Sweet Ache

Chapter 20

QUINLAN

“I don’t need your shit, Colton.” I roll my eyes and flop back on the couch, phone still at my ear when all I want to do is pretend I have a bad connection and hang up. I love my brother dearly but on top of the crap day I’ve had, I don’t need his two cents over him finding out about my date with Luke.

I ignore my line beeping another incoming call from Hawkin for what feels like the hundredth time since I left the seminar today. I opened up and he shut me down. I don’t want to think about it or the sting from my dashed hopes and the emotions I sat thinking about during the damn lecture while all the while he was thinking about Delta Sig girl. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed because this is on me and ignoring my damn mandate for casual only.

“Q, you’re obviously upset, you won’t tell me why, which means it’s over a guy, and to top it off I find out you actually went on a date with the dickwad? I mean two and two—”

“Does not equal four,” I say, exasperated. “It’s nothing. No one. I’ve already moved on.” Like hell I have but he doesn’t need to go into big-brother mode more than he already has.

“Fucking women,” he mutters, causing me to laugh. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

The sincerity in his tone makes me smile softly at that side very few get to see to his hard-assed demeanor. “Yes. I promise,” I tell my brother.

“You’d tell me if it wasn’t, right? I don’t need an excuse to kick Luke’s ass but it wouldn’t hurt either.”

Testosterone much? Jeez. “Colton! He was nothing but a gentleman.”

“Okay, okay. Just tell me one thing,” he says. “Is the asshole you’re upset over a racer?”

The laugh comes freely now at his relentless and inherent dislike of Luke Mason. Hawkin’s voice fills my mind despite the pang it causes. Rocker trumps racer. “No. A musician,” I deadpan.

“Fucking figures,” he grumbles. “That’s even worse.”

“Yep. You know me—I make all the wrong decisions with all the wrong guys,” I say, imagining the look on his face at that comment.

“Fuckin’ A, Q … What the—”

“Night, Colton,” I tell him with a smirk on my face. I’ve fulfilled my little-sister duty to torment her older brother for the week.

“Night.” I love the exasperation in his voice because it means I was successful.

I hang up the phone and toss it on the couch beside me and scrub my hands over my face trying to ignore my racing thoughts even though I know they are going to win in the end anyway. I glance over to the trash can, where an empty cookies ’n cream half-gallon ice-cream container sits on the top. Ironically, I ate the dessert earlier as I tried to process what the fuck happened after the lecture today. And I’m still just as clueless now as I was before the rigorous workout, the soak in the tub, and the call from my brother.

How did Hawkin and I go from hot, curl-your-toes sex before the lecture to him going out with Delta Sig girl? Something is screwy and I’m so fucking sick and tired of thinking about it—being hurt by it despite telling myself I shouldn’t be—that I just want to go to bed to prevent myself from doing the one thing I’ve wanted to do since I walked up the steps of the auditorium: Call him.

I refuse to be the desperate groupie clinging on for one more roll in the sheets when he made it obvious he’s already put me with his other dirty laundry. I could answer my phone when he calls to ask him myself but just need to figure this all out before I do that. I’m not a weak person but something tells me I could easily fall back under his hypnotizing spell.

I close my eyes, the couch beneath me a little too comfortable, and drift off. At least I think I do, because when the pounding starts on my front door, I’m startled and jump up off the cushions, heart racing, head foggy, and adrenaline pumping. My immediate thought is fear. I mean I’m still trying to clear dreams from my head as I trudge to the front door, my mind not even considering that I’m wearing my cami-tank and panties.

The knocking begins again and when I look through the peephole, I’m shocked wide awake with anger. “Go away, Hawke! You’re not welcome here.”

“C’mon, Quin!” He pounds again, the door vibrating beneath my cheek pressed there so I can watch him through the hole.

“No. Go away.” I flick the porch light off, holding tightly to my resolve and dignity, and shuffle down the hall. I stand in the family room for a moment, indecision reigning over what to do next as he bangs on the door again. I flick the light off by the couch, certain that I just need to sleep this off and maybe like a hangover, it’ll be gone in the morning.

