by Angel Payne
“Yes.” Tyce lifts his ale and takes a long swig from the frosty bottle. “And no.”
A pulse ticks in Reece’s jaw. “And did you know I was Alpha Two?”
Tyce knocks back a longer drink. “I had a damn strong hunch.”
I grip the side of the table and lurch forward. “And you didn’t do a damn thing to try to help him?”
Reece curls a hand around my shoulder with misleading calm. “He couldn’t, Velvet. No more than I could help him. And believe me, though I had no idea who he was, I wanted to.” His words are crunchy with emotion.
Tyce not only hears it all but wears an answering wave of emotion across both sides of his face. Yeah, even the mottled putty of his bad side is twisted with the stuff. “Of course you wanted to—because that’s the kind of person you are.”
Reece’s gaze bugs. “Oh? That so?”
Tyce shakes his head. “And there you go again, trying to cover it up.”
“Says the guy capable of changing from my brother into other people at will?”
“Just my face,” Tyce counters.
“Great. Thanks for that clarification.” Reece’s grimace betrays his mix of confusion, frustration, and straight-up fear. “Do we get the behind-the-scenes on your cover-up now too? Or morphing. Or holographing. Or CGI shit. Whatever. Different definitions, same cover-up job, right?”
As his rant ramps higher, I wrap one of his hands in both of mine. It’ll likely do little to help him calm down, but I have to at least try.
“Listen to what he’s saying, baby,” I urge. “Please.”
But Reece’s features are already in granite-cliff mode, fortifying his ramparts before Tyce or anyone else can nick them. Throwing up the ramparts is as easy as breathing for him, since he’s been doing it his whole life—a truth I likely knew somewhere deep inside even before Trixie Richards verified it during our lunch last week. The woman simply provided the details to back my intuition. This man was once a boy who desperately wanted to matter to his family; he then grew into a teen who acted out so he would; and then he became the young man who turned that act into an art form. And he would’ve spent his whole life perfecting that masterpiece if not for the six months that altered the portrait forever.
That mashed up the paint…
A situation his brother gets now more than ever.
But my surety of it goes beyond the literal symbolism of Tyce’s twisted-paint flesh. The same instincts that haunted me for so long about Reece have returned as emotional wraiths on behalf of his brother too—shades that fly tighter and closer with every passing minute we’re spending with the guy. By now, they’re starting to help me snap logistical beads together about all this…
Connections that hold tight, despite Reece’s sneering retort to my appeal. “Listen to him?” he snaps, adding a rough chuff. “And you’d be referring to…what, exactly, sweetheart? An account of how he’s seen the light about the integrity of my soul? About how the hell of the Source opened up some heaven of cosmic collectiveness for him, and now he wants to be buddies? Bond over ‘the good ol’ days’ under the Consortium’s thumb?” He see-saws his head, aiming his ears for opposite shoulders. “And electrodes. And probes. And needles…”
“He was there.” Angelique stuns the rest of us with her vicious spew. “He was there, you bastard—and paid just as high a price for it as you.”
My jaw falls an inch more when she all but filets Reece with the jade glass of her glare. In that look, the subtext of her statement is clear. By just as high a price, she really means that Tyce’s final ticket was much higher than Reece’s.
“Angelina,” he murmurs, kissing her knuckles. “Hell doesn’t pick favorites. None of us was unchanged by that hive of horror.”
And there’s my opportunity to speak up. None will be better. During the three seconds Angelique takes to answer him with a quiet fume, I lean forward to examine Tyce at much closer proximity. Searching for the truth that has to be gnawing at him from inside—the part of the confession he’s debating about how to express.
“Only there’s one huge difference to your experience,” I issue. “Isn’t there, Tyce?” I slide my hand free from Reece’s, needing the added authority of the pose. “You volunteered to go into that hive of horror, didn’t you?”
REECE
I’m waiting.
Still waiting.
