how much this weekend has meant to me. That’s all.”

  She smiled up at me. “Me, too.”

  “Should we head out?”

  “Yes.” But she hesitated. “There’s nothing else you want to tell me?”

  “No.” I could hardly meet her eyes. “That was it. I’ll just use the bathroom real quick, and then we’ll go.”

  “Okay.” She let go of me, and I hurried into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I avoided the mirror.

  What the fuck was I going to do?

  Dinner was a struggle.

  Not because of the company—Maren’s sisters seemed great, and everyone was making an effort with me, but my head was not in the game.

  “So, Dallas, I hear you’re a tattoo artist?”

  I blinked at the guy who’d asked the question. Walter, his name was, although it was hard not to think of him as Buzz after Maren’s stories. He was tall and thin and professorial-looking, clean shaven with neatly combed sandy blond hair and wire-rim glasses. “Yes.”

  “That must be interesting work.”

  “Yeah.” When I didn’t go on, Maren spoke up.

  “Dallas is amazingly talented. He used to draw things on people with a Sharpie at parties in high school. He once did this incredible design on my arm I never wanted to wash off.”

  “I remember that.” Emme nodded enthusiastically. “Mom was so mad at you.”

  “She was.” Maren laughed. “Every time she saw it, she would groan and tell me to go put long sleeves on.”

  “Ever do any tattoos of bees?” Walter asked. “I’ve sometimes thought about getting one.”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  The conversation stalled.

  “Nate, do you have any tattoos?” Maren asked Emme’s fiancé. He was dark-haired and thicker through the chest and shoulders than Walter, and he had a little bit of facial hair, but I was willing to bet he was not the type to have ink under his expensive suit. I hadn’t tattooed a lot of lawyers in my life.

  “I don’t,” he said. “I’m actually not a huge fan of needles near my skin.”

  Emme looked at him. “You’re afraid of needles? I didn’t know that.”

  “I said I wasn’t a fan of needles, not that I was afraid of them. Big difference.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right.”

  The oldest sister, Stella, tried to draw me out a different way. “So you’re in Portland, I hear? How do you like it out there?”

  “I like it.”

  “I’ve never been there,” she went on, “but I’ve heard it’s really nice.”

  “I’d like to visit Oregon wine country,” said Emme. “I love Willamette Valley pinot noir. Have you ever done any winery tours or anything?”

  “No.” From my right I could sense Maren’s unease with my failure to make conversation, so I tried to think of something else to say but couldn’t.

  My appetite wasn’t good, so when the food came I took a few bites, but mostly just pushed it around on my plate.

  “Do you not like the lamb?” Maren asked quietly. “I can share my gnocchi with you if you’d like.”

  “No, thanks. The lamb is good. I guess I’m just not that hungry.”

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile.

  Everyone else at the table chatted easily, and it was obvious th
e three sisters were very close. They teased each other without being mean, and were quick to praise one another’s talents and accomplishments. Stella spoke glowingly of Emme’s knack for taking an empty space and turning it into a bride’s dream come true, even on a budget, and Maren blushed when Emme complimented her volunteer efforts at schools in underserved communities in rural areas. “Those kids would never have the opportunity to take a yoga class at a studio,” she said. “And did she tell you about how she got one company to donate mats to a women’s shelter?”

  “No.” I looked at Maren, whose cheeks grew even pinker.

  “She did. And then she went there and taught classes for free, not just yoga but mindfulness and meditation and—what was the other one, Mare?”

  “Affirmations.”

  “Oh, right.” Emme laughed. “I still remember my affirmation from when you dragged me to that class.” She sat up taller and recited it proudly. “I am deserving of a supportive, loving, awesome relationship.”

  “And see? It worked.” Maren gestured at Emme and Nate. “Once you said it enough, it created the right kind of energy for the relationship to happen.”

  “The right person helped, too,” Emme said, patting Nate on the arm.

  The right person. I looked at the other guys at the table—a college professor and an attorney, neither of whom, presumably, had a brain tumor or a gigantic secret he was keeping from the woman next to him—and felt like a fucking disaster. These were good guys. They had everything to offer. They’d done everything right. They were smart and honest and played by the rules, and life had rewarded them for it.

  Why can’t you be more like your brother? my parents used to ask me. I’d hated it. I didn’t know why I couldn’t be more like him. I just wasn’t. But sitting there at that table, I wished more than anything I had been.

  Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck in this lie, stuck in this impossible situation where I had to either forfeit the love of my life or drag her down a dark, miserable road.

  I looked over at her, and she smiled at me. She was so beautiful it hurt. So good to people around her. So loyal to everyone she loved. If I didn’t set her free, she’d waste all her time trying to take care of me.