[English] Roomies

Roomies
Roomies Page 50



He places his lips to my collarbone, and I feel them smile against my skin as he kisses it. Graham moves over me and nips my lower lip, pausing as my phone stops and starts back up immediately. “Do you need to get that?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I grab his face and smash my lips to his. Soon we're all tangled up limbs and hands and searing mouths, but then my stupid phone rings, again, and I want to scream.

Graham tears his lips from mine. “Answer your phone. It might be important,” he adds when I reach for him again.

Grumbling the whole time, I race to my room and grab the cell phone off my bed, not looking at the number until I am back in his room. My brain produces a swear word and I press my lips together to keep it inside.

“Hello.” My greeting is not exactly friendly.

“Hey.”

My eyes latch onto Graham's. “What's up?”

Blake's voice is less than smooth as he says, “I need a drink.”

I close my eyes against my roommate/almost lover's narrow-eyed look. “So get a glass of water.”

“Kennedy.” My name is a rough plea I cannot pretend doesn't cause a sting in my chest.

An apologetic look is on my face as I look at Graham. I say to Blake, “I'll be right over.”

Graham stands, his mouth is a thin line of displeasure. “Let me guess: Blake?”

For some reason, my nakedness now decides to cause me to blush. I guess it's because the lust fever abated as soon as I saw the name and number on my cell phone. I get up and move for the door. Why did I listen to Graham and answer the phone?

Shame flushes my skin more. If Blake hadn't gotten a hold of me and instead took that first drink of alcohol, I have this idea that it would have been really disastrous for him. I'm glad he called. I just wish it had been in, I don't know, thirty minutes or so. I don't know why he called me, specifically, but I can't not go to him. That would be cruel and I am not a purposely mean person.

“Yeah. He isn't doing so hot.”

“It's like he has some super powers that let him know the worst possible time to be around, even if only in spirit,” he mutters, swiping a hand through his hair and causing a chaotic mess of golden strands to form around his head.

“Come on, have a little empathy.”

He glares at me, gesturing downward. “Empathy isn't really what I'm feeling right now.”

I grab the first article of clothing I find—a sock—and hold it over my breasts. “I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. For real.”

His eyes scour the surface of my skin, up and down, making me hot and shaky. “I'm sorry too.”

I want to be flippant and suggest a rain check, but his whole being is telling me that wouldn't be a good idea. I edge toward the door. “Really sorry.”

He nods, not looking at me.

Tossing clothes on, I feel excruciating tightness in my throat, to the point where it hurts to inhale. There was something so resigned about Graham, like he was flirting with the idea of giving up on me. He won't. My positive self is hopeful, and maybe delusional. But then, so am I, and I tell my negative self everything will be okay. It has to be.

Determination and annoyance stiffen my jaw as I drive to Blake's. He's sitting on the steps outside his apartment with his hands dangling between his knees and his head lowered. His broken form swipes the irritation from my brow as I sit beside him. “'Sup.”

“Today is the anniversary of my girlfriend's death.”

“Bummer.” The word sounds callous, but it's not. I just don't know what to say.

Blake seems to understand. “Yeah. I thought I would be okay this time, but I wasn't—I'm not. I never am. Every day I fight my past, and sometimes, I wonder why I keep fighting it.” He takes a deep breath before dropping the bombshell he isn't aware I already know. “I was driving the car. It's my fault she's dead.”

My lungs exhale in a deep sigh of sorrow and apprehension. I do not want the burdens Blake keeps unloading on me, but I also know someone needs to take them. “Did you love her?”

He shrugs. “I guess. As much as I knew about love to be able to feel it.”

“It wasn't intentional.”

“Tell that to the judge and her family.”

I watch as stars make their presence known, flipping on like tiny lights under the canopy of night. “Part of living is accepting you do not control everything.”

His laugh is cutting, blades of displeasure against my spine. “I haven't been able to control any part of my life.”

“So take control.”

“You don't know what it's like—”

My head turns lightning fast, his words falling away as our eyes connect. “Save it, Malone. Every day is a new day to be awesome, and you, my friend, choose to not be awesome more times than should be available. It should be like a Pez dispenser of unawesomeness, and eventually, it should run out. I think yours should have been bone dry long ago—without the option of refilling it. Right? Right.”

“You're crazy,” he murmurs, but there is the hint of a smile in his voice.

“Crazy like a fox.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I think about her a lot—not really her, I guess, but the fact that I took away any chance of her life getting better. Neither one of us was all that level-headed then. Young and dumb. Reckless. But there was always the chance it could get better, and because of me, it was never able to, not for her. Her parents hate me. She has a younger brother...I ruined all of their lives by my stupid actions.”

“You can only ruin someone's life if they allow it.”

“I don't think they would have allowed me to kill their daughter and sister, if they had had the choice.”

“Nobody likes a whiner.”

He looks down at his clasped hands. “Her name was Billie.”

“Was the middle name Jean?”

He gives me a blank look. “No. Jo.”

“So you're saying the kid is not your son?”

“Wow.”

“I know.” I bump my shoulder against his. “Talk.”

I realize my comments could be seen as insensitive and macabre, and yet, as he shares pieces of his past with me, and I make my twisted quips, he relaxes, starts to smile, looks brighter than his usual gloom and doom self. I'm telling you, I got skills. Unorthodox skills, but skills nonetheless.

Blake steps away from the edge of self-destruction one more time, and I hope he can find it in himself to continue to do so. He has to realize he's strong on his own. Otherwise, he'll never believe it's true.

THE APARTMENT IS dark and quiet when I get home, which is odd because it's not even ten yet. I stumble around in the dark, not wanting to turn on any lights—why, I am not sure. Because Graham turned them all off, I suppose, and turning even one on, would be letting him win, in some stupid, childish way. But, hey, have I ever once said I was mature? If I did, I was totally lying. Just so you know.

“Why is it that you say you don't have a thing for my brother, and yet every time I turn around, you're with him?” The voice is low, too even to be natural, and creepy since there is no body to accompany it.

“Why are you turning around all the time? Maybe you turned around a few times and got super dizzy so you just think you're still spinning around, only you really aren't,” I spew forth in a rushed manner only a truly gifted person is capable of.

A light turns on and I feel all 'naughty girl caught in the act'. Of what, I don't know. I blink in the sudden light and focus on Graham's form. He's standing against the wall opposite me with his arms crossed. I pay a little too much detail to his bare chest, but I am merely reacquainting myself with a sight I have missed, so it's totally acceptable. His golden hair is standing up in a few spots, he's sporting a scowl, and he looks so good my mouth goes dry.

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“You know he needed someone to talk to.”

“They have shrinks for that. Since when is he your responsibility? Last time I checked, even with how orally gifted you are, you do not have a license to be dragged into the mess that is Blake's mind.”

Orally gifted. Why did my face just burst into flames? And I feel like giggling. I school my features into a mask of calmness. “What happened to being real? What’s really bothering you?”

He gives me a look, shaking his head. “You know what I find funny? Women say they want a nice guy, but who do they usually go for? Not the nice guys. Any woman ever given the choice between someone sweet and someone rude, takes the rude guy. And you know why? Because women like to think they want the nice guys, but they really don't. Nice guys look good on paper, but in real life, not so much. Women don't even know what they want, so how do they think men are ever going to figure it out?”