Any second now, Tyce is going to capitulate to a tell. He has at least twenty, and I know them all. When we were younger, I actually studied them and learned every one of their meanings. When I grew up, I tried emulating them—and even succeeded. A finger to his lips? He’s still figuring out the most smartass way to trump someone. Subtle scrunches at the corners of his eyes? He’s already tossed out his respect for the guy. Small jut of his jaw? He’s in a corner and he’s going to come out swinging. Hard.
But my brother has answered Emma’s allegation with nothing but stillness. Openness. A calm that has me wondering why someone isn’t barging into the room to proclaim him the next Dalai Lama.
What. The. Living. Fuck?
My lips part, and I’m tempted to blurt exactly that. I’m not sure how, because there’s no room inside me for a goddamned thought around the edges of my astonishment, but somehow I choke down a breath. But as soon as I inhale, the accusing words threaten again. Not that I can form them—any more than I can believe what I’m seeing. Across both sides of this fucker’s face.
“Tyce?” My utterance is ragged on the air, blending with the soft music filtering from down below. It’s French Elton John again, only today he’s singing “Daniel.” As the crooner starts in about his brother heading for Spain, my chest tightens like miles of knotted, wet rope. I know that Tyce gets it after one second’s worth of his sad half smile. “Tyce.” I can’t help growling it. “Goddamn—”
He ropes me back by lifting one finger. Then, as he lowers it, exhaling like a man three times his age. “First, for the record”—he arcs an eyebrow at Emma, irking me and encouraging me at once—“I didn’t volunteer for a fucking thing.” He swings his stare all the way back around, now revealing the subtle glow behind his eyes. His color is different than mine, luxurious pewter and chrome instead of a dying sparkler, which actually gives me a second of electricity envy before he continues. “And second, I’m only telling you the whole story because it’s vital that you know all this now, not because I need a fucking Teddy Ruxpin. So keep it parked over there, shit sprocket.”
I touch two fingers to my temple. “Yes sir, Ricey Tycey.” Then smirk because I can, having dealt a blow on behalf of little brothers across the globe. It’s the last chance I’ll get for a while. I resecure my hold on Emma with hardly a conscious thought. I need the knowledge of her there. The life in her pulse. The comfort of her grasp. The core courage to which she’s inspired me just by asking the toughest question of this exchange.
How the hell did Tyce wind up in the Consortium’s grip?
Across the table, my brother nearly drains his bottle. “So once upon a time, there was this dude, Reece Richards, who disappeared off the face of the planet…”
“And his brother was the only one who noticed?” I return.
“Ding, ding, ding.” Tyce rings an imaginary bell.
“How’d you know?” I ask. “Because those assholes were damn good at covering every angle of the illusion.”
Angelique’s face pinches as if she’s been stabbed. “Using me as the girl with the mirror and the drape, for which I will never be able to apologize to you enough, Reece.”
“Water under the bridge,” I murmur—despite the fact that I’ll never be able to forget falling from that bridge. Writhing on a lab table as the faceless monsters in the lab brought in a monitor so I could watch myself attending some fashion show in New York with a model I’d never met, an orchestrated stunt for the paparazzi performed by a putz who looked like me. The same night, I was apparently at a Broadway sneak preview, dining with another model, and hitting the hottest night
club in town—different venues and different putzes—for the very reason Tyce explains now.
“That was just the problem,” he states. “An illusion is only as good as its distractions, and distractions have to be believable.” With the tip of a finger, he traces the condensation left behind by his bottle. “And none of that bullshit was believable, even for a hardcore stud like you.” The undamaged side of his mouth quirks. “Thing is, it takes another stud to know that.”
I groan. Emma and Angelique giggle.
“So you started to suspect something was hinky?” I interject.
He narrows his eyes. “Did you really just say ‘hinky’?”
Emma tucks her knee under her backside. “He picked it up from me.”
“Well, in that case, it’s cute.”
I yank a daisy out of the vase on the sideboard and lob it at him. “Brooding Phantom thing or not, I’m not above breaking your knees.”
“I believe that is your cue to continue, ma panthère.” Angelique purrs into his ear.
