by Sybil Bartel
“No,” I barked. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “That was me.” Not wanting to touch her, wanting to touch every fucking inch of her, I gritted my teeth and grabbed her hand. “I need a shower,” I muttered, pulling her toward the door.
She pulled out of my grasp. “I can’t….”
“I know.” Selfishly not wanting to hear her finish that sentence, I took her face in my hands again. Then I stomped on her trust all over again as I purposely misconstrued her words. “I’ll get you home. I’ll keep my hands to myself, and we’ll get through this.”
Her face wrecked with grief, she merely nodded, taking the bullshit I fed her.
Swallowing down guilt, I took her hand and her trust, neither of which I deserved, and I pushed through the exit.
One Year Later
MY FOOT TAPPING OUT a rhythm, my fingers drumming against my leg, I stared at my phone knowing I shouldn’t.
I sent the text anyway.
Hey. You home?
I only had six days. Five now. I’d taken the first flight home I could get, but it’d eaten up twelve hours. Now I was parked outside her house, watching the TV flicker in the living room, wondering if it was her or her brother watching.
I was playing with fire.
I hadn’t seen her since the funeral. I hadn’t seen either of them in a year. But I’d texted her. Three times a week, every week, whether she answered or not. She’d told me her brother was home, but I hadn’t heard from him since he’d lost his shit at his mother’s funeral.
I scrubbed a hand over my face.
Come on, Elyssia.
My cell buzzed with an incoming text, and my heart jumped.
Hi. You’re in town?
My thumbs flew across the keyboard.
For a few days. You busy right now?
I should’ve texted Marcus and checked up on him. But the fucker hadn’t called me either. Last time I saw him, we’d fought. It was hours after his mother’s funeral, and he was drinking himself into a fucking coma. I’d told him to pull his shit together for his sister’s sake. He’d told me to stay away from Elyssia. Then he’d shipped back out and texted me a week later. He demanded I keep an eye on her, but from a distance, or he’d kill me when he got back home. Fucking dick.
I stared at my phone as the three dots appeared.
Now isn’t a good time.
What the hell did that mean? I looked up at the house. None of the upstairs lights were on. Was she with someone? Marcus wasn’t exclusive in his hatred of me even looking twice at his sister. There was no way he’d let some asshole upstairs in her room. Not if he was home.
I stared at the house another minute. It wasn’t even eight.
Screw it.
I got out of my Jeep, walked to the front door and knocked before I could change my mind.
Five seconds later, the door was thrown open and the best friend I used to have glared at me. “What the fuck do you want?”
Marcus Maher was always a prick, but three tours in Afghanistan had turned him into an aggressive asshole.
“Hi to you too.” I pushed past him and the fifty pounds of muscle he’d put on since joining the Marines. “How long you home for?”
Marcus slammed the door shut and chugged from the beer in his hand. “Permanently, not that you give a fuck.” He dropped the empty bottle on the coffee table next to a half dozen others.
Elyssia hadn’t told me he was home for good. “You didn’t re-up?”
“Don’t fucking bullshit me. I know Sia told you. You fucking text her all the time.” He leveled me with a challenging glare.
“No, she didn’t tell me.” I didn’t know what the hell had happened to him downrange, and I didn’t judge because I’d heard the stories. But I also wasn’t going to let him bait me. I glanced at the bottles. “I thought you quit drinking.” Marcus and alcohol was a bad fucking combination.
“Fuck you, rock star. You can leave now. Go back on tour to your groupie bitches.” He dropped to the couch, trained his glare on the TV and opened another beer.
Jesus. “Elyssia home?” I glanced up the stairs.
“Sia is asleep, and even if she wasn’t, I wouldn’t let you fucking near her.”
I called him on his bullshit. “But I was good enough to look out for her while you were deployed?”
“Fuck you, that was different. Don’t think I don’t know what you do on tour. I hear the fucking stories.”