“That should be on a shirt. And are you trying to imply something?”

“No.”

“Graham.”

“I’m the nice guy here.” He rubs his face, giving me a bleary-eyed look as his hands drop to his sides. “I feel like a complete ass, but I have this—this insecurity inside of me, telling me you want Blake. It’s this monster of doubt and I keep telling it to shut up, but it just isn’t going away.”

“Well, I want you to seduce me, but that isn’t happening either, so I have my cross to bear as well.”

“What?” His voice is faint.

“Nothing.”

Graham’s expression tells me he didn’t appreciate that jab. “What happened to being real?” he mocks.

I scowl. “Can you make brownies again? I have too many clothes on.”

His jaw tightens. “There are brownies in the kitchen.”

“It's just not the same as when they come fresh out of the oven.”

“Did you sleep with him?” His voice is blunt, razor-edged. He doesn't even sound like Graham anymore. I thought I would like that, but I don't. I want old Graham back. He was so much sweeter.

My good humor dissipates likes droplets of water under the sun as his words sink in. “You did not just ask me that.”

He shrugs, his shoulders stiff under the guise of nonchalance he is trying to portray. “You said if you didn't get it from me, you could get it from him. So? Did you?”

“You know, I change my view on you. You...are an asshat.”

“Whatever.”

Whatever. I'll give him whatever. My mouth puckers up in distaste and I storm past him to get to my room. He grabs my arm as I pass by, but I jerk it away. I slam the door behind me and slide down its length, my butt firmly planted in the carpet beneath me. I stare into the darkness, seeing nothing but blobs of black over more blobs of black. What has happened to us? Our relationship used to be so effortless. We've turned into these two insane people that snap at each other and make little sense. I mean, I'm pretty much the same, but Graham? What the hell happened to Graham?

You happened to Graham.

Shut it.

I figure he's gone to bed, but then his voice talks from the other side of the door, startling me so that I kick my leg out and my foot connects with my bed. I inwardly curse, rubbing at the throbbing toe as I listen.

“You want to know why I chose to be a golf instructor?”

So you can flirt with women all day? I bite my lip to keep the words unspoken. He's not really a flirt. He's just a super nice guy and women like to think he's flirting with them because he's attractive, and attention from an attractive guy is hard to come by sometimes. I have it all figured out. Don't ask how many hours I spent analyzing it all.

“I hate confinement. I acted like I didn't know what Blake was talking about when he said the same, but...I know exactly what he meant. I just—I didn't want you to know how truly messed up my childhood was. Blake has no problem playing the victim in his own twisted, sarcastic way, but I can't do it. I won't.”

There are other jobs that require being outside, my hateful side sneers.

“I mean, yeah, there are other jobs I could have picked and still been outside.”

I whip my head around to frown at the door.

“But I actually do like golf. And I like teaching people something they want to learn, not something they have to or need to learn.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper, not sure if he can hear me or not.

Silence is my answer for a long time, and then, quietly, he says, “I just want you to know me. All of me. Even the asshat parts, but especially the non-asshat parts.”

I twist around so that my head is resting against the door, and somehow, I feel that Graham's is as well. I do know him. And I love him—every part of him, even the ones that would be considered flawed by many. I have to, 'cause I have been given no less of the same from him. Friends or roommates, lovers or nothing, he's always cared about me, even when I was probably unlikable.

I hear him sigh. “Good night, Kennedy.”

“Good night, Graham.”

IT'S SORT OF awkward showing up to an event with your “date” not really speaking to you, but that's how we apparently roll today. I dislike mute Graham a lot. He's no fun at all. I think of telling him how much fun he isn't right now, just to further irritate him, but his clenched jaw tells me I probably shouldn't. I don't know what his problem is this time. All I said was that Blake was coming alone today and maybe we could have him ride with us.

Needless to say, he didn't ride with us.

I'm wearing a lemon yellow top and white shorts I know will not be white by the end of the day. Part of me wants to toss the whole 'I love you and want to have your babies' fantasies from my mind and just go back to being roommates, but I can't do it. And anyway, no matter how good of friends we have ever been, I always wanted more. Craved it. Needed it. I can't go back to feeling a way I never really felt.

“Want a drink?” He doesn't look at me as he says this, his body turned partially away.

I roll my eyes at his behavior. “Make it scotch.”

That gets his attention. “You don't drink scotch.”

“How do you know? Maybe I'm a closet liker of scotch. I have my secrets too.”

“Really?” He becomes much too engrossed in me. “Like what? Tell me one.”

“Okay.” I pretend to think about it. “Sometimes you put too many marshmallows in the hot chocolate and it turns out less than delicious.”

He puts his beautiful face right next to mine. “Maybe you should make it from now on.”

“Maybe I will.”

He opens his mouth as though he wants to say more, snaps his lips together, and heads in the direction of a drink cart. I really hope he isn't bringing me back scotch.

The sunshine has its game on today and is making my skin a pretty pink that might turn into an unflattering shade of lobster red if it continues on its present course. There are people everywhere, milling about the rolling fields of green. The country club is closed to the public for this wondrous event, so everyone I am looking at either works here or is here with someone that does. But then I notice something that makes my head throb.

Graham is standing by the drink cart, his hair ***ily disheveled and the neon green of his shirt a direct line for anyone hoping to get blinded. He is such an attention seeker. My lips compress in displeasure at the sight of the woman beside him. It's the ex I puked on. I really don't regret that right now. She tilts her head back as she laughs, placing a hand on his forearm. I want to dismember that arm from the rest of her for ever thinking she has the right to touch Graham, regardless of the fact that she once had every right. Even then she didn't have the right. I should tell her that. My feet start to move.

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At either the worst possible time, or the best, reality seeps through the crazy in my brain in the form of Blake. A hand touches my arm. “I wouldn't.”

Without taking my eyes from the pair, I grind out, “Wouldn't what?”

A cold cup is placed within my hand. “Whatever form of torture you're thinking of performing on her—I wouldn't.”

I take a big gulp from the cup, my eyes widening as straight vodka slides down my throat. “What the hell?” I gasp, my esophagus on fire.

“You looked like you needed a drink.”

“I generally drink vodka with something else in it—other than just ice cubes.” I finally glance at him, noting the gray shirt and jeans and face twisted into an expression of innocence. “What are you doing carrying around booze anyway?”

“Helping a friend in need.”

I slam the rest of the drink, its descent much smoother than the first time around. “Didn't you say I shouldn't drink to feel better, only to feel even better? Or something ridiculous like that?”

“Don't you feel even better than you did a moment ago?” His smile is much too sweet. He pats me on the back so hard I stumble forward. That could also be the effect of the booze, I suppose. Vodka tends to work quickly and effectively.

“It's nice to know you actually listen to me when I'm talking.”

Kate Minson—Graham's ex-girlfriend—leans in close to my roommate and whispers into his ear. He looks momentarily surprised, but quickly covers it up with a flash of a smile. Forget the fact that it looks slightly strained. I'll show him slightly strained.

I smash the cup with my fist. “What did you say?”

