The Barrett Brothers Collection

by K B Cinder

  A factory worker smartly kept his distance. He looked as tired as I felt with glazed-over eyes. His name and title were etched across his soaked shirt pocket - Karl, foreman. He looked like a Karl. Tall. Strong. Handlebar mustache. His parents deserved praise for that one.

  Mine? Not so much. Ethan allegedly meant “enduring” or “strong.” But I felt like neither. I didn’t feel like anything at all.

  Laughter exploded, a trio of twenty-somethings the last to board. A male led the way, a mullet-rocking rebel without a cause dressed in shredded denim. Every inch of exposed skin was covered in ink, fuck permanently scrawled into the flesh of his throat.

  Charming.

  A tiny thing with a mop of multi-colored hair followed close at his heels with her fingers laced in his. Her smudged eyeliner and narrow shoulders reminded me of a ferret, and as she walked by, her hoppy gait and patchouli musk only strengthened the likeness.

  Mullet and Ferret. What a pairing.

  As my eyes turned back to the closing door, everything came to a halt.

  In my travels, I’d witnessed endless sunsets from luxury yachts in Mykonos to remote lodges on Kodiak Island, but none held a candle to the girl in plum, the last of the college kids to board. A simple man would call the shade purple, but I knew plum when I saw it. A touch moodier than boysenberry but lacking the sorrow of mulberry, plum was a color of seriousness, something the dark-haired beauty lacked woefully.

  Her yipping laugh flew through the railcar as she hurried to catch up with Mullet and Ferret, each sputter sending her shoulders bouncing along with her hair, a wild bob straight from the hipster scene uptown. It matched the ridiculously small backpack hanging between her shoulder blades, edgy veggie embroidered in green across it with a broccoli patch.

  College girls flooded the streets destined for the North End daily, but Plum stood out with her off-the-shoulder romper, legs bared to the thigh. Others would elongate them with heels or wedges, but not Plum. She donned black ballet flats and not a hint of makeup, rain droplets beading down the bridge of her pierced nose. While everyone else brushed away the rain, Plum wore it without care, still laughing despite the large wet splotches on her romper.

  Frowns and glares shot her way cracking the formerly-frozen figures. Each shrill laugh cracked something more within me, the first thing I’d felt in ages. Annoyance? No. Excitement? Not quite.

  All I knew was that suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Each breath was more labored than the last.

  What the fuck?

  Warmth ignited in my chest, a heatwave spreading as I struggled for air, Pukey eyeing me with wide eyes before scooting away, not wanting to catch whatever I had like he wasn’t a walking Petri dish himself.

  He could only hope to catch such a thing, really, as the first deep breath brought me back to life, eyes still fixed on Plum.

  Beautiful, perfectly imperfect Plum.

  Full, pouty lips. Smooth, caramel skin. Sparkling hazel eyes. A ridiculous ‘do beginning to rebel against whatever she’d used to tame it, rain outing her as having naturally curly hair here and there.

  Another laugh exploded, more lively than the last, the other riders not even shy about their disdain.

  But I didn’t flinch.

  The haze had lifted, clarity cutting through, making quick work of the weight that had been drowning me.

  A silly girl flipped a switch that nothing had touched, barreling through the brick wall as if it were nothing - not the life-crushing force that had been beating me down.

  And she’d done it all without saying a word.

  It was madness.

  Every laugh fed my soul; every smile stoked the flames. Stop after stop, we went along, and as the train slowed each time, I hoped she’d stay, not ready to lose her. I’d soak up her rays as long as I could, and I’d find a way to keep her sunshine pouring in.

  I’d been unsure for so long, but one thing was finally clear.

  At long last, I’d finally found my muse.

  Ethan

  Two Years Later

  “That’s a load of cat turds!”

  A snarl of disgust followed from the sofa as Kee launched her book across the room. The paperback somersaulted through the air until it hit the wall next to the key rack, falling to land with a soft plop on the floor.

  Ok then.