I stupidly brought up the past. “You still pissed about that girlfriend?” After his second deployment, he’d been on leave while we’d had a show in town and he’d come backstage after the gig with his latest girlfriend. When she’d hit on me, he’d dumped her on the spot. Just like bands had groupies, this chick had been a uniform groupie—until she saw a bigger paycheck. “You were better off. You think women like that are faithful in the long run?”
“Again, fuck you. I didn’t give a shit about her. I was only fucking her. Which you will never do with my sister. Leave.”
My jaw clenched at the way he spoke about Elyssia. If I hadn’t seen firsthand how he loved the hell out of her, I’d fucking call him on it. “I didn’t just make you a promise when you deployed. I made your mom a promise too. Tell Elyssia I’m here.” It was fucking shitty of me to bring his mom up, we were all still reeling from her death, but damn it, she wouldn’t want us fighting. She’d roll over in her grave if she knew what’d become of our friendship. It was the only reason I was being respectful toward Marcus now and not walking the fuck upstairs. I knew Elyssia was awake, but I also knew if she heard us fighting, it’d upset her.
“I’m not telling her shit.”
And I wasn’t leaving until I saw her. I’d driven here selfishly wanting to see her, but now that I saw how much Marcus was drinking, I wasn’t leaving until I knew she was okay. Marcus wouldn’t hurt her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be a drunken asshole.
“Fine.” I pulled my phone out. “I will.” I shot off a quick text.
I’m downstairs.
Marcus took another swig of beer, then his tone turned eerily casual. “You think I don’t know what happened the night she drove down to Miami by herself because you wouldn’t fucking answer your phone?”
I stilled. Marcus knew our keyboardist, Aaron. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Aaron had a big fucking mouth.
Marcus’s glare cut to me, and he looked dead-cold sober. “You think I don’t know you let some whore suck your dick then you turned around and shoved your tongue down my sister’s throat?”
I didn’t react. Not one goddamn tell. “There’s nothing going on between me and Elyssia. And unlike you, I don’t fuck whores.” I glanced toward the stairs, hoping like hell she wasn’t listening.
“You put one foot on those steps, you’re dead.”
I cut my gaze back to his. “Who the fuck are you really angry at?”
He laughed like he was insane. “Trust me, asshole, it’s all you.”
Marcus and I had shockingly never come to blows. But I wanted to pound the fuck out of him right now. I no longer gave a shit how we met or that he’d beaten up the bully who was slamming his fist into my face, or that he’d brought me home afterward and his mom had fixed me up before sending me back to my asshole foster parents.
My loyalty was to his dead mother, who’d signed me up for self-defense classes right after I’d gotten beaten up. The same woman who, a week later, enrolled and paid for me and her daughter to start karate. Then she’d bartered a trade for me to get free classes if I cleaned the dojo, and that’s when I’d discovered the drum kit in the back storage area. The ripple effect of her son stepping in to beat a bully because he liked to hit people wasn’t fucking lost on me, but I was over his fucking bullshit.
My phone buzzed with a new text.
I’m already in pajamas. Tomorrow?
I glanced at Marcus as he pounded the beer in his hand. I could’ve walked out, but something more than my desire to see her was making me fucki
ng edgy. Maybe she and Marcus had argued, God knew he was an instigator, or maybe I was imagining shit, but something felt off, and I wasn’t leaving until I saw her.
I texted back.
Come to the top of the stairs, say hello, then I’ll leave.
I hit send and waited.
Marcus smirked. “What the fuck you waiting around for? She doesn’t want shit to do with you.”
Martial arts and drumming had taught me a hell of a lot more than how to keep a beat and defend myself. I had discipline in spades over Marcus. It’s why he couldn’t handle karate or anything that required attention. His vice was his fists. Mine was control. I didn’t say shit to him. Maybe Elyssia didn’t want to see me. We’d never talked about that kiss. She’d refused. Her mother had died a few days later, and I couldn’t bring myself to force the issue. I’d gone back on tour, Marcus had gone back to Afghanistan and she’d been left alone. She didn’t return my texts for a month. Not until I told her I was going to call Marcus if she didn’t reply. That night I’d gotten a two-word text back from her. I’m fine. It’d been an uphill battle since.
