When Hell Freezes Over (When The Lights Go Down #2)

CHAPTER ONE Johanna

CHAPTER ONE

Johanna

Six Years Ago

Idon’t want to be here.

I’m sure the house is magnificent. From the pictures my brother has sent me, I know that much.

I’ll enjoy being able to walk to the beach and sunbathe on the terrace with my sunglasses pulled low enough to pretend I’m not stewing in silent judgment.

However, it comes with four sweat-drenched, loud, obnoxiously male band members—and that part makes me cringe.

I’m not looking forward to spending my summer trapped in LA with my brother and his so-called band. The only reason they get to live in the nicest house on the block is because it’s been handed to them on a silver platter—courtesy of their bassist’s family. Grayson had gotten so lucky.

Catastrophically Charismatic.

Even the name sounds like something you'd find slapped across a distressed tee on the clearance rack at Hot Topic.

My mother begged—okay, bribed—me to come and stay with my brother this summer while I’m in between semesters at the college she’d strongly encouraged me to attend.

I’m sure this is another attempt to get me to watch and report since she refuses to talk to Grayson herself and hasn’t since he bolted at eighteen.

Classic Harris family dynamics: indirect communication and generational trauma against a coastal real estate backdrop.

I don’t know what to expect when I show up at LAX with my too-heavy-for-my-small-frame suitcase and a chip on my shoulder the size of Iceland, but it definitely isn’t him.

When I step onto the concrete of the pick-up area, I see him leaned up against his vintage Bronco wearing tan cargo shorts and a black tank top with the band’s logo on it, looking entirely too relaxed.

He’s got shaggy, wannabe-surfer style, sandy blond hair hanging over his eyes and an armful of colorful tattoos.

Holy fuck. He’s delicious. Beyond sexy. Did my panties just melt off?

I’m pulled out of my daze when I notice a beat-up cardboard sign dangling from his hand with two words scrawled in block letters:

Hurricane Johanna.

Just like that, the moment’s gone and his hotness is long forgotten.

It’s my childhood nickname. The one Grayson gave me after one of my infamous meltdowns which had ended in me hurling my hairbrush at his head and giving him the scar above his left eyebrow. The one I hate.

But he isn’t my brother.

“Where’s Grayson?” I demand, stomping towards him, dragging my suitcase behind me like dead weight. “Is this some kind of joke?”

He laughs, as if he knows I’d respond this way without knowing anything substantial about me at all.

“You’re exactly how he described you,” he says. “Black hair, blue eyes that could be mistaken for daggers, icy disposition, could definitely light you on fire if you’re not careful… check, check, check.”

I stare at him, arms crossed and unimpressed. “Where. Is. He?”

“He’s out of town,” he says calmly, pushing off the Bronco and opening the passenger door. “Left instructions for me to fetch the storm. His words, not mine.”

“You’re kidding,” I say, refusing to move. “He’s not even here?! And which one are you, anyway?”

“Brandon.” He doesn’t even flinch. Just reaches for my suitcase and casually tosses it in the trunk like it weighs nothing. “Bassist. Coffee lover. Chauffeur. And apparently, professional babysitter for over privileged wannabe models.”

“Wow,” I mutter. “I’m over privileged? Aren’t you the one who got the multi-million dollar house for his eighteenth birthday?”

“Never said I wasn’t.” He shrugs. “You gonna get in this car like a good girl, or am I gonna have to put you in it myself?”

I raise my eyebrow at him.

Bite me, asshole.

“I’m not anyone’s good girl,” I say, hoisting myself into the passenger seat before he can try anything chivalrous. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Good to know,” he replies under his breath as he climbs in the driver’s side after me. “You always like this? Just want to prepare myself for the next forty-five minutes.”

“Only when my brother abandons me with strangers.”

He glances over as he starts the engine.

“Strangers, huh?” He smirks, his voice low but amused. “You already know more about me than I know about you, since you know how I got the house.”

“Grayson told me about it,” I say, unable to look at him. “And for the record, there’s not much about me worth knowing.”

He rolls his eyes. “I highly doubt that’s true.”

I continue to stare out the window as the LA skyline passes by. I don’t want him to find me interesting. His attention doesn’t mean anything, but my stupid face isn’t letting me hide it.

“Grayson didn’t even bother to tell me he wasn’t going to be here,” I mutter, attempting to shift the subject. “When is he coming back anyway?”

“Next week, I think?” he says nonchalantly. Then, after glancing over at me, his voice turns soft. “He really didn’t say anything about not being here?”

“No,” I say, feeling the loneliness creeping in whether I like it or not. “He didn’t.”

The silence sits in the air for a moment again, thick and unwanted. I don’t need his pity.

“You hungry?” he asks. “You do eat, right?”

I stiffen a little at his comment.

Of course I eat.

Yes, I’m a model—but I’ve never starved myself for my figure. He doesn’t know that, and he definitely doesn’t need to know I’m affected by anything he says.

“Depends. Are you offering fast food or something actually edible?”

He smirks. “Fast food. Greasy. Cheap—but I won’t make you talk while you eat.”

I pretend to give it some thought, because the reality is that the plane snacks didn’t cut it for me and I am hungry. “Tempting.”

“You’ll warm up to me eventually,” Brandon says with a smirk as he flips on the blinker. “You’ll see.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“A challenge,” he says, grinning like he’s already won. “Hope you like to lose.”

I don’t like to lose.

It’s actually my least favorite thing—the word isn’t even in my vocabulary.

For once, I don’t make a snarky comment.

I just keep staring out the window, letting my vision blur.

Brandon pulls into a drive-thru a few minutes later.

Some roadside burger place that looks like the grease actually seeps through the walls.

It smells like meat, salt, and questionable life choices even on the outside.

He orders for both of us at the window before I can even protest—cheeseburger, fries, Coke.

He isn’t wrong—and I hate that I like the way he assumes to know what I’d want when he’s only just met me.

I turn away to keep him from seeing the blush that threatens to creep up my cheeks.

When he passes me my bag, I take it without saying thank you—but he’s tucked extra napkins between the bag and his hand so mine won’t get grease all over it when I grab it.

Something only someone considerate would do.

Once again, I hate that I notice.

We eat in the Bronco in silence, parked under a flickering streetlight, the windows cracked just enough to let the warm LA air in. Brandon holds his burger in one hand and taps his fingers against the steering wheel with the other—not to any beat in particular, just… something restless.

“You always this quiet?” I finally ask, licking the last of the fry salt from my fingertips.

He shrugs with his stupid little smirk. “I did say I wouldn’t make you talk if I got you to eat, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t think you meant it.”

“You’re loud enough for the both of us anyway,” he says, glancing over at me again. “Didn’t seem like you needed my help.”

I don’t know how to respond. Mostly because it’s the most honest thing anyone has said to me in weeks.

“I don’t really do small talk,” I say.

“Good,” he replies. “Neither do I.”

He gathers the trash from our finished meal and gets out of the car to toss it in a nearby trash can. When he comes back, he slips behind the wheel, quiet again, and backs out of the parking lot.

When we pull into the driveway of the house—his house—I suddenly feel younger than I have all day. Like I’m about to walk into a place where I don’t belong.

Brandon pulls into the garage and kills the engine, the quiet wrapping around us again.

“Thanks,” I say as I tug at the hem of my shirt. “For… not making it worse.”

He looks over at me, and for a second, there’s no smirk. No teasing. He just watches me like he sees something he shouldn’t.

The worst part: maybe he does.

“Anytime, Hurricane.”