I head to turn the light off in the laundry room, where the washing machine is running midcycle, when the door to the backyard flings open. I yelp out in fright as it bangs against the counter behind it but then it quickly turns to anger when I see Hawkin there, shoulders leaning against the wall framing the jamb, head down, looking more than worse for the wear.

“Quinlan,” he slurs, head lifting slowly for his eyes to meet mine. “I need you.”

My heart skips a beat at the desperation in his tone. Hurt me and want me back, shame on you. Hurt me and I take you back twice? Dream on. In theory it sounds brilliant but when the man you want is standing before you with a pout on his lips and those words falling from his mouth my tough-girl facade wavers.

C’mon, Westin. Don’t cave. He was an asshole. Discarded you and now realized what he did and is looking at you like a puppy dog kicked to the curb.

I lean against the washer behind me, willing my damn heartstrings to quit tugging on everything inside me, and cross my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to keep him at arm’s length. “What? Your thirty-second flavor expire and now you’re coming back for more?” My tough-girl front returns momentarily with much more bravado than I actually feel.

“Q,” he sighs. “I need to explain.”

“You’re damn straight you do. You think I deserve—anyone deserves—to be treated like that? Discarded that way?” My voice rises as the hurt overrides the anger and fires in my veins. All of the pent-up emotion of the day that I tried to pretend didn’t matter bubbles up and explodes.

“There’s an explanation,” his voice is quiet, resigned, and I recognize the sadness but I’m on a roll here and nothing is going to stop the rejection I felt from coming out now.

“I don’t care, Hawkin! You may be some hotshot rock star but you know what? It doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole,” I yell at him.

“If you’ll be quiet I’ll explain!” he yells back, stepping into my space. He reaches out to my arm and I yank it out of his vicinity.

“No! There are no excuses good enough. We’re just friends, remember?” I shout like an adolescent throwing a tantrum. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes on mine, and muscle pulsing in his clenched jaw. “You think—”

Before I can finish my thought, his mouth is on mine. I struggle against him, arms pushing, legs moving, head darting from side to side but he holds me still: hips pinning me against the spinning washing machine at my back so that my arms are trapped between our bodies and his hands hold my head firmly in place. The fight in me rages stronger.

“No!” I yell against his lips, hating my body for betraying my mind as it begins to hum with the heat of our connected bodies, remembering just how good we can be. “How dare you!” It’s a halfhearted protest.

His fingers grip my hair and pull just tight enough that I am forced to look into his eyes. “I was trying to protect you.”

The sarcastic laugh takes me by surprise. “Really? Wow, you sure have a funny way of showing it, Hawke. What are you trying to protect me from? You?”

“Yes.”

“Nice try, rocker boy,” I sneer at his pathetic excuse. My anger drowns out the sincerity tinged with shame that is in his tone. My emotions war as what I think I should do and what I want to do clash against each other. I try to push him off me again, hating and loving and wanting and not wanting the warmth of his corded muscles against my body.

“Quin. Me. The shit in my life. All of it … Hunter was behind you,” he grunts out as he blocks my knee from connecting smartly. “I didn’t want him to mess with you. To hurt you to spite me.”

And the fight leaves me. My mind spins with the comment, with how hard that confession was for him to make.

Our breaths are panting with our exertion, our faces are close and his eyes search mine to make sure I understand. Suddenly there are so many questions I want to ask and he must see them all because not a second passes before his mouth crushes to mine and takes once again without asking. The difference is this time I let him.

I open up to him as his mouth searches for the answers to the problems his own eyes tell me he can’t find. I never understood when people said a kiss tasted this way or that way. I thought it was part of that fairy-tale princess world that I don’t subscribe to.

But I was wrong.

When our tongues connect, when his lips bruise mine, I can taste his desperation, understand that he needs something, someone, right now to help dissipate the pain and confusion that is rifling through his eyes.

