Chapter Thirty-One
“Is it wrong that I’m starting to like your bed more than the one back at my apartment in Colorado and the one back at my dad’s house?” Pippa says, lazily stretching her arms above her head.
“It’s wrong that every time you come here, I fuck you before I feed you,” I reply, hopping back into bed, tugging up the blankets to my waist and leaning against the headboard. I reach over to my nightstand and grab my phone, pulling up the DoorDash app. “What are you in the mood for?”
She hums thoughtfully before trailing her fingers up my side to my pec. “I can think of something.”
“I’m serious, we can’t—”
A loud thud cuts me off, and Pippa sits up fast, holding the sheet around her chest. “Did you hear that?”
I nod slowly, straining to hear what it is when it happens again. I dart out of bed, grabbing a pair of sweats and tossing them on. Pippa’s shoving on her clothes, too, panic shining from her eyes as she looks up at me.
“I need you to stay up here,” I tell her, walking to my door and cracking it open. The house is quiet, nothing but the periodic thump, thump, thump coming from the front door.
“I knew watching that scary movie the other day was a bad idea,” she grumbles.
Smirking, I glance over my shoulder. “You were the one who wanted to have a virtual movie night and chose Scream .”
“I didn’t think it would have been that bad,” she states, crossing her arms over her chest.
Switching on the hall light, I head downstairs, the pounding now significantly lighter, almost lazy, like the person on the other side can’t be bothered anymore.
I open the door, confused at first, until, “What the fu— Bowie?” I’m slack-jawed, looking down at my brother, sprawled out on my doorstep. He tilts his head back, the movement sending him reeling backward until he’s against my legs.
“Hello, big brother,” he slurs, a stupid, drunken grin on his face. He looks happy; Bowie is always a happy drunk, except for his eyes… They look…sad.
“Jesus, what happened?” Threading my arms under his, I lift him up. I inhale, the scent of stale vodka and sweat filling my lungs. Seriously? When the fuck did he last shower? “Urgh, you stink.”
He blows his breath in my face, the smell making me wince. He tries to smile—at least I think that’s what he’s doing, only it looks slightly more deranged than I’m used to seeing. I sling his arm across my shoulders, supporting his weight as I carry him into my house. He sways, his feet not cooperating as I lead him into my living room.
“How much have you had to drink?” I ask, my stomach churning. “You smell like a skanky old nightclub.”
“You can’t smell vodka,” he replies, attempting to raise his hand and bop me on the nose. He fails, nearly taking my eye out instead. I bat it away, dodging it as he tries again.
“I can smell the cheap shit you’ve been drinking, Bowie,” I scold. Even breathing through my mouth, the fumes emitting from him are enough to start a fire.
He holds his hand in front of his face, scowling when he says, “Liar. Just like everyone else. I’m surrounded by nothing but liars.”
I drop him onto the couch, watching him bounce on the cushions, then freeze as his face turns a sickly gray, and he leans over the edge of my sofa. I swear to god, if he throws up on my floor…
“Bowie, what are you doing here?” I ask, but he ignores me as he focuses on breathing. Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Dude, how did you end up on my doorstep?”
“I walked,” he burps, rolling onto his back and throwing his arm over his eye. “Or I got an Uber. Or maybe a train? Who knows?”
That churning sensation worsens as I stare down at my inebriated brother, who cannot even remember how he arrived at my house. I watch his chest rise and fall, wondering if he’s fallen asleep when he groans. “If you’re going to stand watching me like a creeper, can I get more booze?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, stopping myself from saying something snarky. He clearly isn’t as incapacitated as I’d thought.
“Wyatt?” I tense at the sound of Pippa’s voice coming from the hallway. Bowie jerks his arm away from his face, his eyes open wide as he struggles to push himself up.
I shove his arm, knocking him back down, my finger pointing in his face as I growl, “Don’t fucking move.”
He gnashes his teeth together, pretending to bite my finger. I’m shaking my head, exasperated, as I walk toward Pippa, peering around the doorjamb, unsure if she should come inside the room or not. I don’t know either. Only one other person knows about us—two I guess now including Sadie—but it’s the first time anyone in my family has seen me with a girl, let alone found them in my house. Although I doubt Bowie’s drunken head could figure out who she is.
I grab her waist, pulling her toward me, lowering my voice as I say, “It’s my brother.”
Her lips part, and she silently mouths, “Oh.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty drunk and—”
“Speak louder. I can’t hear you,” Bowie yells, laughing as my head whips around to glare at him. He’s leaning over the back of the sofa, his hand propping up his cheek as he watches us with avid interest.
