6. CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 6
Neo
I rub my gritty eyes and tug at the seat of my still damp pants. My body aches from the long bus ride, but at least it’s not raining here, even if the humidity feels like walking through a sauna. With every step I take down Manayunk’s Main Street, I breathe a little easier. Dacker will know what to do. Where I shun drama of any kind like it’s my job, my brother handles everything with his typical calm.
After crawling along roofs like an inept cat burglar, I found a fire escape, and once on the street, the old guy, Martin, and his floofy sidekick, Margarita, were there. Not only did they witness my badass escape, but Martin assumed I was sneaking out after a regretful hook-up.
He insisted on driving me to the nearest bus terminal, and on the way, he regaled me with story after story of the many windows he sneaked out of in his day, giving pointers on how to fall without hurting myself. I felt it was in my best interest not to dissuade him since he and Margarita the Bichon took pity on my uncoordinated ass. I could have gone to my apartment to change and ask Hendrix to lend me some cash, but that would be the first place Alexander would look, and I wanted to get as far away from my psycho ex as possible.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t warn Hendrix because Martin forgot his phone, which I’m sure his grandson will not be happy to hear about. Finding out his grandfather picked up a stranger escaping from a window will probably give Martin’s grandson an anxiety attack. And who could blame him?
It’s not even eight AM, but joggers, parents with young children, and people sipping coffee from cardboard cups meander along the artsy street with its quaint shops, restaurants, and breweries, taking advantage of the early morning before the temperature becomes unbearable.
Posters for the upcoming arts festival hang in the window of every business and a ripple of nostalgia bubbles up. I tamp down the wistfulness as I approach the familiar building, then push open the red door that’s been painted so many times every chip of paint is like counting the rings of a tree.
A pang of homesickness hits my chest and I rub it. When I accepted a full ride to Boston University at eighteen, I refused to succumb to such feelings, instead looking forward to what life had in store for me. But the hollow space in my chest that’s a constant companion since I moved out of the apartment on the second floor of this building—no matter how much I try to ignore it—aches a little less as I step into the dimly lit Stealthy Spirits.
Letting my eyes adjust from the morning sun to the darker indoor space, I still and inhale the hoppy scent that’s embedded itself into every nook after years of my dad brewing his own craft beers, and my brother eventually following in his footsteps. Many happy hours of my youth were spent here playing cars, coloring, and doing homework in my dad’s back office. When he figured out I was good with computers, instead of paying me to mop the floors and dust the baseboards, he paid me to update his accounting software. Then later, to create the inventory program my brother still uses today.
The place doesn’t officially open for hours, but my brother is a creature of habit. So, I’m not surprised when I spy Dacker hunched over the bar talking to his computer screen. “Where the fuck are you, Neo?”
“Thought I’d do our morning call in person.” The door swings shut behind me and I raise my hand. “Hi, Dack. Sorry I’m late.”
He hurls his body over the bar like something you’d see in a movie, and in a flash my ribs are being squeezed so tightly having the wind knocked out of me yesterday was more comfortable. “Fuck. I was worried.” He pushes me away, but keeps his hands on my shoulders, and looks me up and down. Behind his wired-framed glasses, I can still make out the pinch he gets between his brows when he’s worried or contemplating something unpleasant. “You look like shit. What happened?”
I shuffle from one foot to the other, feeling ten again when I came home crying because Tommy Hurkin told the class his mom said he had to invite everyone to his birthday party, even weirdos like me. “Can’t I surprise my favorite brother with a visit?”
“You can, but that’s not what this is.”
I freeze at the gruff voice making the statement and peer over my brother’s shoulder. There, in a simple white tee and jeans that look older than me with a rip just above the knee, showing off skin that is bronzed year round, stands Colden Freaking Frias. My mouth goes dry and I run my tongue over my lips.
It’s been five years since I embarrassed myself in front of my brother’s best friend. Five years since he escorted me upstairs to Dacker’s apartment on my twenty-first birthday and rubbed my back while my head was in the toilet. Five years since he tucked me into bed. And five years since he disappeared from my life.
Maybe not disappear, per se, since we’ve maintained contact via texts, but I haven’t seen the man in person since then. And seeing him now is like being exposed to the Renaissance after living in the Dark Ages.
He scoops up Dack’s laptop and points to a table in the corner, bossy as ever. “Sit.” He hands Dacker the laptop and says to him, “I’ll get food and coffee. You find out what’s going on.”
I should be irritated for being treated like a child, but I’m too tired, too hungry, and too sore to care. Plus, seeing Colden is… I drink him in as he heads toward the kitchen, those jeans smoothed across his tight ass like they’re a second skin.
“Ice coffee,” I call after him. When he turns and pierces me with a look, my skin pebbles in a way that only happens with him. My throat bobs and I add, “Please.”
His stern expression doesn’t budge, but he nods, then disappears behind the swinging doors.
“C’mon.” Dacker guides me to the corner booth where all our family’s important discussions have occurred. At least all the important discussions that occurred after our mom died. When she was alive, we’d sit in the little kitchen in the upstairs apartment.