  She’d been peacefully reading while I worked, her previous attempts at fixing her website leaving a jumbled mess of code for me to sort out. The author must’ve really pissed her off to make her toss one of her beloved book babies. Especially the latest in her favorite series.

  “Everything good?” I asked, peering over her laptop from my perch at the kitchen island. Hopefully she wasn’t planning on throwing anything at me. I didn’t have the reflexes to dodge incoming fire after a long day.

  “No!” She flew upright, hazel eyes wide like a woman possessed. “Everyone knows that vampires mate for life! Everyone!”

  “Wait a minute…” I trailed, feigning shock with a hand splayed dramatically over my chest. “Are you saying…everyone?” It might not have been the brightest idea to poke the bear, but it’d be worth a book to the head.

  “Yes!” Her arms flew high above her head, another aggravated roar exploding. “They don’t cheat on their soulmates! And that’s not how you end a four-book series!”

  “Well, aren’t they undead? They can’t really mate for life then, right?” I couldn’t contain the grin tickling my lips, knowing the words would only push her buttons.

  I could feel the daggers she shot from a mile away, her eyes narrowing into slits. “Oh hush it!”

  “And do they have a soul? I thought that’s a human thing?” I smiled wider, deleting a stream of nonsense entered as a widget on her site. It wasn’t the problem, but it didn’t make sense either. She could’ve saved us both a lot of aggravation by asking for my help before testing out her coding skills, but Kee was Miss Independent to a T.

  “Monte does - er- did! He was my book boyfriend for life until he turned into a cheating jerk!” She pressed her fingers to her temples in frustration, her powder-blue blouse riding up just enough for the soft planes of her stomach to show.

  I grabbed my bottle of Barrett’s IPA to wash down the sudden knot in my throat. My brother’s signature brew did the trick, allowing me to speak rather than choke. “Wouldn’t you technically be just as guilty since he was the heroine’s boyfriend - not yours?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Shut up.” Each word was delivered with crisp precision, irritation painted across her face.

  “There’s no rule book for make-believe, Kee. Authors can do whatever they please.” Technically anyone - real or imaginary - could do whatever they wanted, really. Well, everyone but me.

  “Bullcrap! That author put me through HELL only to snatch my heart out for good at the last second!” She stalked to the fallen paperback in a huff, her flats slapping against the laminate floor.

  “Don’t you read reviews?” I dared, already knowing the answer.

  “NO!” she bellowed, snatching the book and holding it close to her chest. The same book we grabbed together at its midnight release a few days earlier.

  I laughed, trying to walk the fine line between fun and fury with her. “Maybe you should start.”

  She stomped into the kitchen, setting the book down with a loud smack on the countertop. “Spoilers suck, Eth, and so do you for thinking that Monte’s cheating is funny!”

  Her sugary perfume followed, the small space overwhelmed with the scent of cupcakes and unicorns. Not that I knew what the fuck a unicorn smelled like, but sweet seemed about right.

  I downed another gulp of beer trying to stifle it with bitter ale. “So do shitty surprise endings.”

  “Amen.” She pouted, grabbing a grape from my bowl and popping it in her mouth. Her eyes closed as she did, savoring the fruit, the candy variety all she ever bought. Fitting, seeing that everything about her was syrupy sweet.

  “But not e
verything ends in happily ever after,” I reminded. Almost nothing did, but I wouldn’t piss on her parade that much in one evening. Monte and the author had done that enough.

  She shot me a dirty look before stealing another grape. “Romance does.”

  I slid the bowl over to her, more than happy to pass the fruit off. One of the sugar bombs was enough for my lifetime. “Not in real life.”

  She paused mid-chew, her scowl deepening as a hint of red touched her cheeks. “In the book world it does!”

  “Maybe you should read more realistic books so you can stop setting ridiculous expectations,” I suggested, trying to hold in the laugh bubbling in my chest. “That author did you a favor.”

  And there it was, the electric I loved, the spark I’d been trying for, igniting as her eyes were suddenly afire. “She broke my heart, you jackass!”