Three minutes later, I was about to text her again when she appeared.
My heart jumped, my throat caught on a swallow and I stared at the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on. Not girl. Woman. The stunning brunette at the top of the stairs made me want to forget her brother’s threat, take the steps two at time, and pull her into my arms.
“Hey.” I couldn’t even tell her she looked incredible. Or that I’d missed the fuck out of her.
She held on to the railing at the top step, but she didn’t come down. “Hi, Ben.”
Fuck. Her voice was softer than the flutter of my drum brushes on my snare, and the way she said my name, it made every minute of the last year fall away.
It took me thirty seconds to remember to say something. “You okay?”
“She’s fucking fine,” Marcus growled.
I didn’t take my eyes of her, but she glanced at Marcus and an expression I knew too well clouded her pretty features. “I’m good,” she said quietly, the crease in her forehead one hundred percent concern.
I would’ve been happier to see her get pissed as hell at her brother for once, but she never did. It wasn’t in her nature. She was everything sweet in my life. And in Marcus’s too, I reminded myself.
“You going to class tomorrow?” She still studied karate, but now she also taught it. I wasn’t fucking proud of myself, but I periodically called one of the instructors I knew at the dojo to check up on her.
She bit her lip and glanced at Marcus. “Probably.”
Marcus snorted.
She cleared her throat. “How’s the tour?”
“Good.” Sold-out shows, a grueling schedule and fucking groupies that made my skin crawl. I hadn’t touched a single one of them since Miami last year. Playing had become work, and I missed the fuck out of the girl who’d smiled at me since she was fifteen years old.
Elyssia nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad.” Looking uncomfortable as hell, she pointed to her bedroom. “Well, I’m going to….” She trailed off.
“Go.” I tipped my chin. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
“The fuck you will,” Marcus warned.
I ignored him. “Good night, Elyssia.”
“It’s Sia,” Marcus corrected.
Elyssia pulled both lips into her mouth. I’d seen her do the exact same thing countless times, and it was always when she was nervous. I wanted to fucking punch Marcus.
I gave her half a smile. “It’s okay. Get some sleep. I’ll talk to you soon.” Fuck Marcus.
She disappeared into her room.
I turned on Marcus. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You think you’re doing her a favor by acting like an asshole?”
“I’m not acting, and she was fine before you showed up.”
I should’ve fucking left. “She’d be a hell of a lot better if you didn’t cause tension.” I sat down in the only chair and glanced around at the old living room. TV stand, coffee table, couch and chair. That was it. I swore there was more furniture last time I was here.
“Don’t get comfortable. You’re not staying.” Marcus chugged the rest of the beer in his hand.
“I’ll get as comfortable as I want.” Asshole. I’d paid the mortgage off on the house when his mother, Helen, was moved to hospice.
“I don’t give a fuck what you think your money buys, you don’t live here and you sure as shit don’t own this house.”
“Neither do you.” The house was in Elyssia’s name, I’d made sure of it. “When you getting your own place?”
“You think I’m moving out so you can fuck my sister?” He snorted then trained his lethal glare on me. “Never fucking happening. I live here. You don’t. Leave.”
Two more months, I reminded myself. Two more months of the tour, then I could beat the fuck out of him. But right now I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of egging me on and risk fucking my hands up.
Inhaling, I spoke with a calm I didn’t have. “Pass the fuck out and I will.”
He let loose with a sick laugh. “You think I’m gonna pass out after a few beers?”
Fucking asshole. Nine empties wasn’t a few, but he had a point. He’d need double that, at least. The fucker had to be pushing two-seventy now. “Why don’t you do us both a favor and switch to hard alcohol.”
“You telling me to drink now?”
“I’m telling you to quit being an asshole. Your sister doesn’t deserve that.”
