Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Markie
I flip on my turn signal and wait at the stop sign for a van to pass.
“Hello?” Miles says. He must know it’s me because he’s already distracted.
“Hey, Miles,” I say, at least pretending to sound like I want to talk to him. “How are ya?”
“What’s up?”
What’s up? I roll my eyes. “Okay, I’ll cut to the chase. For some reason, your rental house’s tax bill is being sent to my address. To you, not me, but you at my address.”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice distant. “I know.”
“Well, what do you want me to do with it?” I feel like I’m talking to a toddler. “Are you just paying it online anyway, or do you want me to mail it to you?”
He groans, as if this conversation is the most grating thing in his life—like I’m calling him to waste his time. A long sigh slips through the line as I turn toward the park.
With every second that passes, the more annoyed I get at my brother. It’s moments like this that I can’t believe he shares any DNA with Mira and me.
“Okay, what are you talking about?” he asks.
I huff a breath. “Your tax bill came to my house. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Just mail it to me.”
If he would’ve said please, or at least pretended to be polite, I would’ve done it and moved on.
All of a sudden, I’m so over Miles. I’m good to him—way better than he is to our sister or me. He treats both of us like we exist to make his life easier, and I’m over it.
“Why did it get sent to me?” I ask. “Do you know?”
“Yeah. I had it sent to you. I didn’t want it going to the rental.”
“So … why didn’t you just have it sent to you?”
He blows out a breath. “Because it’s easier for you to run to the courthouse and pay for it than for me to get the fucking invoice and write a check.
I’m not paying the online fees to process it virtually either.
That’s bullshit. I don’t know why that hillbillly town can’t just modernize and do things like the rest of the world.
But since you’re all fucked up over it, just mail it to me. ”
“No. You wanna know what’s bullshit?” I ask, my blood pressure rising. “It’s you thinking that I somehow owe you my time. I do things for you because you’re my brother, and you can’t even say thanks. You can’t call to say hi. You just use me like your errand girl, and I’m tired of it, Miles.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’ll pay you back.”
He’ll pay me back? I have never asked for, or needed, Miles’s money. I’ve never even asked him to repay me for things that I’ve spent out of pocket for his house because we’re family. But I can see now that I might be the only one out of the two of us who thinks that way.
“This has nothing to do with money.” My jaw hangs open as I try to decide if he’s really this dense or if he’s just rude. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll put this in an envelope and send it to you. But you better call the treasurer or assessor or whoever it is and change the address.”
I pull into the park, spotting Jory’s vehicle, and slide in next to it. He grins from the fence as he sees me and comes my way. On any other occasion, I’d absorb that smile and wait for him to get to me, anticipating how he’ll pull me into his arms.
But I’m too pissed for that now.
“Why are you being such a bitch about this?” Miles asks.
I recoil in my seat. “Excuse me?”
“This isn’t a big deal.”
“For you. I …” I stop myself from trying to explain it. He either can’t understand or won’t, but neither is my problem. “I gotta go.”
“You called me, interrupted my time, and now you gotta go when I call you out on your bullshit?”
Oh, hell no. Jory opens my door, and I step out, avoiding his gaze and putting distance between us.
“You’re calling me out on my bullshit?” I ask, laughing angrily. “You need a reality check.” Jory steps beside me, his brows pinched together. “I’m at the courts. Change your address.”
“Oh, that’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Amusement colors his tone. “I’m sorry. Jory’s there beside you, huh? You’re trying to show off. I get it.”
My eyes widen as my pulse pounds so hard that I can feel it behind my eyes. “No, that’s not what’s happening. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Jory bristles as he studies my face, trying to put the pieces of what’s happening together.
“I heard that you managed to get him to be your partner,” he says, scoffing. “But, really, Markie? Did you have to do that?”
I should hang up. There’s no way this conversation will end well, and the longer it goes on, the yuckier it gets. Especially considering that the accusation in his tone is bait.
“You are so out of line right now,” I say, my voice shaking with fury.
“That’s my friend. I knew you’d fuck him and make a mess of it that way, but did you have to bring him into this juvenile pickleball bullshit? It’s embarrassing, Markie.”
I embarrass you? You asshole!
Tears cloud my eyes. What the actual fuck? There’s too much packed into one statement that I don’t even know where to begin to pick that apart.
All I know is that it hurts.
“I gotta go.” The words scoot around the lump of emotion in my throat. Then I end the call before he can say anything else.
I pop open my trunk and yank out my bag, avoiding eye contact with Jory.
“Who the fuck was that?” he asks, his tone sharp.
“It’s fine,” I say, sniffling and heading toward the court.
He stays a couple of steps behind me like he might have to pivot and head to his car to go commit an act of violence. And as much as I appreciate that, as much as I’d love to fold myself onto his lap, I can’t even look at him, or I’ll cry. And I’ll be damned if I let him see me cry.
“That’s not the question that I asked you,” he says.
“Well, that’s the answer you got.”