He sighs. “Never mind. Going all Hulk, are you? Would you look at that; you're even turning green.”

Graham looks up, his gaze shooting right to me. Even with the distance between us, I see his jaw stiffen as he takes in who I am standing next to. I offer a dramatic hand wave and he narrows his eyes, turning back to the brunette beside him.

“I puked on her once.”

“Who?”

“Kate Minson. His ex-girlfriend that's all over him right now.”

“If you keep drinking at the rate of your first cup, you'll be able to have a repeat. Guaranteed.”

“I need a refill.”

“On one con***ion.”

I finally look at him. “You know I can go get my own, right?”

“You could, but you're lazy, and you'd rather not.”

“How do you know me so well?”

“I pay attention.”

“To my laziness? The highest of compliments right there, let me tell you.”

Blake grins. “Let's golf.”

“I don't know how to golf.”

“Hey, with alcohol, anything is possible.”

He starts to walk up the hill, but I hang back. “I get the feeling you have some nefarious agenda you don't want me to know about, and alcohol plays a key role in it.” Nefarious? I didn't even know I knew that word. I guess what they say is true; alcohol does make you smarter. Or is it dumber? Nah.

“You should have been a detective,” he says over his shoulder.

“I should have been a lot of things,” I mutter, following him.

“Where are you going?” Graham demands as I sweep by, my nose toward the sky.

“To golf,” I sniff. “Isn't that why we're here?”

“You don't know how to golf.”

“Thanks for the drink,” I say pointedly.

“Is that Kennedy?” Kate questions, her pretty face scrunching up like she just bit into a big, juicy bug. “She's still your roommate?” she continues, her voice going faint as I hurry my pace.

I used to get drunk and act stupid. Then I realized I don't need alcohol to be stupid. Then again—it doesn't hurt. Two drinks later—this time with orange juice mixed in with the vodka—I decide I am the best golfer ever. Blake agrees. Silently—but he agrees.

“Isn’t there something wrong with this picture? The alcoholic supplying the booze?”

“Just go with it, and anyway, I don't need to drink when I’m around you. I can just get drunk off the fumes seeping out of your pores.” He's standing behind me, his upper body close to my back as he resituates my hands on the club.

“So romantic.”

“Tell me about it. Ready?” When I nod, he steps back. “Okay. Swing.”

I do. Only I also let go of the club. I whirl around in time to see Blake staggering back with a hand to his head. “Are you okay?” I shriek, rushing for him.

He puts a hand out, halting me as it connects with my face. “I'm fine. Really.”

I shove his fingers from my nose and mouth. “Let me see it.”

“It just clipped my temple. I'll live.”

“Deadly with a golf club. Never knew you had it in you.”

I turn to face Graham. He is trying to smirk, but his mouth is too tight to fully allow it, so it looks more like he is grimacing. “You don't know everything about me.”

“I think we established that already,” he replies coolly.

I look past him, my hands flexing into fists when I see Kate is close by, chatting with a couple. I'm not sure if I'm making the fists because I want to hit her, or so I don't wrap them around her neck. I'm so conflicted. Punch her...strangle her...either possibility is much too tempting. She continually glances our way, her eyes locked on Graham in a creepy, stalker-ish way. I would never look at him like that.

“Why is she here? She doesn't work here.”

“Apparently as of this coming Monday, she does,” he says slowly, all expressionless about that fact.

“Hello. Injured party over here.” Blake's voice is mocking, so I totally know he is fine. He just wants attention. It must be a family thing.

“She works here,” I state, pinpricks of light bursting behind my eyelids. I think it's my sanity, finally leaving me.

“Yep.” His tone is way too cheerful as he says this. “Why? Does that bother you?” He's watching me closely as he waits for my response.

I smile tightly. “Not at all. Excuse me. I have balls to hit.” I put just the right amount of airiness to my voice as I flounce away, making a beeline for the nearest drink cart.

“Balls to hit?” Blake murmurs, appearing beside me.

I sip my drink, impulsively grabbing a bottle of water as well. I don't need to be sick, not just yet. I chug the water and toss the empty bottle into the nearest garbage can. “I'm hungry. Let's eat.” I leave without waiting for an answer or to see if Blake is coming with me. He is a lurker by nature, though, so I'm pretty sure he'll show up sooner or later.

But he doesn't. Graham does. His face is like stone as he wordlessly stands beside me. I get a hamburger and so does he. I grab a bag of chips and he does the same. I refuse to look at him, but I can feel him. He's sucking me in by mere proximity alone. What sorcery is this? I spin on my heel and find a picnic table to sit at. He sits across from me.

“What are you doing?” I finally demand when I've had enough of this silent...whatever this is.

“We came here together.”

“You are so perceptive.”

A tick forms near his eye. “Why are you hanging out with Blake?”

“Why are you hanging out with pukey Kate?”

He leans toward me. “She was only pukey because of you.”

“She was still nauseating, either way.” I take a large bite of the manufactured hamburger patty and swallow the dryness down. It should make me feel better to know that I am most likely not really eating meat, only...there's the question of what I am eating.

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“Are you jealous?” He pops a chip in his mouth and crunches away.

“Are you?”

“Yep.”

I slowly set my hamburger down, not expecting that admission. Although, can you really blame him? I open my mouth to ask him why we both are such morons, but then Kate ruins it with her face, and the arm she puts around Graham's shoulders, and the lopsided hug she gives him. My bag of chips become dead chips as I watch. I relax my hand around the bag once its unfounded destruction becomes known to me. Those chips didn't deserve that kind of an end.

Her face is flushed, making me think she is drinking booze—the bottle of flavored beer in her hand is a good sign of this as well. She tugs on his arm. “Graham, come on. I want some golf lessons from a pro.”

My eyes narrow. “Then you're talking to the wrong person.” Graham is a good golfer, I'll give him that, but he is certainly not a professional. Never mind the fact that she knows this and was most likely trying to give him an ego boost. Ego boosts are lame, unless they're for me.

“Come on, Graham. Please?” Her voice is all whiny, her eyelashes fluttering at him.

“Do you have a bug in your eye?” The glare she aims my way is lethal, but I can do better.

A voice behind me says, “Ready for round two, Kennedy?”

And just like that, Graham shoots to his feet, throwing his food away. “Let's go, Kate.”

The scowl on my face doesn't fade even when they are no longer within sight. I turn it on Blake and he shrugs. The way his lips twitch tells me he is enjoying the current debacle that is Graham and me more than he should. I elbow him as I stalk past, a smirk replacing the glower on my face when he grunts.

Somehow we manage to be set up right beside Kate and Graham. And by “somehow,” I mean that I purposely stand next to Kate and Graham. All the better to be nosy. Blake just rolls his eyes at my obvious antics and demonstrates the proper way to stand and hold a golf club. I drink my drink and pretend to pay attention, but all the while my mind is on the couple beside us. How did this happen? How did Kate steal my roommate/date away? How did I get stuck with Blake?

“Kennedy? You want to try?” he asks when I finally drag my eyes to him.

“I hate golf,” I mutter, grabbing the golf club from him and whacking at the ball. I miss.

