Brandon
CHAPTER NINE
“NOVOCAINE” — THE BAND CAMINO
Six Years Ago
The words are barely off my tongue before I regret saying them.
You started it, Johanna.
She’s halfway out of the room, but when she hears me, she stops short in the doorway.
For half a moment, I think she might turn around and rip into me—fire something sharp and cutting, the way she has since the moment we met—but she just exhales, sharp and controlled.
No comeback. No glance over her shoulder.
Silence.
Then her footsteps fade down the hall, and I hear the quiet click of her bedroom door.
I lean forward into the counter and press my knuckles into the cold granite until they burn. I shouldn’t have said it—shouldn’t have said half of the shit that came out of my mouth—because the reality is, she didn’t start anything.
I did.
The sound of her name—the real one, not some stupid nickname—still lingers in the air. It clings to the scent of cinnamon and her floral conditioner. It’s like the entire kitchen is haunted by her now.
Pushing back from the counter, I drag a hand through my hair and let out a rough, cold laugh that doesn’t sound like it belongs to me.
What the hell am I doing?
I’m grateful Grayson isn’t here to see this mess. If he’d witnessed me losing my cool over Tony calling his sister sweetheart—and then kicking both him and Eric out of the room—he’d have me by the balls.
I need to pull it together.
Do what Grayson asked of me: entertain Johanna, keep her out of trouble, make sure she survives the week without blowing up half of LA.
That’s it. Nothing more.
Although now, I’m starting to realize I might be the trouble she needs to stay away from.
Maybe if I can just get over myself and be her friend—be the person she needs instead of the one I’m starting to want to be—it’ll be fine.
I can do that.
I can get through this week, do all the things Grayson complains about having to do with her, listen to her talk, and remind her someone gives a fuck.
It doesn’t have to mean anything.
I can swallow the tension, ignore the way her eyes find mine like she’s daring me to cross the line. I can pretend I don’t notice how she bites her bottom lip when she’s trying not to smile, or that I don’t think about how she looks underneath those oversized, old band t-shirts she wears.
Grayson trusts me. Johanna deserves someone solid—someone better than the messy, obsessive bassist who’s six years older than her. The logic behind that is all reason enough to be the better guy and leave it alone beyond what I promised Grayson.
Yet, none of that logic completely stops the images that flash behind my eyes of Johanna standing barefoot in the kitchen as sunlight catches the curve of her neck in nothing but her fucking t-shirt.
My jaw tightens and I notice my pulse still hasn’t slowed. If anything, it’s faster now.
I tell myself it’s just an attraction. Chemical. Completely harmless.
Unfortunately, the truth settles low in my gut—heavy and undeniable.
It’s not harmless—and neither am I.
Later in the afternoon, Eric and Tony are playing Guitar Hero: Warriors of Rock in the media room. Should they have been practicing their real instruments for the show we have when Grayson gets home?
Yes. Absolutely.
Instead, the opening chords of Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me shake the walls like we’re living inside a thirteen-year-old’s 2009 birthday party.
Tony’s got one of Grayson’s actual mic stands set up in front of the fake drum kit so he can sing (read: scream) the vocal section at the same time.
Eric is head-banging a little too realistically as he shreds on his plastic guitar.
“I’m hot, sticky sweet—from my head to my feet!” Tony drawls into the fake microphone, throwing an obnoxious wink my way once he realizes I’m standing in the doorway.
The song ends and Tony tosses his drumsticks on the floor like he just completed a sold-out arena encore. Eric’s score pops up next to his, both of them landing top marks, and naturally they celebrate with a chest-bump that would make frat boys everywhere proud.
“Fuck yes!” Eric cheers. “That was inspired, Tone!”
“You two quite finished?” I smirk from my place at the door.
I could pretend their antics irritate me. God knows I usually try. But honestly? Watching them act like idiots is one of the few things that gets me out of my own head. It’s a reminder that things don’t always have to be so heavy—and I need that right now.
“Yes, Dad,” Tony mutters with an exaggerated eye roll.
“What song should we do next?” Eric asks, already scrolling through the track list. “Brandon, grab the bass!”
“No, thanks,” I say, shaking my head with a grin I barely feel. “Actually—will you guys be able to entertain yourselves for a few hours? I mean, once you play through the entire Guitar Hero portfolio, that is.”
“I’m sure we’ll make it.” Tony shrugs before turning his attention back to song selection. “Ooh! Let’s do Rock and Roll All Nite!”
“Going somewhere?” Eric questions with a raised eyebrow in my direction.
“Just…errands,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
Eric’s eyebrow goes higher—so much higher it’s almost not on his face anymore. “Uh-huh.”
Tony snorts. “Errands, my ass. You’re acting even weirder than before! Did Hurricane bite you after you forcibly removed us from the kitchen?”
My jaw clenches before I can stop it. “Did we not learn anything about giving her nicknames this morning, Tony?”
His devilish grin sharpens instantly. “Sensitive, are we?”
“Don’t push it,” I warn, but it comes out tighter than I mean it to.
He’s joking, like always—but this isn’t fucking funny. Not to me. Not anymore.
Eric still has his eyes on me, something knowing flickering behind them. “Everything good, B?”
“Fine.”
I know I don’t sound fine. My chest doesn’t feel fine, either. Nothing about this day has been fine—not since she walked into the kitchen. Not since she walked into my fucking life.
I push off the doorframe. “Just try not to burn the house down while I’m gone.”
Tony salutes me with his fake drumstick he’s retrieved from the floor. “You got it, Daddy.”
I flip him off without looking back and head down the hall toward my room to grab my keys and wallet.
Errands.
If only it were that simple.
The truth is, I have no idea where I’m going. I just know I need to get out of this house—make a plan, clear my head—before I fuck anything up more than I already have.
Maybe a little bit of distance will keep me from completely losing control around her—but deep down, I’m starting to realize that might not even be enough.