by Kennedy Ryan
“But have you?” he presses.
I look back at him and say slowly, deliberately, “Many times.”
“Dude.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Start from the beginning.”
I walk him through my early friendship with Banner and the disaster with The Pride to reconnecting over the last few months and all the grinning and grinding in between.
“So you pursued her knowing she was in a relationship with Zo?” August asks, looking pained, which pisses me off.
“Yeah. You wouldn’t know anything about going after a woman when she’s with someone else, would you?” I ask, knowing damn well I’m being an asshole.
“Jared, stop.” August shakes his head, disappointment in the look he gives me. “You know it was different with Iris. Caleb was a sociopath.”
He really was. I rub my tired eyes and blow out a long breath.
“Yeah, that was fucked-up, Gus. I just . . .” I growl and tunnel my fingers into my hair. “You want me to be sorry I took her, and I’m not. You want me to be better, and I won’t be. I’m just going to be me. I’m not noble like you and Dad, or a saint like Zo, and frankly, I have no desire to be.”
August often felt like the odd one out in our small family. With my father and I being blond, and Susan with her red hair and blue eyes, August’s mixed-race gene pool made him look like he didn’t belong, but I was the outlier. The one who saw things through smut-colored glasses and didn’t want to save the world.
I wanted to run it.
“Dude, no one expects you to be like me or your dad or anyone else,” August says. “And you’re not as bad as you think you are.”
“Well, however bad I am, she sees it, and still wants me.”
I point an accusatory finger at the wide screen television mounted above the fireplace.
“And every time I see some story about her being Zo’s rock, or how they are made for each other, or how she’s standing by him through the hardest time of his life—”
“All of which is true,” August interjects.
I just stare at him for a second, infuriated. He’s my brother. He’s supposed to be on my side, but he’s too concerned about what he thinks is right. He’s always so damn good. I can’t stand it. I’m surrounded by paragons.
“It’s not all true,” I say after taking a semi-calming breath. “She doesn’t belong with him. She belongs with me.”
“The man is fighting for his life, Jared.”
“She belonged with me before he got sick. You have your right.” I pound my heart with my fist. “I have mine, and she is my right.”
“Do you mean you’re entitled to her or that she’s right for you?”
“Both,” I snap. “And I don’t care if you judge me for it.”
“You keep saying you don’t care, but I think you do.”
“Why? Because you would? We’re brothers, Gus, but we’re nothing alike, and that’s not because we don’t share blood. We are made differently, fundamentally. I’ve never been like you and Dad. Or like your mom. And you want me to change the way I am, the things I want, what I will do to get it, to satisfy your idea of what’s right, and I won’t do it.”
“Except you are doing it,” August counters softly. “For her, you’re doing it.”
I grit my teeth because that is true. If it were up to me, I’d be with Banner and damn everything else. It’s not fair that Zo imposes this on her, on us, so that she can help him live.
“It’s the most manipulative, unfair thing, what he’s doing,” I answer. “Yet he’s the saint.”
“More manipulative and more unfair than you leveraging the charity golf tournament to insinuate yourself with Banner, knowing she was in a committed relationship?”
“Yes, because I knew what she wanted, and that it wasn’t him.”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to. If Banner loved Zo, I wouldn’t be able to sway her. She wanted to be with me. She always has, and I’ve always wanted her. I was not going to let the wrong man keep me from finally having her.”
“So you just take what you want?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t, and you know it,” he says, a frown collapsing between brows. “I waited until Iris was ready, and I gave her time. Timing matters, Jared. If you force Banner into this, and she can’t do it the way that feels right to her, you could lose her forever.”
“That won’t happen.” I make a conscious effort to unclench my fists.
“Or she could come to you, but all the things you love about her—the good, the compassion, the sense of right and wrong—could all be deconstructed and set aside for you. And then is she even the woman you love anymore?”
“I didn’t say I loved her.”
His knowing look shuts me down.
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “And do you think Zo has trouble telling Banner he loves her? After all she’s doing for him?”
I stand from the recliner and shove my hands into my pockets so I don’t punch my brother. I walk around all the time wanting to punch something, to punch someone, but there’s nowhere to direct my anger. No one to blame, other than Zo, and I can’t make myself hate him. I resent this situation, which basically means I resent life—that it is uncaring, like a bird flying overhead and not even looking down to see where its shit landed. Shit happens to us all, indiscriminately.
I don’t mind heavy. Life is heavy sometimes.
She said that in the Caribbean when we talked about my mother. It’s not just talk with Banner. She means it. She’s the kind of woman you can count on during life’s most brutal storms. Not faint-hearted.
Lionhearted.
“Look, I know it sounds like I’m against you,” August says.
“Uh, yeah. It does.”
“I want you to be happy. I want you to have what you want, who you want.”
“That’s Banner.”
“But loving someone is the most selfless thing you can do,” August says quietly. “It’s not always about what you want from that person but what you want for them. What’s best for them. What makes them the best version of themselves. I’m not saying you’re not that for Banner. Hell, I hope you are. I was beginning to worry about you.”
“Shut up,” I say, relaxing enough to laugh.