I shouldn't say “stuck”. Blake is a good time, don't get me wrong. He's just—he's not my good time. Graham is. And Kate totally snatched him away. I'm not sure how many drinks I've had, but I at least have had four by now. Every time Graham looks at me, I look away. My face is hot and I feel dizzy, but I am blaming that on the sun. The sun can do that.

“Are you sure it's golf you hate?” Blake's eyes go to Kate and back to me.

“Shut up.”

“Pretend the ball is her face. It might help.”

I stand as directed. “This is the most uncomfortable position. How do golfers do this?” I visualize Kate's smiling face and swing. And miss again. A curse word slips out. “You're a terrible instructor.”

“I never realized how much you complain.”

Taking a deep breath, I look at Blake. “You like golf too.”

“I do.”

“You seem pretty good at it.”

“I am.”

I nod, swiping sweaty hair back from my cheek. I hear Graham's low voice off to the side and want to annihilate the girl standing next to him. I glance over, noting how close Kate is standing to him. He isn't looking at her, but she is devouring him with her eyes.

“I can't take this anymore,” I mutter.

“Why does your voice have an ominous cast to it?” Blake reaches for me when I start to walk away, ushering me back to our proper spot. “What are you doing?”

“I'm going to kill her,” I say with calmness that should be admired, not followed by the incredulous look on Blake's face.

“Focus, okay? It's seriously messing with Graham that you're hanging out with me, so this is working in your favor, right? Just act like you're having fun, which shouldn't be hard to do. You are with me.”

I, completely by accident, toss an empty water bottle in the direction of my roommate and his ex. It hits his shin just as I turn away.

“Subtle.”

A ball flies by my face and I whirl around, my gaze touching on Graham's wide eyes before focusing on Kate. “Whoops,” she says with a shrug. “I guess I need more one on one coaching, Graham.”

“It would help if you were standing in the right direction,” is his wry comeback.

Kate laughs shrilly and my insides go chaotic even as I am frozen. “I know. I'm so bad.”

Blake gives me a look. “Breathe in, breathe out.”

“I'm not having a baby.”

“No. Just a meltdown. Isn't this fun? I couldn't imagine having a more fun time.”

“Because you get off on sick, sick things. He broke up with her months ago.” I shred the lawn with my club. “Why is he even talking to her?” The lawn gets in the club's way again. “She is so fake.” A sound of frustration leaves me and I fling the club down.

“Somebody ate their grumpy pills today.” Her voice is sweetly snarky and I am done.

“Do you eat pills?” I demand as I face her, closing the distance between us. She blinks and backs up a step, a furrow forming between her perfectly arched eyebrows. “I mean, if you're going to try to go for cute, at least make sense.”

“You're so demented.”

“You're right. I am.” The next instant has me doing something crazy—demented, even. I'm going to say it's heatstroke messing with my head, but in any event, I snatch Blake's glass of water from him and toss it in her face. “I'm super demented.”

A shriek leaves her as she hops up and down, but it isn't long before her eyes are blazing and she recovers enough to shove me. Blake rights me when I haphazardly stumble into him and Graham tells Kate not to touch me again, which further irritates her, as does, I'm sure, the smirk on my face as I toss my Screwdriver at her. I'm all about the drink throwing today, apparently.

“Kennedy, knock it off,” Graham warns.

I stick my tongue out at him, totally not scared.

“The only reason we broke up was because of you always butting into our relationship! You were just there, all the time.” She stabs a finger at me and I slap it away.

“You wish that was why. And I live there. What did you expect?”

When we both advance a step, Graham shoots between us, raising his hands to keep us from attacking. “That wasn't it, Kate, and you know it,” he says, looking tired and sounding like he's had this conversation many, many times before. I know he has—I was sitting next to him during many of the aforementioned conversations. Granted, I was pretending to read, but still.

“It could have been the vomit. That was pretty unflattering. You have to admit,” I say to my roommate with a shrug.

She makes a hissing sound as she inhales, her hands clenching at her sides. “That was the most disgusting thing ever.”

“Tell me about it.”

I hear a snicker and look over my shoulder. Blake is watching us with a thoroughly amused look on his face, arms crossed over his chest. He offers another glass of water with raised eyebrows. I wonder who his supplier is.

Graham's lips are turned down, telling me he doesn't appreciate my commentary. Looking at Kate, he says, “You look like you might want to go home. Do you have a way there?”

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Wet with booze, looking like a wilted flower, she beams and somehow manages to come off angelic. I scrunch my nose up. I hate people that look cute even when they shouldn't.

“My dad dropped me off and he isn't coming back for a few hours. Can you take me home?”

“He is not taking you home. Ever,” I say in a super controlled voice.

“Oh, he already did. Plenty of times,” she purrs.

Blake guffaws and I want to smack him.

“Past tense,” I hiss like a snake. I feel like one—all venomous and whatnot. “Meaning, never again,” I clarify.

“You don't know that.”

“I so know that.”

“Okay. That's enough, both of you.” This from Graham.

“You're right. It is. Let's go home.” I put emphasis on “home” with a pointed look at Kate, in case she forgot we live together. He shall be going home with me and no one else. He will take me home and no one else.

A spray of red, sticky flavored beer hits me in the face, neck, and chest area. A gasp falls from my mouth as I freeze in disbelief. She did not just do that. Okay, so I guess I may have deserved it.

“Sorry,” she trills, a satisfied smirk on her berry-colored lips.

With a battle cry, I sprint at her with my hands out and aimed for her neck. Amazingly, no one stops me. She screams and tries to run away, but I am faster. I grab her around the waist and we both go down, right into the soggy grass left in the wake of our alcohol and water abuse. Mud and other things become imbedded into my skin and clothes. I knew these shorts were going to get dirty.

“I don't like you!” is all I can think to say. Hey, sometimes keeping it simple is the way to go.

“I don't like you either!” she yells with her eyes closed.

Shoving me off of her, she staggers to her feet. Her hair is a matted mess around her face, her dress is stained with unknown substances, and she looks ready to cry. And yet she somehow holds it in.

Leaning close to my ear, she whispers, “Just remember, starting Monday, I'll be working with him.” Straightening, she gives me an evil grin before strutting away like she isn't receiving puzzled stares from people.

And now I want to cry. A hand appears in front of my nose. I look up, see a grim-faced Graham, and ignore his offer. A curse word fills the air as I stand and he wraps his arms around me, holding me to him.

“I know, very sentimental moment. One I'll be sure to tell the grandkids. What are you doing?” I try to push him away, but he doesn't budge.

“Blake,” he barks.

“Yeah?” He looks from my face to Graham, supremely pleased.

“Do you have a jacket on your bike?”

“I do.”

“Get it.”

He angles his head. “I don't know. She looks fine without it to me.”

A growl leaves my roommate.

With a wink, he heads for his bike.

“What's your problem?”

“Your shirt is wet.”

“So?”

“It's revealing more than it should.”

“Says who?” I try again to dislodge him, but he won't allow it. “Come on, Graham. It's too hot for this. Get off me.”

His arms tighten. “No.”

With a resigned sigh, I stand still as we wait for Blake to get back. “I really don't like Kate.”

“Got that.”

“And I'm annoyed with you.”

“Completely mutual right now.”

I sigh again. Looking up, I tell him, “Blake doesn't have a jacket.”