And I may not understand it, in fact I may never know the truths that lie in those depths of gray but I do know that a man rarely admits he needs anything and when he does you better sit up and listen. And I’m listening.

I let him take, let him lead so the control he seeks is beneath his fingertips, willing and wanting and tangible. Where our connection earlier today was more a mutual meeting of frenzied desire, right now I can feel his need for so much more from me. To control so that he can calm, to sate so that he can feel whole, to have the release so that he can ease some of his restlessness.

And I’m here for him. I throw my threats from earlier out the window because he needs me and right now I’ll give him whatever he asks for to clear the pain from his eyes and the grief from his countenance.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into me and I just nod my head in acceptance as his mouth claims mine once again. He kicks the door shut behind us without skipping a beat. His hands palm my breasts through my tank and mine slide beneath his shirt to feel his skin heated and taut with anxiety. I pull his shirt over his head and he does mine in turn and then my fingers unbutton his jeans earning me a pained groan as my hands find him hard and ready beneath the denim.

I shove his jeans and underwear down his hips and encircle him. He tears his mouth from mine, his head falling back as my name slips from his lips in a desperate moan. As I place a trail of openmouthed kisses down his exposed neckline, his fingers tighten on my arms when I sink to my knees on the floor before him.

I look up the plane of his defined torso to study him, jaw set, eyes burning, nostrils flaring, and when we lock eyes, I take him into my mouth. His hands immediately fist into the messy ponytail at the back of my head, wrapping the hair around his hand as he hisses in pleasure. “God, Quin.”

I may not be able to fix his problems or even know the answers to them, but this? Making him feel so much pleasure he can’t think otherwise for a bit? This, I can do for him.

His grip tightens; one of my hands is on his forearm while the other is holding his cock so that I can take it in my mouth. He holds my head still and fucks my mouth so that he hits the back of my throat before grinding his hips with a moan of ecstasy and then pulling back out. Where I’d normally explore more, tempt and taunt, I can sense from the volatility of his emotions, as well as the muscles tensed beneath my hand, that niceties aren’t welcome. He’s in this for the endgame, for the pleasure that might dull the pain, even if for a bit.

He holds my head still and moves his hips into my face. I know he’s close, can feel him hardening in my mouth but this time he presses himself a little too hard, a little too long so that I gag on his length. I hear his curse, feel the immediate release of my hair and his hands on my shoulders dragging me up, apologies on his lips as tears burn my eyes and I cough from the intrusion.

It’s really not a big deal, just a hazard of the act, but it’s almost as if something breaks within him because of it. He’s gone from angry and pent up to confused and regretful, trying to gather me into him and apologize. I’m sure it’s a mix of the alcohol and whatever happened to him today that has pain and grief written all over him and is the cause of his emotional instability. I’m probably so far off in my thinking, but my gut check reaction is that the only way to calm these manic extremes is to put him back in charge, tell him what I want, force him to finish this out.

And I have no clue what I’m doing, but I act on instinct, and what I can read in his expression.

“No, Hawke …” I try to push myself out of his arms. When I look into his eyes, I see emotion swimming within them, and press my lips to his in a no-holds-barred kiss. I force my tongue between his lips, thread my fingers through his hair, wrap a hand around his cock, and begin to pump it in my hand.

At first he doesn’t react but then my actions begin to spark him back to life. “Fuck me, Hawke. I need it hard, fast, rough.” I breathe my demands into his mouth and nip his bottom lip as I pull back and meet his eyes again, but this time I see the haze of desire begin to darken them as need washes over him.

And from one beat to the next, Hawke grips my hips and lifts me up onto the top of the washing machine. I don’t even have a moment to realize my victory because with the machine on spin cycle vibrating beneath me, he wastes no time jacketing up, parting my sex, and slamming into me in one slick, desperate stroke.