“Lie back down, you dumbass,” I shout back. “If you spew over the back of my—”
“I won’t, grumpy,” he interrupts again, then rolls his eyes with so much exaggeration his entire head moves too.
I run a hand down my face. “I’m sorry, baby, I need to deal with whatever…”
We both glance at my brother, heavy-lidded but far too nosy to close his eyes.
“Is he going to be okay?” Pippa asks, concern lining her brow. My heart pumps hard in my chest. She’s never met him, yet she’s worried about him.
“Just dandy,” Bowie croons. He holds up his thumb before sliding out of sight, muttering, “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say, hating that this means our night’s been cut short. I wince as I try to find the words that don’t make me sound like an asshole. “Listen, I think it’s best if…”
She smiles, lifting onto her tiptoes and pressing her lips to mine. “It’s okay. Call me if you need anything?”
“I will,” I mutter before kissing her fully. She presses into me, unwilling to end this as much as I am. As soon as we pull away, I miss the contact, so I lean my forehead to hers. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Don’t be,” she whispers. “Go take care of your brother.”
She shrugs on her jacket, lifting her bag she must have brought down with her from the foot of the stairs, pausing to look at me before closing the front door behind her. I stare at it, sucking in the strength to deal with my drunken brother.
“Right, speak,” I demand, slapping his feet to get his attention. “What the hell has you appearing at my door at nine at night?”
His eyes snap open, trying to focus on me, his brown eyes hazy but assessing as he tilts his head.
“Y’know, if you weren’t my brother, I think I’d be into all that ink.”
Rubbing my temples, I inhale deeply, squeezing my eyes shut.
“What did I do to deserve this?” I mumble, scowling when I hear him laugh. “What happened, Bowie?”
“I need more vodka,” he says, instead of answering my question, pointedly itching his nose before massaging his cheeks. “My face is getting its feeling back.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I grumble. Leaving him alone, I disappear into my kitchen. Opening a cabinet, I take out a glass and fill it with water, grabbing painkillers before returning to the side of the couch. I nudge him with my knee, and he eyes my hand suspiciously. “It’s water, just drink it.”
“I didn’t know you took drugs,” he teases, but grabs the two white pills and tosses them into his mouth. He gulps down the entire glass of water, panting when he says, “Naughty, naughty, you could lose your flying license.”
“Pilot license, and they’re Advil,” I say, irritation coating my words. Glancing down the length of his body, noticing his dirty boots slung over the arm of the couch. I grit my teeth, unlacing them before pulling them off his feet. His socks are soaked, and my hand recoils in disgust. “What the fuck, Bowie.”
“It’s vodka. Not piss,” he slurs. “I dropped my last bottle before I came here. Splashed around in it. Soaked it all up.” He yawns, his eyes closing languidly.
“Jesus, Bowie, you’re in a state,” I mutter, not expecting him to hear, but he holds up his middle finger.
“And you are…” he trails off, his breaths turning slow and rhythmic.
Leaning down, I manage to maneuver him onto my shoulder. My couch is comfy, but the men in my family are tall. As well as an awful hangover if I let him sleep it off here, it won’t just be his head that’s sore.
“I don’t want to sleep in your bed after you’ve been fucking that chick,” Bowie grumbles, getting a second wind as I carry him up the stairs. I shift him farther up my shoulder, my bone digging into his stomach.
Pippa is not some chick I’m fucking. Pippa is so much more than that.
“Ow, you dick,” he groans, prodding me in the kidneys.
I squirm, unable to stop my laugh, and I slap the back of his thighs. “I’m putting you in the guest room, dumbass.”
“Oh.” He’s quiet, almost like he’s thinking about that. “You were having sex with her, though?”
“Not anymore,” I say, unfairly annoyed that I would be if it weren’t for him. But whatever has Bowie in this state, it can’t be great if he’s this drunk.
“Me neither,” he tells me sadly.
“I’d be surprised if you were, Bowie. She doesn’t really seem your type.” I bend down and gently roll him onto the queen-size bed. “Do you want to take your jeans off, and I’ll throw them in the wash?”
“Just my socks. They got all wet,” he moans, then tries to kick them off using his toes, missing each time.
“Lord, give me strength,” I sigh, undressing my little brother the way I used to help Sadie when he was a baby and tucking him under the comforter.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he says through a yawn, turning onto his side, his eyes closed, “I’m not fucking Mason anymore, either.”
My shoulders sag, and I realize that, once again, it appears my brother has had his heart broken, giving in to something he knew he shouldn’t have. It’s not lost on me either that the image before me is exactly what will happen to me if this thing with Pippa ends.