“What?” He spins around so that I am facing an elderly couple and he can see his brother. “Damn it. Where is it?”

With a grin, Blake pulls a thin, lightweight jacket from his back pocket with a flourish. “Compact.”

Graham manages to get the coat over me without letting my front be visible to anyone other than him. I watch him as he zips the jacket, the lines around his mouth obvious signs of his displeasure, the way his eyebrows are furrowed proof that he is not happy, and I just want to kiss him. But he is unapproachable, everything about him telling me to stay back.

“Make sure Kate gets home,” he says to his brother, one hand around mine as he pulls me toward his truck.

I know he isn't concerned about her personally, simply her welfare, a fact that makes my heart swell with even more love for him. That decent part of him doesn't know how to go away, and I admire that, even as it irritates the snot out of me.

The ride home is silent. I stare out the passenger side window and Graham watches the road. We are at an impasse once again. Maybe I should give up. I realize how immature my behavior was, but it is to be expected, so I do not fully understand his anger with me. Maybe it's at the situation, maybe it's because he thought I was what he wanted and now realizes I am not. I can't believe that, though, and so I choose not to. Maybe I just need to grow up. I cross my arms and watch as cornfields turn blurry under the guise of my tears.

I'm pretty sure I'm as grown up as I'll ever be.

DR. OLMAN AND Sally show up at work Friday morning—together. The beams on their faces make me nauseous. This week has been horrible, and not just because Graham and I have barely spoken or hung out, but also because my dad and I started his dance lessons. I have swollen, throbbing toes.

It's true; he really can't dance.

And that isn't the worst of it. My mom made me take her shopping Tuesday night. Trying to conform her from the eighties to the two thousands took work—and wine. Lots of wine. She does look smoking hot now, so there's that. The look on my dad's face when she got home was priceless. I should have taken a picture. His gaping look was definitely frame-worthy.

“Why are you two so happy?” I ask, going for casual and coming off sounding sour. I guess I can mark acting off my list. I'm not that good at it.

Sally gives me a look and then grins. “We're engaged!” A diamond flashes my way, momentarily blinding me, and then Phoebe and Sally are squealing and hugging.

I look at Dr. Olman. “I don't understand. You weren't even dating.” The mocking tone is one hundred percent real, as is the smirk I give him.

He flushes red, matching his shirt. “Oh...well...”

I give him a quick hug. “It's okay. I won't tell anyone about the closet. Congratulations.”

He pats my back. “Thank you.”

“Just so I'm prepared...are you going to get married in a closet? Because, if you are, we might want to clean it out first. Limited seating in there too. Bummer.”

His back goes stiff and he pulls away. “Remind me why I hired you?”

“For my slap-stick humor?”

“No. That's not it. Keep going.”

The urge to laugh takes over me. “Um...awesome dating advice?”

He is not amused.

“I know! No one else wanted the job.”

“Close. Get to work.”

He's lucky I like working here. Never thought I would, but then, even though I know an astronomical amount, I can't know everything. The rest of the day is spent listening to Phoebe gush over Nathan, who she apparently is in love with already. I fight not to roll my eyes, but the glow on her face and the softness of her smile work me over as the day goes on, and I find myself truly hoping they can make a go of it. I just hope their babies don't come out with feet for faces or cigarettes in their mouths. Shudder.

Post-work Friday afternoon, I knock on Blake's door, not surprised when he opens it with a smug smile on his face. He enjoyed last weekend a little too much. Not wanting to talk about anything, really, I've been ducking and weaving him like a cat against the promise of a bath. Apparently this past week has been the week of avoidance.

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I toss the jacket on the back of the couch. “Thanks for letting me borrow it Saturday.”

“No problem. You looked better without it though.”

With narrowed eyes, I say, “I bet I did.”

“Graham didn't agree.”

“No. He didn't,” I agree, crossing my arms. He about had a heart attack and the evil part of me enjoyed it. Jealous Graham is almost as much fun to see in motion as all the other dysfunctional parts of him—except for mute Graham. I've had enough of him lately.

“What's going on with you and Graham anyway? Little trouble in paradise?”

“Nothing's going on with Graham and me.” Which is the problem. Everything has been put on pause.

“You barely talked last weekend. Until you were shouting. Is it because of me?”

“Well, you don't help. Did you take Kate home?” A bitter taste enters my mouth as I say her name.

“Oh yeah.”

“Did you...?”

“Did I...what?” He lifts his eyebrows.

“You know, have *** with her.”

He smirks, just a flash of teeth and lips and it's gone. “You're blunt. I like it. No. I didn't. I'm not that kind of guy.”

I snort, pretty sure he is that kind of guy.

“You'll be happy to know she's been following me around at work all week instead of Graham. She must have acquired exceptional taste since last weekend.”

My body freezes up. I have been going insane imagining all the possible workday scenarios at the country club, most of them involving Graham and Kate sneaking off to do the dirty deed. “So she isn't pursuing Graham?”

“Nah. He shot her down cold on Monday. Told her there was no way they were ever going to get back together. Ever. There's stodgy Graham for you, no fun at all.” He pauses. “Before Kate scoops me up, why don't you lay claim to me? We both know you're infatuated with my body.”

I blink, turning my confused face his way.

“You're fun. I like your mouth—both the things that come out of it and the way it looks. I like you. I mean, yeah, I'm leaving soon, but nothing is set in stone. I could finish my degree up somewhere other than Illinois. And I don't have to leave the country when I'm done with college. Or you could go with me. We could even date for a while and realize at the end of summer we aren't for each other. But I think we should at least give it a chance, and I know part of you wants to do the same.”

His eyes are locked on me. “I mean, didn't Graham have his chance? He had over a year to tell you how he felt, and he waited until I showed up. Why? And you're with me right now, and not him, so what does that tell you? Because it tells me you care about me.”

He is partially serious, or maybe more than partially. I can tell by the intensity of his gaze and how it does not waver from me. What is ironic is that I think if I had met Blake first, and there was no Graham in the picture, I would have dated him and I could have fallen in love with him. But with Graham I can see forever and I don't know if that would have been the case for Blake and me. I'm thinking it wouldn't have been. He's too needy. Not for me, in other words.

“I do care about you,” I answer truthfully. “But you don't know me well enough to think what you're saying. You like the idea of me more than me personally.”

“Don't tell me what I do or don't feel or think. I know enough about you.”

“I think we get along so well because we both have the same defense tactics. Can you imagine us in an actual argument? We'd be endlessly flinging sarcasm back and forth.”

“It would be pretty awesome.” His lips twitch.

“Awesome, yes, but productive? No. Anyway, I think part of the appeal is that I have feelings for your brother and your issues with him compel you to try to steal me away from him.”

“It's not really stealing if you aren't even his, now is it?”

A slap to the face couldn't have hurt more. “That was cruel. And Graham cares about me. We both know he does.”

He curls his upper lip. “I'm a cruel guy. And, yeah, sure, he cares about you, just like I do—but does he love you? Has he ever specifically said those words?”

