The Good Luck Sister

by Jill Shalvis

  She reached across Dylan for the pack of crackers she had on her nightstand. Her arm brushed his and she felt a tingle make its way through her body. “Here,” she said, dipping the cracker first into the peanut butter and then the jelly, and holding it out to him.

  He opened his eyes and then smiled. “PB and J for dinner.”

  “Is there anything better?”

  “No.” He sat up gingerly enough that she worried he’d been hurt elsewhere as well, but when he saw the look on her face, his eyes went dark. “Don’t,” he said and took the cracker, shoving the whole thing in his mouth.

  “But—”

  “Not talking about it, Tee.”

  They dipped crackers into the peanut butter and jelly until they were both full. Actually, she got full right away, but she didn’t want him to stop until he was full as well, so she totally overate.

  And then had to open the top button on her jeans.

  After, Dylan pulled her down with him to the bed again and closed his eyes. She thought that she couldn’t think of another place she’d rather be. She wanted them to grow up and still do this, still be like this. She’d be an artist and he’d be . . . “Dylan?” she whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you want to be when you get older?”

  “Alive.”

  Her heart pinched. “I mean as a job.”

  His hand squeezed hers. “It doesn’t matter,” he said a little dully.

  She knew what that meant. He didn’t see himself making it out, and that made her so sad that she couldn’t speak for a long moment.

  As if he knew he’d brought her down, he stirred himself and changed the subject. “Did you finish your biology homework?”

  “Shh,” she said. “I’m sleeping.”

  “Tee.”

  “You can help me tomorrow,” she murmured softly, letting herself relax against him, purposely letting him think she was exhausted.

  She felt when the tension finally left him and he fell asleep. Only then did she allow her eyes to close. She was comfortable and she should’ve been thrilled because she never slept as well as she did when he was in her bed. But worry for him kept her up long after he’d drifted off . . .

  On Wednesday, Dylan got to day two of graphic arts early, this time waiting for Tilly in the parking lot. After yesterday, he’d realized that surprising her in front of other people had been a tactical error. At the time, he’d thought seeing her in a public place might be easier for her. No, that was a lie. He’d been protecting himself.

  He’d been wrong.

  For a long time, he’d been aware that someday his mistakes would catch up with him and he’d pay. There’d been so many he also knew it was going to hurt.

  Pain had been a way of life for him growing up, so there’d been no reason it should change now, but this pain was different because it was pain he’d caused in someone else, in Tilly of all people, the only person who’d ever been there for him through thick and thin.

  There’d been a hell of a lot of thin in those days.

  And as Tilly pulled into the lot, parked, and got out of her car and caught sight of him, he could see the pain he’d caused her etched in every line of her tense body. Her big baby blue eyes, and all the emotions in them, sliced him open.

  He should’ve left well enough alone. And maybe those words would be on his gravestone, but for now he had to see this through.

  Shaking her head, she gathered her things and started toward the campus. He reached out to stop her and the little dog in her purse went apeshit.

  “Arf, arf, arf, ARF!”

  “Leo,” Tilly admonished. “Stop.”

  “Arf, arf, arf, ARF!”

  And since this was accompanied by a show of teeth, Dylan pulled his hand back, surprised because dogs loved him. “Tilly—”

  “No,” she said, and then as if she’d been holding it all in, the words burst from her like a tidal wave as she whirled back to face him. “I mean you just up and vanished on me after graduation! You said you were going off to think, which implied you’d be back. You didn’t come back, Dylan, you went into the military, which is the opposite of coming back!”

  He never took his dark gaze off hers. “I know.”

  She shook her head. “You were my best friend and the love of my life, and you never even looked back. You’re such an asshole.”

  “I know,” he repeated. “And I didn’t mean to throw you by taking your class. I just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Wanted to see you.”

  She shook her head, like she didn’t believe him, not that he could blame her. “Drop the class,” she said. “We have nothing more to discuss.”

  He knew that was the smart thing to do. He shouldn’t have come to see her, but he was back in town now for the foreseeable future and hadn’t wanted her to hear about it from anyone but him. When he’d learned she was teaching art at the community college, he’d been so proud. Art had always been her dream and she was making it come true for herself. But no amount of internet searching could tell him the one thing he needed to know more than anything else. Was she happy? So he’d had to come see her in her element. “How about business?” he said. “I hear you’re a pretty fantastic graphic artist. I’m starting up a helicopter touring company with two buddies. Wildstone Air Tours. We need a logo.”

  She turned away.

  “I’m paying,” he said.

  She froze and then slowly turned back to him. And just as it’d been yesterday at the first sight of her, it was like being punched in the gut.

  In high school, she’d been skinny, favored all black clothing, and had an attitude to match.

  She was no longer skin and bones, having filled out in all the right places. There wasn’t an ounce of black on her anywhere, but her attitude was still there and made him want to smile.

  “Are you thinking about laughing at me?” she asked in disbelief.

  “I wouldn’t dare. Are you interested in the work?”

  “I’m angry, not stupid,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Ball’s in your court.”

  She nodded and . . . didn’t move away.