“Markie …”
I open the gate and toss my bag on the bench. I hate being obtuse with him, but he doesn’t need to be brought into this. He’s Miles’s friend, after all, and staying in his house. We’re having a sibling quarrel, and it doesn’t involve him.
It shouldn’t involve him.
Besides, I don’t think I can recount what my brother said to me. I can’t look Jory in the face and tell him that Miles said I’m embarrassing and messy, and he apparently thinks I just fuck anyone I come into contact with. How humiliating.
I busy myself with my bag, digging through my stuff. Thankfully, it’s a bit of a clusterfuck, and sorting through the balls, towels, and empty water bottles gives me a moment to clear my head. Miles is just a dickhead. I’m here now, with Jory, and that’s all that matters.
Take a breath, Markie.
I do, and blow it out slowly, allowing my heartbeat to settle.
“Did you bring the paddle you took home the other day, or do you need one of mine?” I ask, digging through my stuff.
“I need you to answer my question.”
Steeling myself against my emotions, I turn toward him. The concern in his beautiful face is enough to break me, but I keep it together. Barely.
“Not now.” I hold his gaze long enough for him to see that I’m okay. Maybe then he’ll let it go. “Can we just play? I need to hit something hard.”
“And you didn’t even make a sexual joke. This must be bad.”
The laugh that erupts from my belly feels good, and the tension on my shoulders crumbles—at least a bit.
He pulls me into a hug before I can stop him, nestling his face against the top of my head.
My eyes flutter closed as I breathe him in, letting the scent of his cologne and soap and sweat recenter me. The mix is a magic balm. It’s almost impossible to feel like anything is too bad when Jory’s arms are around me.
“You’re okay?” he whispers.
“I’m fine. Better now.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He kisses my forehead and then lets me go. “I have a problem, though.”
I pull back, looking up at him. A hundred thoughts zoom through my mind, everything from maybe Miles called him with similar accusations today, or something happened to Gus, or that he forgot his paddle. “What is it?”
He pinches the back of my shirt, tugging it away from my body, then letting it go. All the while, his eyes stay glued to mine.
“I’m not following you,” I say.
“What in the fuck are you doing with another man’s name on your back?”
“What?” I peer over my shoulder, confused. Did someone put a sticky note on my back when I wasn’t looking? But this shirt was clean and I just put it on and came straight there … “What are you talking about?”
He rolls his eyes and grabs his paddle from a backpack, then sets off for the other side of the court. “The back of your shirt says Landry.”
“Oh,” I say, sighing in relief. “I thought something was actually wrong, asshole.”
“It is actually wrong. You’re wearing some other guy’s shirt.”
I roll my eyes right back at him. He better be kidding because I’ll fight him today.
“It’s not some other guy’s shirt,” I say, taking my spot behind the baseline. “It’s a shirt Mira bought me for Christmas a few years ago that just happens to have Lincoln Landry’s name on it.”
“Yeah. I can read.”
“Good,” I say, serving the ball.
His return lands at my feet. “I probably have a half a dozen shirts with my name on the back.”
I punch the ball down the line as I realize what’s happening. He might be playing around, because there’s no way he can take this seriously, but there is an element of truth to it.
Jory’s jealous.
My core begins to burn as I internalize this fact. Jealousy looks so hot on him.
I lunge to my left side just in time to tap the ball across the net. “If it bothers you so much, I’ll order something online tonight.”
“No need for that,” he says, as he volleys it back. “You can keep the one I fuck you in when we get home.”
I stop moving in the middle of the court as the ball bounces in front of me. He follows through the motion, moving toward the kitchen with a smirk, feeding the fire burning between my legs.
I don’t even care that he said home, like a place we go together. It registers in the back of my brain, and I’m sure I’ll overthink that later, but there are other, more pressing matters at hand.
“Got a problem?” he asks, that smirk digging deeper into his cheek.
“You could say that.”
We meet at the net, separated only by the black mesh and white tape, watching each other closely.
This is usually my favorite place in the world in the summer. It’s where I feel most alive, most energized. I’m the most myself with a paddle in my hand, under the blazing sun, with a deadline on the horizon.
But today, this isn’t where I want to be. This isn’t what I need.
As I search his handsome face—totally unguarded and honest—I realize what I have to do.
We might be fake dating for the public, but this thing between us feels very real.
The fact that it’s temporary really doesn’t matter.
I want to honor whatever this is while it’s here and, with that, comes honesty from me, too. Even when it hurts.
“That was Miles on the phone,” I say, my voice fairly even despite the emotion gathering in my throat again.
The humor disappears from Jory’s face.
“I don’t want to talk about what he said,” I say. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d just let it be. But I don’t want you to think I’m hiding things from you, because I’m not.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
I shrug. “Thank you for caring.”
“It’s not a struggle to care about you, babe.” He reaches for my hand. “Let’s call it a day and go home.”
My hand slides into Jory’s without a second thought, because strangely, what I need right now is to go home with him.