I shove his words away, along with the sting that comes with them. “None of this is really about Graham and me, or even you and me. It's about you—you and your brother. You want people to think all of these bad things about you, only none of them really fit. You hurt and you feel things and you maybe feel things more than others because you know what it is to screw up, to lose someone, to be at fault, to want to go back and change the things you cannot. You know what it is to feel like you aren't good enough. You know what it is to let something control you and you know what it is to have to be stronger than the need.”

I begin to pace before him, wanting to blast the truth of my thoughts at him so completely that there is no way for him to refute the vali***y of them. He has to know this. He has to believe what I am telling him. “None of that makes you bad. Hiding the real you doesn't make you weak. Wanting to replace pain, to numb it, with alcohol and drugs doesn't make you irredeemable. It makes you human. It makes you...it makes you...” I struggle to find the right words. “It makes you a complex individual worthy of second chances and trust and hope. It makes you strong. You're strong, Blake. You just need to believe it yourself. And you and your brother need to start acting like brothers. You need him more than you need me. Trust me.”

I've barely finished my words before he is moving for me. The fire in his eyes makes them shine silver as he reaches for me. His hold on my neck is hard as he slams his lips to mine. The longing and need in the kiss makes me want to cry for him. He needs so much. He needs more than I can give. He breaks away when he realizes I am stiff within his arms and not kissing him back, quickly moving to put distance between us.

“I'm sorry,” he says roughly, his taut back to me. “You should go.”

“Blake—”

“Go!” he roars, whirling around. He glares at me, anger hiding the hurt.

I fight tears as I slowly move for the door. Once there, though, I cannot go, not without saying what I have to. I stare at a small crack in the wood. “One day you'll find someone you don't have to feel the need to hide from. She won't be something you think you want or need. She won't be your redemption. You'll know when you find her, because you'll want to change for you, not for her. I was just another addiction, just something else you thought would make you whole. Nothing can do that for you but you.”

I open the door and walk through it, quietly closing it behind me. Something shatters inside the apartment and I flinch, methodically putting one foot in front of the other as I slowly make my way down the stairs and away from Blake. I can't fix him. Only he can do that.

Graham doesn't fill a hole inside me. He doesn't fix what is broken. He just makes everything brighter. He makes me smile and he makes me laugh; I am better because of him, but I also realize I would be okay without him, and that is the difference between Blake and me. He is looking for a savior. One day he'll realize that he's the only one who can save him.

Wow, I totally just impressed myself with how mature I can be when I feel the need to be. High five to me—but not really because anyone looking would think I am clapping at nothing.

I SHOW UP at the apartment, all ready to finally tell Graham I love him like more than a brother from another mother—because I can't not tell him any longer—and halt in the doorway. Something doesn't belong in the room. Oh, right, it's the burly, black-haired man with Graham's eyes that is watching me from where he stands in the center of the room. He looks rich and asshole-ish.

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“Who are you?” I demand. Maybe I should work on my greeting skills.

“Who are you?” he retaliates, flicking a piece of imaginary flint from his black polo shirt, and I know it's imaginary because, hello, black shirt? Everything shows up on black, except, well, black things. Moving on.

“Kennedy. Where's Graham?”

“Ah, the roommate.” Something about his tone makes me like him less than I did a second ago, and that was already nil.

I know who he is.

“You're his dad.” My voice is not welcoming.

“Benson Malone, yes.” He pauses. “I'm looking for my son.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Is he hiding?”

Amusement flickers through the eyes that should not be in his face. “Not Graham—the other one.”

I cross my arms and lean against the door, forgetting I never shut it. I stumble back into the hallway and take a deep breath, carefully walk inside the apartment, and close the door. “Let's try that again.” And I resume my earlier position.

Something that could pass for laughter sounds from Benson.

“Why are you looking for Blake?”

His brows furrow and he opens his mouth, but Graham happens to make an appearance before he can respond, which is either good for me or Benson. I can't be sure. “Kennedy,” he quickly interjects. “I see you've met my father.”

“Sure.” If that's what you want to call it. “He's—”

“He stopped in to see if I've seen Blake recently, but I had to tell him that unfortunately, no, I haven't.” He widens his eyes at me, telling me to shut up without telling me.

Stopped in? He makes it seem like he lives on the other side of town and not in another state. Something is up. I mean, obviously. Graham just saw his brother today at work. I frown, but amazingly manage to keep my mouth shut as I look at the man who fathered two exceptional beings and probably doesn't even realize it.

“Okay.” That's all I got.

“You know Blake,” his dad states.

“Noooo.” I glance at Graham to see if this was the correct response. He does nothing, so I figure it must be.

“You said his name.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, Graham's talked about him a lot, so, yeah, of course I know his name.” I try to laugh, but it sounds like I am instead being strangled, so I stop.

“There was familiarity in your tone.” His mouth is pulled down with suspicion.

I lift my hands. “I don't even know what that means, sorry.”

“Which word?”

Dude. So uncalled for. I ignore him and look at my roommate. His hands are fisted at his sides and a tick has formed in his jaw. “Why is he looking for your brother? What's going on?”

“I'm right here. You can ask me.”

I look in his direction as I say, “Don't you live in South Dakota or something? You just come to Wisconsin on some strange search and rescue attempt for your son who probably doesn't even want you to find him?”

“North Dakota,” he tightly supplies.

“Blake's mom is sick. He wants him to come home to see her,” Graham tells me.

“Like, a cold sick? And you couldn't call him to let him know?”

Benson stiffens up like a board. “She has cancer. He switched his phone number without giving me his new one. I've been trying to get a hold of him for weeks. Showing up here was my last resort.”

That blows most of the wind from my sails, although, there's probably a reason Blake changed his number and didn't give the new one to his father. Like, he doesn't want to talk to him. I take a closer look at Graham's father. His skin is sort of pasty beneath the tan and there are black lines under his eyes. I can't hate a man who looks like that.

Shoulders slumping, I say, “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” is his grim response. He turns to his eldest son. “If you're in contact with him, please let him know it's urgent that he gets in touch with me. I'm staying at The Cozy Inn for the night.” He hesitates. “Maybe we can meet for breakfast in the morning before I head back, catch up.”

“I'll let you know,” is Graham's noncommittal response.

He nods at his son, pauses near me, and then quietly leaves.

Some of the tension, but not all of it, leaves with him.

Graham eyes me. “You were with Blake?”

Guilt stabs through me—for being with him when I know Graham hates it, and for how I left Blake, especially after what I just found out. “Yeah. I gave him back his jacket.” I rub my forehead, dropping my hand to face him. “You should call him, or...maybe go over there and talk to him.” I wince, wondering what state Blake will be in when and if his brother shows up.

Not your problem, I remind myself.

“I will, but only because of the circumstances.” His jaw clenches. “You've apparently made your choice. I was going to tell you to move out, but...I don't think I can stand living here.”

My lungs deflate. “No. You have it—”

He shakes his head. “We'll talk later. I have to let Blake know Dad's here.”

I collapse on the couch, staring at the closed door Graham just walked through. I want to say I am devastated, but actually, I just feel numb. I am not one to sit and mope, so instead I go on a cleaning, chocolate-eating binge. The apartment becomes spotless as I consume large quantities of peanut butter cups. My thoughts race around what Graham said to me before he left and if he really meant it; wondering what's going on with Blake, how the news of his mother is affecting him, how both of them are dealing with their father being so close.