But right now, it’s not about me. “Is this what the drinking’s all about?”
He hums in response, burying his face into his pillow. I stand there and watch him for several minutes as he falls asleep until my phone buzzes in my sweatpants pocket.
Brat
Let me know how your brother is. I hope he’s okay.
I’ll see you Monday morning for our flight.
And then there’s a small part of me, a foolish part, that thinks, maybe I won’t end up like Bowie after all.
The sun streams into the spare room window, and Bowie groans, his hand slapping around the nightstand, searching for something.
“Morning, sunshine,” I drawl from the doorjamb, a mug of coffee in hand. It’s not the massive one with World's Greatest Pilot that gives me enough of a caffeine fix to kick-start my day, but it’s enough to deal with my hungover brother. I cross my ankles, one over the other, smirking as Bowie frowns. “How are we feeling this morning?”
“Rough.” He nods at my hand. “Please say that’s for me.”
“Hell no,” I laugh, rubbing it in by taking a nice, long gulp. “There’s plenty downstairs.” Turning back into the hallway, about to head down, I pause. “Oh, your clothes are on the dresser, freshly washed, and I even ironed them for you.” I glance over his shoulder, wrinkling my nose. “But do me a favor and shower first; you smell like you’ve been on a week-long bender.”
I’m in the kitchen, drinking my second coffee by the time Bowie’s freshly showered and dressed. He looks marginally better as he walks across the room, helping himself to a cup and a pod and making a coffee from the machine.
“When did you buy more mugs?” I don’t answer him. I stare at my iPad, unseeing the weather report as he sidles up beside me. “You got them for that girl who was here, right?” The back of my neck prickles as I continue to ignore him. He gestures toward my screen. “Where are you going today?”
I look up, aware now of what Bowie’s trying to do. He’s deflecting. He’s hoping that if he keeps speaking and asking questions, he won’t have to tell me what’s going on with him.
“We need to talk about last night.”
He looks into his mug, a little sheepish. “I don’t wa—”
“Tough shit, Bowie,” I say, a little more forcefully than I intended. But this is where we fall short as brothers. When one of us doesn’t want to talk, the other backs off. Maybe if I didn’t, Bowie wouldn’t have been such a mess yesterday.
And maybe you’re paranoid that you’re seeing the future before you.
An unfamiliar emotion lines my stomach, but I push it to the side to focus on Bowie. “You turn up unannounced at my home, drunk off your ass on cheap liquor. You don’t have a choice on whether you get to talk about it in the morning.”
“I never learn,” he mutters, knocking me off guard by answering so quickly, and then proceeds to tell me about the man he crossed the line with. The line, from what I can remember, he said he’d stay far away from, until one day he said he couldn’t.
Sound familiar?
“Tell me about who was here last night,” he says, pouting when I shake my head. “I told you all about my shame. It’s your turn. Who is she?”
“Someone I should never have gotten involved with.”
“Do I know her?” Bowie asks, and I shake my head. Technically, that’s not entirely true. He does know about her. He’s just never met her. “How long has it been going on?”
“On and off for a couple of months.”
“Wait, is this—” He frowns, clicking his fingers as his hungover brain tries to recall her name.
I take pity and help him out, surprised by how much weight lifts off my shoulders as I say, “Philippa Cartwright.”
“Fuck. Does anyone else know about you two?”
“I told Sadie a few days ago.”
“Dude? Mom knew before me?” I grimace at his hurt expression. “How bad is it if you’re caught?”
My eyes bore holes into his, my face as serious as my words. “Really fucking bad.”
“Shit,” he mutters, scraping a hand across his hair. “We’re some pair, right? You screwing your boss’s daughter, me falling for a straight guy. Again. ”
I chuckle humorlessly, looking down at the kitchen floor. “Fucking stupid is what we are.”
“Do you love her?” he asks after a beat, and my head snaps up to stare at him.
“No.” But as soon as I’ve said it, my chest squeezes uncomfortably because it suspiciously feels like a lie. Mindlessly, I rub the heel of my hand against the irritation, frowning as I say, “It’s just infatuation. It will pass when one of us gets bored.”
Love.
The single-syllable word taunts my mind.
Love.
I’m incapable of love. At thirty-nine, I’ve never once fallen in love. Fallen in lust, sure. Plenty of times.
Only, it doesn’t feel like the other times with Pippa. It feels worse. It’s stifling and suffocating, and I’m now realizing I’m powerless against it.
Fuck.
I’m in love with her.
I’m in love with my boss’s daughter.