“What the fuck do you know about deserve?” He spit the last word out. “You think you deserve millions for banging fucking sticks together, looking pretty and fucking groupies?” He tossed the empty bottle on the coffee table. With the crack of glass hitting glass, it fell to its side and rolled. “You don’t know how fucking lucky you have it. You and the assholes in your band are fucking free because people like me protect your worthless ass.”
“Protected,” I corrected. I was just as big an asshole as him for pointing out the difference, but I was past giving a fuck about his attitude.
“You got two seconds to get the fuck out before I finally pound you like the pussy you are.”
I decided I didn’t give a shit about the risk to my hands. “Go for it.” He was fucking insane if he thought he could take me. I didn’t care what the Marines or his MMA training had taught him. His reactions times were slow, he didn’t read people, and his only game was brute force. I wasn’t a black belt in karate for show. I knew how to fucking take assholes like him down.
Marcus abruptly stood up and loomed over me. Face raging, fists clenched, he looked down at me and seethed. “Out of respect for my mother, you’re still in one piece. And out of respect for my sister, I’m not gonna tell her she can’t fucking talk to you. But if you weren’t such a self-centered dick, you’d take a fucking walk and not come back. We don’t need you or your fucking money or your goddamn groupies. Go fuck with some other family.” He stormed to the door and yanked it open before looking back at me one more time. “She knows not to let you upstairs. She knows what fucking rock stars do on the road. Go find your own piece of ass.” He slammed the door shut.
A few seconds later, his truck started up and tires peeled out of the driveway.
My stomach bottoming out, wondering if he’d fucking told her about the Miami show, I pulled out my phone and sent her a text.
He’s gone.
My heart pounding double time, I waited for those three dots.
A few seconds later they appeared, followed by her response.
I heard. Please leave.
I WAS GOING TO die.
Crushing pain, blows raining down on back, my lungs struggling for just enough air to stay alive, I wondered if it’d all been worth it. Everything I’d given up. The sacrifices. The watching, the waiting, the coaxing, the talking, the begging. I wanted it to be enough. I prayed it’d been enough. But with his fists beating into my fle
sh with a fury more powerful than logic or reason, I wasn’t sure anymore.
Sweat, spit, tears—his, mine—I was covered in rage and grief, but I clutched the small bottle to my chest, hoping I’d made a difference.
“Please,” I begged. “Stop.”
“Give. Them. To. Me.” Each word was punctuated with a new blow.
A merciful blackness crept toward the edge of my vision and dulled the pain enough for my brain to make a connection. “You don’t,” I panted, unable to get the rest of the thought out.
“Now.” His large hand backhanded me.
My head snapped back and my body lurched from the impact. Involuntarily rolling to my side, too much pressure hit my bruised back, and I cried out. Air rushed into my mouth, but it never made it to my lungs.
“You don’t want this,” I rasped, finishing the thought.
His face inches from mine, he screamed, “Give them to me!”
He could have forced me to give them up, but he didn’t. I tried to grasp at the significance of that, but the pain was consuming me, and blackness was edging in. I couldn’t remember why this was important. All I knew was, I had one last shot at this.
Out of time, out of air, out of fight, I threw down the only thing I had left. “Kill me first.”
An inhuman roar split through the house. Like a war-hardened gladiator rising from the ashes of battle, he rose to his feet. Muscles rippling, rage scarring his features, his hands stilled.
Oh my God. Finally.
I smiled through the blood in my mouth.
He picked up the glass-and-wood coffee table, raising it above his head.
Slow, like the world had gone into a crawl, his teeth bared, his arms flexed, and my smile dropped. Then the horror that’d become my life jumped into fast motion. The coffee table came crashing down with impossible force.
I reached for the leg of the couch and pulled. My body rolled. Pain shot up my back, and shattered glass flew everywhere.
Footsteps stomped across the floor.
I coughed up blood.
The front door flew open and banged on its hinges.