“I’m just saying that’s a different lens to look at it through, and it changes your perspective.”
“You do know that I’m the older brother, and am by all rights, the one who should be doling out sage advice.”
“Age ain’t nothing but a number.”
“Please let Aaliyah rest in peace.”
“I will if you will.”
“That doesn’t make sense.
“Does it have to?”
“August, what?” I laugh because we’ve been having these pointless conversations most of my life and always when I need them.
“But does it?” He looks like he’s pondering life’s most important questions instead of some bullshit rabbit trail he’s using to take my mind off this mess I’m in with Banner and Zo.
Thankfully, before I can answer, because who knows where that would take us, Susan, Iris, and my father join us in the den. Iris walks over and tucks under August’s arm, looping her arms around his waist. My dad takes his usual seat in the recliner, and Susan sits on his knee. They hold hands and the same tiny diamond he gave her twenty years ago still captures the light and manages to be blinding if it hits you in the eye just right.
“Where’s Sarai?” August asks, dropping a kiss on Iris’ hair.
“Torturing some stranger with a billion questions.” Iris shrugs. “I was just too glad it wasn’t me for five minutes. I’m pretty sure it was one of your cousins, though.”
“You’re pretty sure? So our daughter may be gagged and kidnapped by now, is what you’re saying?”
“Definitely gagged,” I say, making everyone laugh. “If they take her, believe me they’ll bring her back.”
<
br /> Iris reaches over and punches my arm.
“You know it’s true,” I tell her, chuckling.
“Only I can talk about her that way.” Iris mock glares at me. “Even if she did ask me to sing the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ backward today. That’s normal, right?”
“I saw her,” Susan interjects. “It was one of your cousins and her little girl. What Sarai needs is a little brother or sister.”
“I’m ready,” Iris says, widening her eyes meaningfully at August. “Your son is the holdup.”
“You say you’re ready,” August replies, pushing the fall of dark hair away from her face. “Then you’re complaining that you can’t go to the conferences you want. Or run up to the LA office and do this or do that. We have time. We’re young. There’s no rush. Do everything you want to do.”
“I want to have a baby,” she says, stretching up on her toes to reach his cheek nearly a foot above her. “And do all of those things, too.”
She looks over at me and her smile dims a little.
“A really smart woman once said I should be unafraid to want it all,” she says, smiling and searching my face for a clue to what is up with Banner and me. I’m sure August will fill her in since, apparently, they tell each other everything.
He’s so whipped.
I remember Banner saying that at the Denver conference. That she wanted to be the best in her field and have the husband and four kids. She wants it all, and God help anyone who tries to tell her she can’t have it.
Shit. Four kids? Even one like Sarai would drive me out of my mind.
Why is she so Catholic?
What if Banner has those four kids with someone else? What if she ends up with Zo? With some other guy? A better guy?
I leave the room abruptly, suddenly feeling ill surrounded by couples who have the next fifty years all figured out. I haven’t seen the woman I want in six weeks, and she’s sleeping under the same roof with a guy who is madly in love with her. So in love he forgave her for fucking me. And dammit all if I wouldn’t do the same because Banners don’t just grow on trees. They burned the mold when they made her. I know. In ten years, I haven’t found anyone even close, and now that I have a second chance, it feels like I’m losing her again. This Stella won’t cut it. I need a real drink because if I think August is whipped, feeling this way, what am I?
35
Banner
Jared feathers kisses down my back, licking between the fine-boned links of my vertebrae. Barely there touches that tease my skin and whisper over my nerve endings. When he reaches the satin edge of my panties, he tugs them down with his teeth and presses his open mouth over the curves of my ass, suctioning the generous flesh into his mouth and moaning as he marks me. I match him moan for moan as my knees are wrenched apart and cool air hits me where I’m hot and wet between my legs.
I’m on all fours, my face buried in a pillow catching the guttural noises tumbling out of me. A heavy hand caresses my back, long fingers winding into the hair at the base of my neck. He spreads my cheeks, exposing me. I’m unprepared for the wet heat of his mouth at my puckered entrance. It feels too good for me to allow self-consciousness to interfere. Oh, no. I press back into the soft lips and greedy tongue lapping at me. He holds me in place when I squirm and takes his fill.
Pleasure curls around my spine, tightening and lengthening like a coil until the onslaught of sensations make me spring. It hits me like the morning surf, lifting me so high that I crest and soar and meet the sun. Then I crash, panting for air as the water washes over me, sure that I’m drowning.
“God, Banner.”
Jared’s voice. It pours over me like hot oil, singeing my skin, leaving me slick.
“Banner.”
“Oh mi Dios sí,” I mumble.
Oh my God, yes.
“Banner.”
Something’s off in his voice. It’s the wrong kind of desperate. The worst kind of urgent. I claw my way through layers of consciousness until I break the surface of my sleep, groggy and disoriented with a pillow between my legs. I really hope I wasn’t humping a pillow. That would be a new low.
“Banner.”
It’s faint, so faint, but Zo’s voice drifts down the hall. The tone is distinct, but I can’t place it, for once can’t figure out what he needs and have never heard this in his voice. I throw off the covers and the last of my dream and rush down the hall in bare feet and the clothes I fell asleep in.