We both cry out as he bucks his hips before stilling momentarily, trying not to succumb to my wet heat. He waits a beat before pulling back out and setting a frantic, punishing pace as his hands hold my thighs apart and I press my back against the wall behind me. I watch his dick slide in and out of me and with the vibration of the machine beneath me, urging my release on, I slide a hand down between my thighs and add the friction to my clit needed to push me into the oblivion he’s holding out for me to find first.

I know later I’ll recall how even at his worst, Hawkin is thinking of me, but right now, I can’t think. All I can do is feel: the rapturous sensations of his thickness sliding against my nerve-laden walls with each hammer of his hips, the movement of the washer, my own finger knowing just how to pleasure myself. Recognizing my body’s signs that tell me my orgasm is just within reach, I hold my breath as my legs tense and my feet flex. I look up to see Hawke’s face pulled tight with pleasure, the muscles in his neck and shoulders strained, his eyes squeezed tight as his body draws orgasms from the both of us.

I go first. His ability to give me the hard and fast I asked for earns me an explosive orgasm that has white-hot heat streaking down my spine and exploding in my core before ricocheting out to every single nerve in my body and holding them hostage.

I can’t recover fast enough to watch Hawkin reach his, so my eyes are closed, body slumped on the machine when his harsh shout of “Fuck!” fills the small room. His fingers tighten as he rides his out.

I can feel the tension leave his grip on my thighs and open my eyes just as his head falls forward for a second before he reaches out in a move so unexpected that I hesitate momentarily when he gathers me to him and wraps his arms around me.

Our bodies are still joined in all aspects and as he holds me tight in my confining laundry room, I can also feel our souls begin to intertwine, and my heart slip a little farther down the cliff toward the ocean of love below.

“This band’s got a good vibe about them,” Hawkin murmurs quietly as he taps his fingers to the beat on the bare skin of my back. It’s the first thing he’s said since we fell in the couch after moving from the laundry room what feels like forever ago. We’re a tangled mess of temporarily satisfied desire as I lie half on top of him.

“Mm-hm.” It’s all I murmur as our hearts beat against each other’s, and the warm night air teases our bare skin. Honestly, my mind’s still thinking about the evening’s unexpected turn of events. The sex that was tinged with greed and desperation on both of our parts but for different reasons.

And with the sex came the shift in my state of mind and emotions. I’m falling hardcore for Hawkin, no question. We may have walked into whatever this is between us without any suppositions to where it’s going, but I doubt either of us will be able to walk away unscathed.

Obviously something happened tonight to drive him to drink, something bad enough that led him to need me. It had to be more than his simple explanation that Hunter was behind me today to set this off. My thoughts race but all I can determine is that only he holds the secrets to reveal.

I feel like I’m an open door to him and yet he still seems like a hallway full of locked ones. Am I walking into a dead end? I just don’t know. I’m trying to keep my feelings on lockdown, trying to prevent the heartbreak I sense on the horizon because I need him to give me at least a few keys to unlock his past. It doesn’t mean I’ll use them, but they’re necessary to feel like we’re on an even playing field. And I just don’t know if he’s at a place in his life where he’s willing to share.

Because if he can’t, something like tonight is going to happen again. The silence wraps around us and I question myself, ponder whether I’ll be able to live with another tonight, especially if he doesn’t explain his actions any further. I wonder if letting him between my thighs when he hasn’t let me in his private life makes me seem like a pushover, or a woman willing to forgive at the drop of a dime. I let the thought settle and know that it doesn’t, it just makes me human.

But at the same time, I’m going to have to make sure he understands that the word “doormat” is the furthest thing from what is stamped on my forehead.

A small part of me revels in the fact that whatever he’s distraught over, he came to me tonight, needed me tonight. Not one of his other thirty flavors from his past. That’s a pretty heady feeling when you combine it with the emotional highs and lows of the day.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts I don’t even realize that I’m tracing the tattoos on the inside of his forearm, the treble clef and the symbol for strength, moving over them in a rhythmic movement. And something strikes me suddenly, so I shift my body so that I can look at the wrist of the arm Hawkin has resting on my back. He obliges my nonverbal request and lets me look at the skin sans tattoos on there.