  Ridiculously eager to make the moment last, he took a step closer, keeping one eye on the dog. “Vicious guard dog,” he said. “All what, four pounds of him?”

  “Six pounds.”

  Dylan eyed him. “If you say so.” He looked into Tilly’s eyes. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  She shook her head and turned away. “I’m going now. I’d say don’t call me, but that’d be a waste of breath since you won’t call anyway.”

  He deserved that and a whole lot more.

  Which didn’t explain the very rusty-feeling smile on his face.

  That afternoon, Dylan stood in the center of the hangar in the small airport just outside of Wildstone, staring at the new big sign that read: Wildstone Air Tours. Just looking at it and the two helicopters in front of him had an unaccustomed feeling settling in his chest. Tentative excitement. Tentative, because things like hope and joy had been rare commodities in his life.

  “We did it, man,” Penn said, coming up to his side and clapping him on the back. “From the suckage of boot camp to the suckage of Afghanistan to the suckage of South America, we pulled ourselves out of the ditches to become our own bosses, just like we always wanted.”

  “Yeah.” Dylan shook his head. “Hard to believe.”

  “No, what’s hard to believe is that our lives are finally going to be ours again. We might actually get some semblance of . . . normal.”

  Dylan had to laugh. He’d grown up with a drunk of a father who de-stressed by beating on his family. Penn didn’t know his dad and his mom had taken off on him when he’d been young. “What do either of us know about being normal?”

  “Good point,” Penn said with a shrug. “But it’s going to be fun to try, right?” He grinned. “Know what I�
�m going to do first?”

  “Get laid?” Ric, their third musketeer, strode into the hangar.

  “Yes!” Penn said. “That. It’s been way too long.”

  “It’s been a week,” Dylan said dryly. “The walls in our new place are way too thin and she really liked your name.”

  Penn grinned. “You’re just jealous because you haven’t had anyone like screaming your name in . . .” He looked at Ric. “Jeez, when was the last time our boy got some?”

  “He’s definitely due,” Ric said.

  “We don’t have time for that,” Dylan said. Not if they were going to make this work. He was pilot and business manager. Penn was pilot number two and their entire sales department—the guy could sell a whorehouse to a nun. Ric was the money guy. He’d come from money and tended to turn shit into gold. Together they held the lease on this hangar—which they’d been given a deal on through a contact of Ric’s. And by deal, he meant steal. They had a gratifying amount of new business clients interested. Giving tours for the local wineries. Tourist traffic at the beaches. And some taxiing of high profile clients back and forth from Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, and San Francisco.

  If only half of it came to fruition, they might actually make it.

  “There’s always time for the fairer sex,” Penn said.

  “Or not the fairer sex,” Ric said. He’d broken off a longtime relationship with his last boyfriend about six months ago for cheating on him and was finally out of the dumps.

  “No,” Dylan said. “Business first. We’ve got to get—” He broke off when someone else came into the hangar.

  The three of them turned in tandem, surprised at the sound of heels click, click, clicking across the concrete floor. Feminine steps. The setting sun slashing in the doorway made it difficult to see beyond a curvy figure and . . . a tiny little rat on a leash. Hold up. Not a rat.

  A gremlin.

  Tilly’s gremlin.

  “Excuse me,” she said, shielding her eyes, clearly not able to see them any more clearly than she could see them. “I’m looking for Dylan Scott.”

  Ric and Penn simultaneously elbowed Dylan in the sides, like maybe he was unaware of his own name. Shaking his head at them, he stepped forward out of the shadow.

  The rat—er, her dog, starting yipping at the sight of him. With a sigh, he crouched down to the thing and looked him in the eyes. “Are we going to do this every time?”

  “Arf, arf, ARF!”

  Yep, they were. He held out his fist. The pup sniffed it and seemed to accept this as a peace offering. Relieved at the silence, Dylan rose to his feet and looked at Tilly.

  Who was suddenly looking very slightly less hostile, he thought. But that might have been wishful thinking. “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I looked up Wildstone Air Tours and got this address. I wanted to talk to you.” Her eyes slid to the two men just behind him and she lowered her voice. “Business only.”

  “Got it,” he said, willing to take whatever he could get. For now.

  Penn came up to Dylan’s side, slinging an arm around his neck. “We were hoping our boy here had a woman tucked away in his hometown. But business is even better.”

  At the “woman tucked away in his hometown” Tilly narrowed her eyes at Dylan.

  Shaking his head at Penn, he spoke directly to Tilly. “This idiot is actually one of my partners. Penn.” He pointed to Ric. “And Ric here is another partner, and our CFO.” He looked at the guys. “This is Tilly Adams.”

  Both guys went brows up at the sound of her name. They’d been together long enough for them to know the whole story, but thankfully Penn kept his trap shut. They each shook Tilly’s hand.

  “If this guy gives you any trouble though,” Penn told her, “you be sure to let me know.”

  She laughed but got serious when they left. She’d changed out of her teacher clothes for a lightweight, loose halter top over cropped jeans that fit her like a glove. She’d added a pair of wedge sandals, giving her a few extra inches on her five two frame, something he knew she did when she felt she needed extra confidence.