When I reach Zo’s room, I leave my heart at the door, but my body rushes forward, and I think for just a moment I’ve lost my mind. He’s on the floor, motionless.
I’m still asleep. I’m still asleep. I’m still asleep.
I repeat it in my head, like that will make this a horrible dream, but it’s too real. The deathly pallor of his face. The pulse at his neck so faint it’s crafted from butterfly wings. His breath so shallow it’s barely there.
“Zo,” I yell and shake him. “Wake up.”
Unresponsive.
He’s fainted before, extremely low blood pressure is a complication of this disease, but never like this.
“Zo, please wake up.” Hearing the fright in my voice shatters my calm, and I’m screaming and shaking and trembling from head to toe. Hot tears, liquid sorrow scalds my cheeks and pools at my neck.
“Levántate,” I beg. “Por favor. Despierta.”
Get up! Please, wake up.
I look all around the room as if someone will suddenly appear to help me, but the room is empty. On his bedside table, I catch sight of the rosary my mother sent. The one that healed Aunt Valentina. And beside the rosary is Zo’s cell phone.
I race to the bed and grab the phone, dialing on auto pilot.
“Nine-one-one,” the operator answers.
“Ayuda!” I beg for help, my mind scrambled with panic and relief. “Por favor ayúdame.”
“Ma’am, no habla español,” the operators replies, her tone flat and calm. “Is there someone who speaks English?”
“I . . . I do. I’m sorry. I do. My friend. He’s unconscious.”
I try to answer all of her questions as calmly, as accurately as I can. Within minutes, the welcome wail of the siren approaches. Zo actually stirs the littlest bit, long eyelashes fluttering against his raw-boned cheeks.
“Banner?” His voice is more a breath than a whisper. He blindly extends his hand even though he doesn’t see me, can’t know I’m there.
But he does know I’m there, and that I always will be.
“Banner, I’m fine.” Zo’s face clearly shows his exasperation. “You’re hovering.”
“I’m not hovering,” I say, standing by the bed . . . hovering. “I just . . .”
I look around for something to do and settle on fluffing the pillows propped behind his back and head. What is even the point of fluffing these? I have no idea, but it gives me an excuse to stay in the room with him.
It’s been three days since I found him unresponsive here in his bedroom. Between the attack on his kidneys and the constant diarrhea, he can easily become dehydrated. Beyond normal dehydration. He blacks out because his blood pressure drops so low. If not caught in time, it could kill him. I think my heart is still at the threshold of this bedroom where I left it when I ran to him. I fluctuate between paralyzing fear and numbness.
All the what ifs torture me. What if I hadn’t heard him? What if we hadn’t gotten him to the hospital in time? What if it happens again? The nurse was able to double her time here the last few days, but I still slept in here on top of the covers beside him, so afraid I wouldn’t hear him calling me.
“At least try to drink a little more of the smoothie.” I turn to grab the cup from the bedside table and catch him staring at my ass. “Really, Zo?”
The stern note I try to inject in my voice barely disguises the laughter. It feels like such a typical guy thing to do, and our life has been anything but typical the last two months.
“You’re beautiful, Banner,” Zo says, running his
eyes over me in yoga pants and a tank top. “A man can look, yes?”
“Sure. Whatever.” I roll my eyes and proffer the smoothie. “Drink some. You need to hydrate and haven’t been eating enough.”
“I would eat if I could. Believe me, and my taste buds are shot. Even the things I usually like taste like shit.”
He sips some of the smoothie I hold for him. As I’m pulling it back, he surprises me by the move he makes and the strength behind it. With a finger tucked in the waistband of my pants, he pulls me toward him, throwing me off balance. I fall on the bed and he leans in to kiss me. Not a gentle kiss. A who-needs-to-breathe kind of kiss. It tastes of vanilla and pineapple. Most of all it tastes like Zo. For a moment I want to just lie back and let it happen, only because it feels familiar. It feels like our old life, the life we had before this disease razed our world, laid everything to waste. And before I broke his heart and betrayed his trust. But that time has passed, and this time isn’t simple. It’s hard, and even though this would be easy, I won’t lie to him anymore.
“Zo,” I mumble into the kiss, gently pushing his frail chest. “No. We can’t.”
He flops back on his pillow, wearing a frown, his jaw sharp with displeasure.
“Have you kept your end of our bargain?” he demands.
“What?” I stand by the bed, dumbfounded that he would even ask me that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean are you fucking your other boyfriend?”
This happens from time to time, a side effect of the drugs. Wild mood swings. I don’t know if it’s the drugs or if he’s just been holding that question back, waiting for the perfect chance to throw the infidelity in my face.
“Nothing to say, Bannini?” he asks, his voice stronger than I’ve heard it in weeks, reinforced with sarcasm.
“Yes, I have something to say. I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t have sex. I don’t have an office. I don’t have a life right now, Zo.”
I swing my arm around his bedroom in an angry arc.
“I have this. I have you, my best friend who hates me.”
He grabs my hand, refusing to let go when I tug.