“What?” he asks as I shift back over, curiosity now getting the better of me.

“You never explained the pink heart thing the other day. Do they all have them? You don’t?”

He stares at me a beat before he laughs. I welcome the sound after the heaviness of our exchange, and wait for his answer. “They’re … oh God.” He chuckles, his chest beneath my chin vibrating from it. “For as long as I can remember, the four of us made bets—about anything: songs, women, you name it. We did it so much that it became a habit, but at some point we realized that there was no recourse for losing.”

“Uh-oh,” I say, the smile on my lips contradicting the shake of my head.

“Yep. So one drunken night we decided that loser gets a tattoo, winner’s pick. More drinks, more decisions were made and we decided that it had to be a uniform image and location. We figured why not make it an image of what we love….” He pauses, the self-deprecation in his laugh humorous. “Ah, I can’t believe I’m telling you this…. Rocket said he loves the pink color of the inside of a woman’s pussy…. And, well, our decision was solidified. A pussy pink heart.”

“Well,” I say, but I’m so busy laughing it’s the only word I get out.

“Yeah, I know. Can you see why I make sure I can win any bet I take so I don’t ruin the significance of the ones I have?” I nod my head, envisioning each of the guys’ wrists and their permanent reminder, as he continues. “The guy has to get the heart outlined to make it bigger with each bet he loses … hence why Gizmo has the biggest one. Love the guy to death but he’ll bet on anything.”

“I’m afraid to ask what the bets are.”

“You should be.” He snickers.

“And you’re just that good, you’ve never lost?” I ask, immediately assuming he has to cheat the system somehow.

“Nope, I’m just that good,” he says, causing me to smile as he clears his throat. “It’s hard to explain…. Sounds stupid, really, but my tats have a meaning; they tell my story in a sense, and I refuse to lessen their significance by scarring myself with a pink heart.” His voice fades and a silence falls around us, so that even though we are lying on top of each other, I feel the distance.

“How long have you guys been together?” I ask, wanting to keep him engaged, learn more about him, and I figure this is a safe topic of conversation.

“Vince since sixth grade. Him, our other friend Benji, Hunter, and I used to be inseparable. We met Giz and Rocket in high school.”

He skims quickly over his brother’s name but I don’t miss it. So Hunter was a part of this close-knit group of guys who are now a band and now he isn’t? There’s obviously more there. I’ve seen the animosity between him and Vince firsthand. I want to ask, want to delve but choose a safer path.

“What happened to Benji?”

“He’s still around,” he says, voice laced in amusement. “Ben doesn’t have a musical bone in his body. He prefers being an asshole … so he became a lawyer.” I snap my head up at him, surprised by the comment but find him smiling so I know he’s teasing. “Nah, he’s a good guy. Always looking out for my best interest.”

I rest my head back down on his chest as the song changes. Hawke’s fingers keep tapping the beat on my back, but I still feel like there is a huge elephant in the room that we need to address. I’ve watched my brother go through some pretty serious shit, watched Rylee break down his walls, and learned that with men patience is a virtue you need to hold on to. And I’m patient, but I’m also curious.

“So is this how you deal with all of your problems?” I ask, causing his hand to stop momentarily from playing the beat before he continues again.

“Hmm?” he murmurs. “You mean putting the spin in your machine’s spin cycle?” He chuckles softly, his hand moving to tug the holder out of my ponytail and begin to play with my hair. “Because shit, that felt hella good. We might have to try that again sometime, minus the barge through the door thing.”

“It was kinda hot,” I tease, earning a tug on my hair that makes me laugh. “I’d hate to see what you do when it’s just you and the guys on a tour bus then,” I joke, wanting to lighten the mood some, give him room to breathe so that he can be comfortable enough to answer.

I love the laugh he emits; it’s free and sincere and tells me some of the weight on his mind has lifted. “I assure you the guys don’t get to see that side of me,” he muses. “And to answer your question, no, that’s not how I usually deal with shit. I take it out on Giz’s drums—pound the hell out of them for a good hour or so—but I think I’ve found my new substitute.”