Huh. The realization that my dad moved our “talking spot” hits me, and I wonder if it was his way of keeping the space and memories sacred for us. Or maybe the memories were too painful for him. If we’d had VirtUal then, would we have continued our family talks upstairs?
I follow and when we reach the large whiskey barrel table and worn chairs, we sit. My knee bounces, knocking the side of the wooden cask. Now that I’m here and safe, my nerves twist and the adrenaline I’ve been running on plummets. Weariness cloaks me, and my eyelids feel like they’re weighted down with more burdens than finding out the guy you dated drugged you.
“I’m exhausted.” Dropping my head onto my folded arms, I close my eyes. I don’t know what’s going on, but the question that’s pinged around my head since yesterday is, did Dr. Lexton know Alexander is such an asshole? My mind swirls with so many questions. Will my being here somehow put Dacker in danger? What about Hendrix? Is he okay? Am I overreacting? What about my work? My fingers grasp the pendent around my neck and I run my thumb over the engraved design.
My brother’s palm smooths over my head, the same comforting touch that calmed me enough to sleep after our mom died, and I sink a little further into the tabletop.
“You can rest after you eat.”
I squint one eye open. Gaze on me, Dacker misses nothing. But his patience, from years of testing recipes, tasting and tweaking until the perfect combination of yeast, hops, and malt create the flavor he wants, wavers. “Explain to me why my little brother, who is in the depths of research and working on his PhD, and two days ago had a major victory shows up unannounced at…” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “7:43 in the morning? After missing our call and not answering phone calls or texts from anyone, and not showing up to work yesterday.”
“Something happened.” Lifting my head, I groan and sit up.
His jaw ticks and his eyes narrow. That’s when I notice the shadows, red rims, and the worry marring his expression. He touches my jaw, tipping it toward the light. I wince when he leans across the table, and his fingers touch the bruise blooming from my graceful landing yesterday. “Who do I have to kill?”
My laugh sticks in my throat and comes out more like a choked sob. Not wanting my protective brother to witness my breakdown, I drop my head, but I swear I can feel all his emotions like they’re my own.
“Neo.” My brother’s voice is as tender is as the day he told me our mother had died in the horrific car crash. Colden’s father, Dr. Royal, had been out of the country, but left whatever head of state he was caring for and flew in to use his healing powers. But our mother was gone before he even landed. She’d probably died before he took off.
I shake my head and open my mouth to tell him… What? How stupid I was to fall for Alexander? How extra stupid I was for not telling him to take a hike when he showed up at the bar? How stupid—
A plate slides onto the table in front of me with a fried egg and bacon sandwich and a thick slice of banana bread, followed by a glass of coffee the color of mocha. Of course, Colden couldn’t be considerate enough to forget my favorite breakfast or how I take my coffee. No, he has to be caring and thoughtful, making it impossible to get over my crush on him.
Jerk.
Not that this is new. His texts are always responsive and kind, in that slightly arrogant way he has. Why did I ever think I could handle a texting friendship with him?
“Tell me when to stop.” He holds his hand over the glass, dropping ice cubes into my drink. I’ve always been fascinated by his power, and watching him use it reminds me of summer days as a child with Colden shooting ice at me until I fell over from laughing so hard.
I lift my hand signally him to stop. I do not notice the two veins that run from the top of his wrist, combining into one. Or the way they part in a V before getting lost under the tendons of his first and third knuckles. And I definitely do not notice his thick fingers or think about how they would feel tangled in my hair. Or around my cock.
“Thanks,” I squeak. Squeezing my eyes shut, I visualize a line of code, translating it from Python to C++. It does little to calm my twitching dick. Apparently, adrenaline crashes make me horny.
The seat next to me depresses and a thick, denim-clad thigh presses into my much less thick—okay, scrawny—thigh. Fresh baked bread and something more earthy like pine waft under my nose. Colden’s unique scent mixes with bacon and egg. He’s too close, and not close enough. Though I have at least four or five inches on him, every cell in my body screams to crawl onto his lap and curl around him. And no amount of Python or C++ can change that.
“Here.” He folds a white dish cloth in half, fills it with ice, and secures it closed with a knot. Then, with a gentleness that is the opposite of his brusque tone and surly attitude, he presses the makeshift ice pack to my jaw. “How’s that?”
Words lodged in my throat, I nod.
“Good.” He removes his hand as I take hold, but when his cold fingers brush mine, my temperature soars to sizzling. He takes my free hand and turns it over, inspecting the cuts and splinters I cleaned the best I could in the men’s room at the bus terminal. Frown deepening, he releases my hand. “Eat, first. Tell us what the hell happened, second. Then we’ll get your hands fixed up and you can sleep.”
With Colden’s sure words, and my brother’s devoted gaze, I bite into my sandwich and let the warm yolk and salty bacon work their healing powers. Everything will be fine. I’m too close to changing how we as a society experience grief, to deal with a stalking ex. Or my brother’s sexy best friend.