My brother turns his head and leans toward her with every focus of his being, as if the only place he can fathom “continuing” is in the bedroom. I feel my gaze narrowing. Their affection is kind of gross yet really cool. And my gut has never been weirded out more.
But after a second, Tyce is back with all of us and cocking both elbows to the table. Thank fuck. With his fingertips, he twirls the flower I’ve just tossed. His expression seeps again with that contemplative sadness, as if the flower fascinates and infuriates him at once. I know what he’s feeling. I’ve been there. Holy fuck, have I been there. Asking so many questions, only to learn they circle back to just two key queries.
Why did I survive?
And why are there so many moments when I wish I hadn’t?
“So, yeah,” he begins again, his murmur as quiet and careful as before. “I noticed something was…hinky.” He winks at Emma. “And the more I started really looking at everything, the crazier it all got. I mean, beyond crazy. Did you know that one night, ‘you’ were actually in Ibiza and Milan at once?”
I snort, attempting to infuse it with a laugh. “Christ. They’d really have to crown me the world’s party god then, yeah?”
Angelique joins my chuckle, but I can see Emma isn’t amused—and, I sense, not for the obvious reasons. The way she bites her lower lip and drums a couple of fingers against the table conveys a violence that’s not normal for her.
I don’t waste any time angling my head and penetrating her with a silent message. What is it, Velvet?
There have been rare occasions when she’s grateful I’ve read her mind. Thank fuck this is one of them. After a short but meaningful huff, she discloses, “I’m finding it hard to believe that a group of genius-level criminals were that stupid.”
Angelique shrugs. “Einstein loved to sail but did not know how to swim,” she offers. “And Michelangelo never bathed.”
Emma grimaces. “Ew.”
“You ever study Tesla?” Tyce’s question earns him a new smirk and kiss from Angelique. Again, I’m not sure whether to laugh or glower for myself. Are my brother and Angie, who in another life would be invited to every red carpet on earth for their combined sophistication factor, really trading factoids about dead geniuses?
“But this was just standard logic,” Emma insists. “Granted, a lot of people wouldn’t notice just because they didn’t follow the celebrity gossip mill, but there are a lot of other people who do keep up with that stuff. I have to believe that someone, somewhere—”
“Yeah,” Tyce cuts in. “And that someone was me.”
I redirect my gaze over to him again, ensuring he sees the gratitude in my eyes. What I don’t show him, or anyone else here, is the doubling of my confusion. For close to twenty years now, I’ve thought my brothers only tolerated me. Forget about whether they’d notice if I’d been gone for several years, let alone months. But I can’t say that my behavior earned their regard, either. After high school, I gave up trying. To know Tyce was paying attention, even if it was just by a few glances, cranks the winches holding the ropes across my chest.
“And after you started looking at all the hinky pieces”—I quirk an edge of my mouth—“what did you do with them?”
My brother’s growl drops between his ribs. “What I probably shouldn’t have done.”
And in the middle of my own torso, a thrum of dread gains a lot of volume. “You went to Mom and Dad.”
He grows very still.
Then ominously quiet, even while tossing back one last sip of his ale—before returning the bottle to the table with a violent slam, which makes both women recoil.
I don’t join them in the flinch. I expected the outburst. “It’s all right, T.” I murmur it despite knowing it won’t lighten his bitterness by any degree. “I would’ve done the same thing.”
He truly seems to absorb my words. Not the comfort I send with them, but at least the truth of what I’m saying. “They told me I was being a drama queen,” he confesses. “Those were Dad’s words, at least.”
I swallow. It burns. “And what were Mom’s?”
“Not the same, of course. More to the effect that we all had to accept that your oats were wilder than Chase’s or mine, and we had to be patient and wait for you to work it out of your system.”
I clench my jaw. That hurts too. “All out of my system,” I grate. “So…even when I didn’t call or get in touch…”
“She was still getting texts from your number, man. We all were.”
I whoosh out a harsh breath. “Of course.”