“You have?”

“Yes. You.” His unexpected words cause a flutter in my stomach that I try to ignore. I’ll need to try harder with that because even though I’m sure he knows the right thing to say to make a woman swoon, the sincerity in his tone weaves its way into my soul and wraps around my heart. Gives me hope of possibilities that I realize I was fearing before but now really want to believe have a chance.

I don’t know what to say but his comment has made me feel a little more secure in this ever-revolving world around us, and I want to give him something in return. I press a kiss to his chest, his heart beating just beneath my lips, and rest my chin there on top of my hand. “You want to talk about tonight?”

“No … I don’t.” He sighs after a moment and I can all but feel his sadness return. “But you deserve an explanation after what I did to you today.”

“Hawkin—”

“I’m not that much of an asshole, Quin. If I’m going to fuck it out with you, you sure as shit deserve an explanation.” There is no arguing with his tone, so I keep my eyes fixed on my fingers tracing his tattoos and nod my head in silent agreement. And of course now that he is about to talk about it, I’m almost nervous to hear the explanation.

If it’s something he keeps this close to the vest, will finding out change the opinions and feelings I’m starting to have for him?

“Today is the anniversary of my dad’s suicide.”

I whip my head up to look at him, shocked by the confession I wasn’t expecting, the key he handed me to unlock one of his doors, and hurt for him all at once. My mouth falls open and then I close it, and open it again, having everything and nothing to say to him.

He keeps his eyes averted from me though. I know he’s hurting, can’t imagine the pain of having to live without a dad, but don’t know how exactly to soothe him besides just letting him know I am here for him in silent support.

“Hawkin.” It’s the only thing I say to him, his name softly spoken.

“No. Don’t…. I gave you the short version of it the other day. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize,” I plead.

He exhales a breath, his fingers still playing idly with my hair in a gesture so contradictory to the tumultuous emotions emanating off him. “When I was nine, I was home sick. My mom went to pick Hunt up from school and my dad stayed home with me. I went downstairs to get a toy—a Transformer—and he was there. He was ranting and pacing and nervous and the things he said confused me….” His voice fades off as my heart squeezes in my chest at the sadness that begins to suffocate the room around us. “He made me promise him things about my mom, about Hunter, about how I’d live my life…. Then he made me stand there and watch him load the gun … made me watch him pull the trigger.” Hawkin’s voice that is usually so melodic in tone is hollow when he says the last words, and the absence of his trademark warmth speaks volumes. Tells me this man understandably still mourns the loss of his father, the loss of his innocence, and everything else his father took from him that day that I can’t even fathom.

The silence around us is deafening as I reach out and lace my fingers with his, my thoughts racing over the damage that was done to his psyche that day. Questions fly through my mind: Why make your son watch? Why did he commit suicide? How can two sons left by their father end up at such odds when they probably used each other to get through it?

“What was his name?” I ask, unsure what else to ask but needing him to know I care.

“Joshua,” he says softly and then falls silent for a beat. “He told me …” He clears his throat from the emotion clogged there and it breaks my heart. His chest stills beneath my cheek as he reins in his emotion and continues. “My dad said that he was weak, loved my mom too much, and that he just couldn’t deal with it all anymore. By today’s standards, I’m sure he’d be diagnosed with depression, something that might explain things, but looking back through the eyes of a child, we never saw it…. He was just our dad. The man I idolize.”

I press another kiss to his chest, his heart beating erratically against my lips, and it’s not lost on me that idolize is present tense despite the amount of time that has passed. My mind turns to thoughts of my own father, who still seems larger than life. How as a child he protected Colton and me from life’s harsh realities and yet Hawkin was thrust right into them with a front row ticket.