Is Blake is okay? Is Graham is okay? It's past midnight by the time I call it a night on the cleaning bit, plopping onto the couch and closing my eyes. I realize I am holding a peanut butter cup in my hand and, with eyes still closed, make it disappear.

I am magical.

Five minutes later I decide I can't take it anymore, and so, clad in purple pajama pants with black stripes and a neon yellow t-shirt, I head out into the night. Lucky for me, the streets are deserted, so I don't have to worry about all the inattentive drivers that are usually out during the day forcing me to drive badly. So that's a plus. Graham's truck is parked along the curb outside of Blake's temporary residence, and a shiny silver SUV is in the driveway. Frowning as some inner sense tells me that the SUV shouldn't be there, I climb out of my car and head up the stairs.

Loud male voices stream out to me through the closed door and I swing it open without knocking. I'm taken aback by what greets me, and it isn't just Blake clad only in his boxer briefs. Although—hello. His body is cut with that of the fine strokes of an artist's brush, all muscled and enticing. I shift my gaze away from his body, redirecting it to the scene before me. There are three male forms standing in the middle of the room, all angry-faced as they eye one another.

Benson reaches for his son, saying, “You're coming home with me, now.”

Graham cuts him off, standing protectively before his younger brother. “You can't make him leave. He isn't some kid; he's twenty-six years old. He isn't yours to shove around anymore.”

“He's a drug addict who can't take care of himself. I can, and I will. How long do you think it is before he's back to his pills and booze? He always goes back to them. Nothing has ever mattered enough to him to keep him sober for long. At least at home, there's less of a chance of it. His mother needs him,” he adds.

“My mother needs many things, but none of them are me,” Blake says in a low voice.

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“Your mother is sick!”

“My mother was sick before I left! My mother's always been sick!” he shouts back. “And maybe it wasn't cancer then, but does it really matter?” He takes a deep breath, struggling to calm down. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “There was always something keeping her apart from me. This isn't any different. She doesn't need me and I'm not going—not yet, not until I want to.”

“If you do not come with me now, I will make you, and you won't like it. I got you out of that rehabilitation center once and I can put you back in it.” Their dad's voice has turned to ice, and any empathy I felt for him at the apartment has dissolved like sugar in water. I hate this guy. Seriously. Totally. And it irks me like I can't explain that Graham and Blake were ever subjected to him, let alone stuck with him for years. At least Graham got away—Blake wasn't as lucky.

“You're going to have to get through me,” Graham grimly tells his father.

Okay, so I'm sort of surprised they haven't noticed me yet, but this time, for once, I am all right with that. This is epic. And sad. I want to run in front of the Malone boys and save them from their big, bad dad, but this one I need to sit out. I see Blake's face when his brother says this, and my heart squeezes. Such vulnerability on a face usually constructed from stone is strange to see. His dark eyes lift and meet mine before he quickly looks down. Doesn't matter—I saw the glistening in them. He finally got his big brother back. Maybe I should have called Benson Malone when Blake first got here to speed up the brothers' reunion . I so would have. Well, maybe.

“You don't think I will?” Benson saunters toward them and both sons stiffen. “You might be older and bigger now, but you're still my son, and you will obey me.”

When he gets close to him, Graham spits out, “Hit me and it will be your last time.”

Benson laughs, and it is a cruel sound.

I freeze at Graham's words, and at his father's reaction. I lift my eyes to Benson and then they flicker over to where his son stands. He hit Graham? That man hit the sweet, loving boy I cannot imagine life without; the one that makes everything brighter and better? I thought I had it bad. My father has tried to turn me into a guy for as long as I can remember, but never once has he threatened or abused me. I know he loves me, even if I'm a disappointing girl instead of a rock star son, because it's just a given I'd be a rock star if I were a boy. Whatever misguided issues I've had with him are small potatoes to this. Never have I looked at him with a mixture of fear and defiance, not like Graham and Blake are currently looking at their dad.

They have been abused by this man.

If it hadn't already been apparent from Graham's words, I would have been able to tell by the way their shoulders hunch as if to protect them from an oncoming blow. It is evident in the way they won't meet his eyes for too long and flinch as he advances.

When he takes another step toward Graham and Graham straightens as though preparing for physical contact, I state, “Touch either one of them and I'm calling the cops.” I even have my phone in hand and posed for emergency assistance because I am well-organized.

Three pairs of eyes swing my way. I see the color drain from Graham's face and I don't know if it's because I'm here, because I'm witnessing this, or if it's a combination of both. “You shouldn't be here,” he says harshly. Ouch.

“He's right. Run along. This is family business and doesn't concern you.”

I straighten and turn my dagger eyes on Benson. “It does concern me, and do you know why it does? Because Graham is my family. And anyone that hurts my family, deals with me.” Blake groans and I ignore that. I may not be fluent in defensive skills, but I am totally adept at kicking a set of nuts. He really doesn't want to push me.

I don't look at Graham, because I don't want to take the chance of being hurt by whatever I see in his face. I'm sticking up for him, whether he wants me to or not. I love him, and that's what you do for people you love. You have their back, always.

Now that I have Benson's full attention, I'm sort of wishing I didn't, especially when he starts to walk toward me. “Do you know what I do for a living?”

“Stripper?” I guess hopefully.

His brows lower, almost completely obliterating his eyes from my view. “No. I'm a businessman. Do you know what businessmen get?”

“Free ice cream cones on Sunday?”

“Whatever they want,” he answers darkly. “Your mouth—”

“Is amazingly gifted.” I almost want to stop with the one-liners, but I am nervous, and so, they just keep spouting forth.

“Is annoying,” he corrects.

“Well, that too.” If you want to get technical.

“I'll go with you,” Blake announces, stepping between his father and me. “I just—let's get this over with. Kennedy doesn't need to be pulled into our mess, and Graham deserves to be left out of it too.” Can my heart get any tighter?

“You're not going with him,” Graham angrily tells his brother. “This **** should have ended a long time ago. You are allowed to live your life without his influence on it. In fact, you'd probably be a lot happier without it. And...you can stay here, you can stay with me, for as long as you need. You don't have to go back. You don't—” He pauses, swallowing thickly. “You don't have to go anywhere, okay?”

The brothers stare at each other, understanding and acceptance falling over their faces like drops of rain. I know men are bullheaded, but, come on, they should have figured this crap out long ago. They need each other. I guess sometimes you can't see who your allies are unless there is a common enemy. As I watch them, I realize something as well—I love them both. Not in the same way, never that, but one as I should love a man and the other as I should love a friend. That's okay, I decide. My heart is big enough for two Malone men.

I look at their dad. But three? Hell no.

“This is ludicrous. How do you think your mother is going to feel knowing you refused to come back?”

“You don't have to tell her any of this, and really, you'd look better if you didn't,” Graham informs him.

“Your mother was a whore, and I'm sure your roommate is too,” is his awesomely inaccurate comeback.

I gasp, not so much by what he said—because I know his mother loved his dad and that's probably the only reason why she put up with his bull****, and I'm a virgin, so his words are one hundred percent false—but by how I know Graham is going to react, and he does. He swings a fist at his dad and impact with his nose is made.

