Johanna
CHAPTER TEN
“POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME” — DEF LEPPARD
Six Years Ago
My infuriation with being trapped in this male-dominated prison has only intensified now that the guys are playing Guitar Hero at ungodly levels of volume. The whole house is practically vibrating as Tony screams the lyrics to a Def Leppard song, and I’ve had just about enough of that for one day.
I gather my sunglasses, headphones, and a couple magazines—anything to dull the chaos coming from inside the house—before heading outside to sit by the infinity pool overlooking the ocean.
I close the French doors softly behind me in an attempt to hang on to my last shred of sanity.
One more loud noise and I might genuinely combust right here on this patio.
As the waves crash rhythmically against the shoreline, one thought hits me: Brandon must be the luckiest fucking guy alive to have inherited this place.
I’m not suggesting Grayson and I didn’t grow up well-off—we absolutely did.
Our late father’s success as the lead guitarist for a major rock band in the seventies and eighties made sure our childhood was idyllic and lined with every comfort imaginable.
Our childhood home in Cumberland, Maine is beautiful—but this house?
This is wealth like I’ve never seen before.
It’s the kind of wealth you don’t flaunt because it comes from generations of riches that have been woven into your bones.
The kind you don’t think much about because it’s all you’ve ever known.
I don’t have a clue what Brandon’s family did to accumulate this level of fortune, but from what Grayson has said, this is just one of many absurdly nice houses they own.
I settle into a lounge chair near the edge of the pool. Even with the obnoxious music pulsating behind me from the house, a calm washes over me as I refocus my attention on the waves. I slip on my sunglasses and flip open one of my magazines.
Breathe, I tell myself.
I put my headphones on next and press play, letting the sound of the vocalist on my playlist drown out the rest of the world—but it doesn’t take long for the thoughts of what happened this morning to creep back in.
Like a highlight reel I can’t shut off, images of Brandon in the kitchen flash through my mind—him at the stove, effortlessly domestic, spatula in hand.
The way his grey sweatpants hung low on his hips.
The shift in his voice when he told Tony to leave the room.
The near-feral look in his eyes when Tony called me sweetheart.
What nearly pushes me over the edge, though, is the way he said my name—my real name. Not sweetheart. Not Hurricane. Not anything teasing or dismissive.
Johanna.
He said it like something meant to be whispered in the dark. Like something intimate, or dangerous. I swallow hard, begging my pulse to settle. It doesn’t.
Damn it.
I came out here to escape the noise—hell, I acquiesced to my mother’s idea of visiting LA to escape the noise of my entire life—but underneath the annoying glare of the sun and the salty breeze from the ocean, I realize the real noise is in my head.
It follows me wherever I go, and it’s deafening when Brandon’s around.
I’m supposed to be here all summer, and in one week my brother will be home. I’ve got to get the fantasizing—the what if’s, the maybe’s, the way my whole body feels like it’s on fire when he’s around—under control before that happens.
Then a dangerous thought hits me.
A reckless one.
Something that should have never brushed the edges of my mind.
What if we just had one night?
One night to release the tension that’s been suffocating us from the moment I got into his car at the airport.
One night to get it out of our systems—or at least, out of mine.
Then maybe, by the time Grayson gets home, we can forget the attraction and pretend this is what it’s supposed to be: two people who just met and barely know each other.
The minute the thought forms, though, I know the truth.
Brandon would never go for it.
Even though I know he feels the tension, too, I don’t fully believe he feels it the way I do. Not enough to act on it. Certainly not enough to risk everything for a taste of what we’d be like together.
This is exactly why I don’t get close to people.
Why I keep my guard up.
Why I don’t let myself want anything—or, more importantly, anyone.
Because one look, one day, and a handful of interactions with Brandon Jackson has me spinning out as if I was an Olympic figure skater.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, dropping my magazine into my lap.
I’m about five hundred yards away from the house, but I can still hear the soft creak of the French doors easing open behind me.
I feel my heart stutter in my chest, because I’m not prepared for another interaction with him—and yes, I know it’s Brandon before I even turn around.
“You out here because you didn’t want to attend Tony and Eric’s private concert?” he asks.
I turn around in my lounge chair to face him and lift my sunglasses just enough to take him in.
He stands by the door, car keys dangling casually from his fingers, as the sunlight catches his messy golden curls.
I wonder for a moment if I’d fallen asleep out here, because he looks like sin and a fucking dream.
“If I’d stayed, I might’ve committed a felony,” I say, forcing my tone flat. “I’m not used to living in a house filled with chaos.”
“I don’t think you ever get used to it,” Brandon says with a soft smirk. “But I understand.”
He twirls his keys around his finger and looks at the ground, like he’s working something out in his head.
“Going somewhere?” I ask.
“Just to run some errands.”
I nod, trying to ignore the way his eyes sweep over me—slow, unhurried, and unquestionably intentional—like he’s memorizing the scene. That look alone makes something buzz low in my stomach.
Maybe my reckless thought from earlier isn’t as impossible as I thought.
Maybe the way he watches me does mean something.
I clear my throat. “Well… enjoy, I guess.”
Brandon gives a quick dip of his head before turning and taking a step back towards the house—but then he pauses.
It takes him a moment before he turns back to face me.
“You wouldn’t want to…” He trails off, uncertainty flickering across his features—the kind of uncertainty I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him.
“What?” I prompt him, hoping I don’t sound as eager as I feel.
He exhales through his nose, as if he’s accepted something. “Do you want to come with me?”
He says it softly—I almost think I’ve misheard him, but the look in his eyes proves I didn’t. There’s something resembling curiosity there, and I suddenly want to know what exactly it is he’s curious about.
My heart seems to forget how to beat as I feel it falter in my chest. Before I can think any better of it, before I can let logic get the better of me, I say:
“Sure.”
It comes out steadier than I feel—steady enough that it scares me a little.
Because saying yes to this—to him?
I already know it’s the beginning of breaking down all the walls I’ve built.