  “Read another. You’ll forget about this one in a week.” It was a dick thing to say given how invested she’d been in the series, but if she kept looking at me like that I would combust.

  “Will not!” she huffed, pushing away from the counter and carving out precious space between us - space that needed to keep growing for my sake.

  “Go write a long review about it then as a victim’s impact statement. Let the world know how you were personally wounded.”

  “Maybe I will,” she threatened, eyes flicking to the computer screen. “Did you figure out what I messed up?”

  “Getting there.” I had no clue if it was the truth, but I hoped so. I needed to get out of her apartment pronto. If I had to see her prance around half-naked in what she considered pajamas again my dick would fall off.

  “Oh yeah? What was the problem?” She leaned close, looping her arms around my neck from behind as she studied the code. “I screwed up big time.”

  So did I.

  “Not sure yet,” I admitted, trying to think about anything but how amazing her breasts felt pressed firmly against my back, every inch of skin she touched ablaze. Combined with her sweet perfume, it was almost too much.

  “If you’re not sure, how can you know you’re getting there?” she teased, cocking her head so her lips were just inches from mine.

  I looked past her, focusing on the screen, taking a sharp turn onto the hell no road. “Because I’ve almost checked all the code, Kee.”

  “Oh.” She released her hold and pulled away, though my skin still hummed where she’d been, practically calling out for her to come back. “I’m going to change into jammies.”

  Fuck.

  She disappeared around the corner toward her bedroom, giving me a few minutes to work with at most before I had to leave. I scanned the entries, knowing the fix was likely something simple, making it all the more frustrating that it wasn’t sticking out like a sore thumb. I did the same shit all the time while building sites over the years. Not being able to figure out the problem on a recipe blog was embarrassing.

  But like so many times before, my eagle eye failed around Kee, making me regret agreeing to come to her place. The letters blurred together on the screen, so much so that I kept losing my place. Fuck. I needed to finish up and get home before something awful happened.

  Danger slashed my throat like a katana a few moments later, delivered by the breathy voice I knew all too well. “Thanks again for the help, Eth.” Kee padded back into the kitchen in an oversized sleep shirt, her sable hair freed from the clip that once held it high, a sheet of dark curls now stretching past her shoulders.

  “Anytime, Kee.” As much as I didn’t belong there, I couldn’t refuse when she called me in tears after royally fucking up her site. To everyone else it was a cutesy cooking blog, but it was far more to her. I didn’t like being her guinea pig, especially when she made shit with kale, but I’d do anything to make her happy, even if I put myself in harm’s way in the process.

  She pulled out the stool beside mine, straddling the wood to rest her elbows on the cheap laminate. “So how was guys’ night?”

  “The usual.” I kept my eyes fixed on the screen, ignoring temptation. Even in a baggy sleep shirt she looked amazing, the stretched fabric baring her shoulders, her collar bones begging for lips.

  "The usual," she mimicked with her face contorted into a stuffy impression of mine. "Any wild parties? Table dancing?"

  "Totally.” I pushed aside the memory of her dancing on one during our last night out together. The same night that led to me storming to Vermont the next morning for my brother’s wedding like a bear itching for a fight. “I was so spent I barely made it into work this morning.”

  I’d actually spent the night putting in miles on the sidewalks of Seaport, my nightly jogs the only thing both lives shared. But when she invited me to grab drinks together, guys’ night seemed like an easier out than just no.

  “Yeah, right!” she laughed, reaching out to fan the pages of the book that broke her heart. “Ethan Barrett never misses work. Not even a snowstorm keeps you away.”

  It was hard to miss work when your commute consisted of walking to the other side of the home. Not that she knew that. No one did, really. Maybe Uncle Sam, but even that was a web.

  “Are you traveling again soon, 007?” She looked up at me with those big, beautiful eyes, melting a bit of the snow on my heart as her lips fell into their usual grin.

  I smiled, the man of mystery label more suitable than she could ever imagine. “Maybe. It’s up in the air, Plum.”