“And of course, the week I took all my hunches to Mom and Dad—”
“You mean your hinky hunches?”
He twists his lips. “Now who’s begging for a knee breaking?”
“Move along, move along.” I flick the tips of my fingers against the air, savoring the chance to toss shade only a brother could get away with. And damn, do I mean savoring. Never have I dared to believe that I’d be able to mess around with either him or Chase this way. The bonds have always seemed permanently severed. Yeah, the three of us were always linked by the threads all siblings share, woven into the fabric of our lives by the commonality of a shared childhood—but that childhood was a long damn time ago, and sometimes “water under the bridge” just means the riverbed has gone dry. But my river is filling up again, flowing as sweetly as the music from downstairs that talks about brotherhood and scars and seeing things beyond the face of the stars…
“Anyhow,” Tyce goes on, adding his mushed-skin version of an irked brow, “that was the week when some man-bun choad from the press decided to float the theory that it wasn’t really you next to that catwalk in New York.” He shakes his head while returning a finger to the bottle condensation race. “Pffft. What a tool.”
I laugh without humor. “I think I know the one.”
“The only person on the planet who believed him was Mom, who thought it was cute that Reece look-a-likes were springing up everywhere.”
I grunt softly. “That’s not surprising.”
“You have a point.”
“Now let me guess Dad’s reaction.”
“Why?” Tyce retorts. “You that much into pain?” Again with his funny mottled-brow lift. “You been giving me hinky all this time when you really mean kinky?”
“Move along.” I jab up a middle finger as embellishment.
“Ah, well. Since the spoilers have already been given, I’ll move quickly past Dad’s part—except to say that he dismissed you with impressive speed as a waste of humanity.”
“Impressive, huh?”
Tyce is waiting with a down boy hand in response to my obvious seethe. “Cut the updraft, lightning boy. I meant impressive in that he left an impression—and it wasn’t exactly the stuff I’d write a Father’s Day card about.” As he lowers his hand, he huffs tightly. “I was so grinded about it, I even went back the next day and called him on it.”
My bark is all acid. “Bet that w
ent over well.” Translation? I’m beginning to get a picture of how my beautiful but ruthless brother began the transformation into this marred creature who is, for all intents and purposes, the only person I can call a comrade from the hive.
“Well, it didn’t go over at all,” Tyce replies.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that.” Both sides of his face convey perplexity. “I asked him why, even after I presented clear evidence that things were off when booting up the Reece Richards hashtag, and didn’t get one shred of a replay from the night before. Not a single wounded papa bear call-out. Not half a growl about you pissing on the Richards legacy. Not even a self-righteous Billy Idol sneer.”
Next to me, Emma makes a fast-fisted upswing. “I knew it.” Then makes a duh face at me. “Idol? Your dad? Hello?”
Jesus God, she’s enchanting.
As I take a second to press a smitten kiss to her lips, Tyce focuses out the window, as if attempting to memorize the trees in the garden. But I already know his mind’s eye has flown all the way back to New York, reliving a memorably strange meeting with our father. After hearing his admission, I’m damn sure I’d choose the same option.
“I’ve never seen Dad look that way,” he utters. “Like he had some kind of crystal ball into a truth no one could see. He was…quiet. Distant. Barely there with me.”
The bands across my chest constrict again. I breathe in and out, seeking the place inside where I can stow away enough emotion so I don’t turn into a glowing isotope right now. “Did he say anything?”
Tyce wheels his posture back around and looks up—but he’s only looking, not seeing. Inside, he’s still at Richards Hall, probably in the library or Dad’s study, with the gardeners buzzing outside and weirdness cascading inside.
“He said that you weren’t my worry,” he utters. “That you were doing just fine, that all would be ‘sorted out’ in a while, and that I needed to just get back to my life and stop fixating on yours.” After two ponderous blinks, he’s back in the here and now, though he’s brought something back from the memories. Casually put—because this moment needs that shit—he’s got the feels. A lot of them. Emotions, I’d always assumed, that he literally didn’t have the DNA for.