  That she felt that with him was his own damn fault.

  “Give me a tour?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He led her around the hangar, showing her their pride and joy, their fleet of two helicopters that both he and Penn would fly as often as they could, a Bell 206 and an AStar 350.

  “Wow,” Tilly whispered reverently, running a hand along the body of the Bell. “You really fly these?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s amazing, Dylan.” She turned from the chopper to face him, her eyes searching his. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him like that, and knew at least part of her couldn’t help but see him as that sixteen-year-old kid who climbed in her window bleeding and hurting at night after his dad had beat on him.

  He hated that to the very depths of his soul.

  “You did it,” she murmured. “You got out and made something of yourself.”

  It was a reminder that at one time she’d known him better than anyone else ever had. “It’s not like I became an astronaut.”

  Something shuttered in her eyes at that. “Yeah, well, life happens, right? Shit happens.”

  He stepped toward her but she shook her head. It wasn’t Leo’s low growl that stopped him but Tilly’s expression. “I just came by to tell you that I’d give your branding a shot,” she said and pulled a card from her purse with her name and contact information. “Send me what you need. Specs. Ideas. Inspirations. Whatever you’ve got. I’ll get back to you within a week.”

  “Tilly—”

  She shook her head. “Business only,” she said, repeating her earlier words, and then was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Mondays should be optional.

  —from “The Mixed-Up Files of Tilly Adams’s Journal”

  Ten years prior:

  When Dylan missed class for the third day in a row, Tilly went to his mom’s house first. When the woman answered the door, she told Tilly that Dylan had just left.

  Tilly’s gaze strayed to his mom’s fat lip.

  “Not Dylan’s doing,” she told Tilly softly, tears in her voice.

  Which meant that Dylan’s dad had been here and there’d been another fight. She froze, remembering what Dylan had promised the last time—that he’d kill the guy if he laid another finger on his mom.

  Panic nearly choked her.

  Ten minutes later she was on a bus heading toward Dylan’s dad’s house, the address written on a piece of paper clutched in her hand. Half an hour later, she stood in front of a small ranch house. It was run-down, but there was a lot of acreage. She could smell cattle and hear mooing off in the distance.

  The house wasn’t close to any others, which didn’t feel like a good thing. Yelling was coming from inside, and then the sounds of something crashing and breaking, and she ran to the front door.

  It was locked.

  Heart racing, she pounded on it. “Dylan!”

  No answer. But she could still hear shouting inside, so she hurried around the side of the house to the back. There was a patio and a slider, which slid right open under her hand. She stepped into a living room, lit only by the spill of lights from a bedroom down the hall, from which the sounds of a fight drew her.

  Heart lodged in her throat, she looked around for something to protect herself with. Nothing. She glanced down at her hands and realized she was still clutching the soda bottle she’d bought while waiting for her bus.

  The hallway ended all too fast and then she stood in the doorway of a bedroom. Dylan was in the corner, down like he’d just fallen, blood coming from his nose and mouth, one eye swollen nearly shut, shirt ripped, watching a man twice his size come at him.

  The following Monday, Tilly watched Dylan walk into her classroom and she couldn’t even say she was surprised. He’d once been the most stubborn person on the planet and apparently not much had changed there.

&n
bsp; He sat in the front row again. On one side of him was a surfer stoner. “Dude,” the guy said. “Think she’s going to tell you to bite her again?”

  The girl on the other side of Dylan smiled at him. “You can bite me if you’d like.”

  Oh for God’s sake, Tilly thought. And yet . . . a small part of her could admit that getting her mouth on him would be . . . extremely satisfying.

  Ignoring the thought and Dylan, she concentrated on the class plan, which involved incorporating traditional sketching into graphic art. Because she believed that the two went hand in hand, they were starting with a basic drawing lesson. She had all her students sketching a bowl of fruit that was on display in the center of the room in the lap of a male model who was posed eating an apple.

  The model was Mason, a good friend and sort of ex, who was in need of work and doing Tilly a favor. She walked around the class speaking to her students about technique, all of which appeared to be going over the head of the one student she’d really hoped wouldn’t show up.

  Dylan. She’d stayed up late last night working on logos and branding for Wildstone Air Tours and had emailed him everything this morning to avoid the face to face. She realized he was watching her watch him and with a sigh, headed over there. “Problem?”

  “I can’t draw,” he admitted.

  She looked at his paper. The apple was there. That was it. “Maybe it’s because you’re staring at me instead of listening.”

  “I’m staring because today you look so much like sixteen-year-old Tilly, it’s making me crazy.”

  When he said stuff like that, she had to close her eyes and take a breath. She was wearing a black cotton sundress that was modest and comfortable, but she could admit it might be a throwback to her emo days. Her white beat-up sneakers were speckled with paint, but too perfectly worn in to toss. So yeah, okay, maybe she looked sixteen . . . “I’m not that same Tilly,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’m getting that.”

  “Are you? Because I told you not to come back and yet here you are.”

  “I got your email with the logo and branding,” he said. “You nailed it and I wanted to thank you.”