  Travel was the furthest thing from my mind. Things were falling into place like never before. When the spark first ignited, it was so hot it nearly destroyed me, but in time, I learned to harness it, helped in part by nailing down its source.

  She smiled wide at her nickname, a smile that still turned my insides to goo after two years. “You’re always flying around. Can I come with you sometime?”

  I looked down at my heart, the one person capable of destroying me. “Not on a work trip, but maybe we can go somewhere with Lil. Where do you want to go?”

  Crisis averted. A buffer body was always a must, her friends Lil and Jorge filling the role beautifully.

  She shrugged, nibbling on her lower lip as her nose scrunched in thought. “I don’t know. Maybe Florida?”

  Nope. I wouldn’t go near a beach with her even with Lil as a chaperone. Hell, I wouldn’t go with the entire Vatican and the Pope to boot. Not happening.

  “Of all the places on this Earth to go, you choose Florida?” I laughed, laying the disdain on thick.

  “What’s wrong with Florida? Beaches and palm trees are a better backdrop than brick and more brick.”

  “Don’t forget the retirement communities and rehabs, honey,” I shot back, watching her bristle at my words.

  “Seriously?” she squawked with an epic eye roll. “You’re such a killjoy, dude.” She blew a mocking raspberry and spun on her stool, her bared legs brushing against mine, my jaw clenching at the contact.

  And just like that, I was reminded that as much as Keely Doyle was my everything, she was also a massive pain in my ass.

  Keely

  Chocolate-covered caramels were my kryptonite. Not shoes. Not handbags. Just ooey-gooey caramel and its perfect partner chocolate magic.

  I popped another in my mouth, still feasting on Valentine’s Day goodies in August. I had a stash at home and another in my desk thanks to Dad, his annual basket of sweets enough to last all year. He liked having someone to spoil since Mom and Bridget always seemed to be on diets, turning their noses up to anything that remotely resembled sweets. Their loss. More for me.

  The sugar spike kept me going as I entered the latest round of citations, a corn hole competition leading to a spike in public intoxication tickets. I didn’t blame the attendees, either. Corn hole and booze were a match made in heaven, unlike the boning of my dress and flesh.

  The metal dug into my ribs if I dared to slouch, making me curse fashion once and for all. Whoever said beauty was pain deserved a swift kick in the grapefruit.

  I sat up as s
traight as possible for precious wiggle room, just as someone stormed in the door, the bell overhead not getting a chance to ring, clacking abruptly before falling silent. The suddenness of it all had me reaching for the panic button hidden beneath the counter, knowing help would arrive within seconds once pressed. It was one of the perks of working in a government building.

  My fingers hovered above it while the visitor stalked to the counter, a handsome man with evergreen eyes and tousled brown hair, a magazine rolled tight in a meaty hand. Everything about him screamed angry, from his balled fists to his flushed cheeks, yet I wasn't afraid. Something about his pressed jacket and slacks didn't say I'm here to kill you. More like hey, wanna buy some office supplies?

  “Did you see this crap?” he grumbled, tossing the magazine on the counter, a picture of a smug man in a tuxedo on the cover. “Who do they poll for this shit? Or is it just another thing they buy?”

  Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor was scrawled across the top, the dark lettering blending in with the man’s black hair. It was one of the dozens of lists local tabloids pushed out each year. The same ones Mom collected and displayed like works of modern art. The same rags that contained bits and pieces of my life at one point.

  “Hello,” I greeted, trying to keep my cool. “Who is he?” I studied the cover, the corners still turned upward from being rolled tight. It answered my question, Calvin Heathcliff Houser written in gold, not that the name rang any bells either. I didn’t know the who’s-who of the town anymore.

  “The heir to the media giant! Jesus!” He snatched the magazine back, rolling his eyes. “Do you live in a bubble?”

  “I do work in a basement,” I joked as I gestured to the narrow lobby, nothing but white cinderblocks and a fake fern keeping me company most days. The majority of people I dealt with were from the court system or media - not men griping about who won what title in gossip rags.