Benson Malone staggers back into the wall and slowly slides to the floor, his eyes unfocused and a stream of red coursing from his nostrils.

“You loved my mother once. Did you think she was a whore then?” he bites out, staring down at his father, his hands fisting at his sides.

Benson makes an unintelligible response, which is just as well, because, like anyone wants to hear any more from him anyway.

I look at my roommate, wondering if he hit his father for me or his mom, then figuring it was probably both. I ache that he did that, even though it was completely deserved. I ache that I can see the regret mixed in with the fury on his face. He wishes he hadn't done it—he wishes he'd had no reason to. He is breathing heavy as he glares his father down. Already his knuckles are pink and swollen. I want to take him into my arms and hold him until the pain goes away.

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Also, he's been punching people a lot lately.

“I was supposed to do that,” I tell him.

He shakes his hand out. “Actually, I think I was supposed to.”

“Well, if you really feel it was necessary for it to be you.”

“I really do.”

I hit a button on my phone and widen my eyes. “Oh. Wow. I can't believe it, but I somehow, accidentally, totally without meaning to, pushed the button to call the cops.” I look up into a pair of knowing green eyes. “Since they're probably almost here already...” I shrug and look at his dad. “I guess we should just tell them that he refused to leave and then attacked you. I mean, that's what I saw.”

“Sounds good to me,” Blake says, eyeing his partially conscious dad.

The cops arrive, the situation is explained, and Benson Malone is hauled off, hopefully never to harm—verbally or otherwise—his sons again. The air becomes strained with just the three of us standing around, avoiding eyes. I mean, not that it wasn't strained before, but this is a different kind of tension. This is the kind people with feelings for one another get when too many things have been said, not enough has been said, and no one knows what to say now.

But foremost, Blake and Graham need to be alone to talk. I may be in both of their lives, but they have a life, a connection, that has nothing to do with me. I need to make sure Blake is okay and I need to make sure Graham and I are okay, but for now, they need to be okay.

I blow out a noisy breath. “You two should talk. I'm going to go home.” My eyes shift to Graham's. Is it still my home? I know my face gives this thought away.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell me to pack up and get the heck out, so I am going to go with it is still my home, at least for now. Which means I'm totally going to lounge about in his bed and eat doughnuts as I read a smut book—or just sleep. It is pretty late. Sleep equals fantasies about my roommate, so I'm really not too upset over the way the rest of my night may go.

I give a half-hearted wave and depart.

WHEN PACING AROUND the apartment for an hour doesn't produce Graham like I feel it should, I go where I want to be, where I can feel closest to my roommate when he isn't around—his bedroom. Is that creepy? Maybe. I don't care. I can be a creeper. I'm cool with that.

And so, with the lights out, I crawl into his bed, feel his scent wrap around me, and hug his pillow to my chest. I guess if he kicks me out, at least I can have this until I get the boot. Something cold and suffocating punches me in the throat like the sharp edge of a sword, and I realize, it is fear. The thought of being without him is impossible to imagine, and I squeeze my eyes against the hated foreboding that slithers along my spine in the dark. Instead, I search for my happy place, finding it in the image of bright green eyes, and fall asleep to their truths, and to their secrets.

At some point during the night, I wake up, knowing I am not alone. I slowly sit up. In the black of the room I see a form sitting on the edge of the bed, unmoving. Other than a hazy outline, I can't see much of Graham. But I don't need to see him to know he is hurting. Gloominess rolls from him like a whip curling back up after it has lashed all the joy from a being. I crawl over to him, flip onto my back, and lower myself so that my head is resting beside his leg. I stare up at him, seeing the faint glow of his eyes, barely able to make out the line of his hard mouth.

“I didn't want you to see that.” His voice is low, rough with emotion.

“See what?”

“The asshole that is my father.”

I take a deep breath. “Asking you if you're okay would be lame.”

“Ask me anyway.”

“Are you okay?”

A finger brushes hair from my forehead and I shiver. “No. But I'm better than I was before I walked into this room.”

“Such a charmer,” I murmur, really meaning it and somehow managing to sound sarcastic. Sometimes gifts can be curses too, I suppose. “Is it the bed?”

“That. And the person in it.”

I want to crawl into his lap and cling to him. I don't. Instead I say, “We need to talk.”

“Yes.” Resignation hangs from that one word.

With a sigh, I sit up, turning to face him, and cross my legs. “We need to talk about us, but we also need to talk about you. Why are you afraid of the dark and don't like walls around you?”

His head tips forward, golden hair presently painted ebony with night. “It isn't hard to guess.”

“Right. I know that. But I want you to tell me. I mean, if you want to tell me.” I blow out a noisy breath. “Do you want to tell me?”

He lets himself fall back so that his legs are hanging over the edge of the bed and places his hands behind his head. “You want to know something really macho?”

I remain quiet, knowing he doesn't really want me to answer that. Sometimes paying attention really does have its pluses. Like knowing what's going on. That's always a plus.

“I used to pee the bed.” He cringes, but I just look at him, not judging. It's whatever. It happens. Apparently even adults do it—not me, but other adults. Usually there is alcohol involved.

“My dad used to lock me in a closet when I misbehaved. Even if it wasn't anything that bad, like if I forgot to wash my hands after sneezing or something. He wasn't just strict—he was controlling to the point of being cruel. And it wouldn't be for minutes; it would be for hours. I'd sit in a closet barely bigger than I was, scared and hungry, and I had to stay like that until he let me out. Sometimes—sometimes it got so bad, and I was in there so long, that I literally pissed myself.” Shame coats his words.

His hands move from his head to his face. “And then I'd have to stay in there longer for doing that. My mom—my mom didn't know. He never did that **** when she was around and I never told her. My dad told me only babies ran and told their moms on their dads. I believed him.

“It got to the point where I couldn't sleep at night if the lights were out. I was terrified. And my dad wouldn't let me have them on, and...****. I would pee the bed at night. My mom didn't understand what was going on; she just thought I had a weak bladder. Ironically, it only happened when my dad stayed over, or when I had to stay at his place. I guess I was scared of him even as I slept.” He pauses. “This is embarrassing.”

I touch his arm, squeezing gently. “Hey. This is me. I wear embarrassing like a velvet coat of awesomeness. Continue.”

He continues. “The bed-wetting went on for a few years, to my complete humiliation. I couldn't even stay at any of my friends' houses because I was worried I would pee the bed and end any friendships I had.” The bleakness of his tone repeatedly punches my heart until I fear it will be bruised indefinitely.

“It was just this horrible cycle. I'd do something wrong, he'd punish me until I did another thing wrong, and then he got to punish me some more. It never ended, not until I quit going there. The abuse changed in form over the years—more verbal than anything, but he was always an asshole. And then I abandoned Blake to it.”

“You were just a kid,” I whisper, my chest and throat and everything inside me aching for him.

His hands drop from his face and he slowly turns his head toward me. “Yeah. I was. But so was Blake. And he needed me more than I needed to be away from our dad. I should have been there for him. I should have done more, taken more, and been what my brother needed so he didn't feel like he had no one. That's what big brothers do, right? They protect their younger siblings. But I didn't. I left.”

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