“I’ll never understand why he did it, why he called me in there. Why he left us. It’s hard even now for me to admit how selfish he was for making me stand there and watch him. For making me promise to live a life by the standards he couldn’t himself live out. He saddled me with the burden of proving it’s possible to do what he couldn’t and survive….” He falls quiet, and I just lie there in silent reassurance, my eyes welling with tears I don’t want him to see. Tears for the little boy he was, the damage it caused him, and for the grown man still feeling guilt over it all this time later.

Scars run so deep sometimes, the invisible ones cutting the deepest of them all.

“He ruined us that day—my mom, Hunt, me. But the fault lies on me too because I still want to make him proud somehow by doing it. I can’t not. Something’s wrong with me, I guess … I don’t know.” He shakes his head and blows out a breath in frustration.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” I murmur, not wanting to overstep my boundaries. “You’re just trying to honor your word. No one will ever fault you for standing by that.”

He just falls silent and I worry that maybe I said something he didn’t want to hear. All I can think about is this little boy with stormy eyes and the invisible scars he wears beneath the surface, the burden of being the man of the house after it seems like the house fell down around them.

“My mom has never been the same since. I’ve always said I lost her that day too. Our house was always filled with the sound of her singing or the classical music she was trying to teach us when the classics we’d much rather have been listening to were the rock variety. Then after … she was just this shell of herself…. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“There’s nothing I can say,” I murmur; all of the words on the tip of my tongue wouldn’t express even an iota of what I really mean so I just keep quiet, pulling him in tighter to me, appreciating the fact that he trusted me with his story.

“Nothing to say.” He shrugs when he lifts his head up to finally meet my gaze. His eyes are heavy with sorrow and I wish I could take that away from him for a moment, a day, so that he can live free of the burden of it. “Hunter … I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “We were close for a while. We hit high school and he started to fall apart. Sports games without our dad in the stands, my mom so lost we had to turn to friends to teach us how to drive … He fell into a bad scene for a while.” He shakes his head and lays it back down, his eyes returning to the ceiling but not before I can see the pain, the guilt he carries in his eyes.

I want to tell him that wasn’t his job, his responsibility to fix because he was suffering too, but he continues before I can find the right words.

“I think a part of him thinks my dad favored me, held me to a higher standard by having me be there with him. He doesn’t get the images I have to relive every time I think of my dad. Blood gushing like a fountain, pooling around my feet frozen to the floor. The echo of the gunshot slamming into my goddamn skull, haunting my dreams, and making me jerk to look when I hear a car backfire. The promises I had to make, the only things I have left to make him proud of me.” He scrubs a hand over his face, his five o’clock shadow chafing his hands, and all I want to do is gather him to me, hold him tight, and try to take the memories away for him, but know I can’t.

He’s baring his demons to me and I’m worried what damage has occurred by him dredging up the memories I’m sure he keeps locked tight.

“Music was how I coped. I lost myself in it—the lyrics, the beat—and it allowed me to step outside the situation, allowed me to feel alive again when I was dead for so long. We formed a band sophomore year in high school—Hunter, Vince, Rocket, Giz, and me. It was my salvation, my daily catharsis from the shit fucking up my head. We kept at it and started playing clubs before we were old enough to drink. Had a couple of gigs we played regularly for a while but the lifestyle was bad for Hunter. He slipped back into the shit he delved into in high school. Started needing the drugs more than the music, I guess. Missed gigs, fucked-up chords on stage … The guys started getting pissed, knew he was going to blow our chance.

“Then we had a scout in the crowd one night. He talked to us after and came to a few more of our sets at different clubs. One thing led to another and then another and he wanted to sign us, but he wanted Hunter gone because he was a liability. He was right but fuck, what was I supposed to do? He promised to clean up, drop the drugs, and then he never showed for the performance we had for the record execs because he was so coked up he passed out. They offered us the deal as long as Hunter wasn’t on the ticket.” He falls silent, the strife raw in his tone at having to make a decision between his anchor and his life preserver. “Anyway, the guys told me it was my decision, that they understood if we had to pass the contract up.”

“Wow.” I don’t even realize I’ve spoken until he speaks again.

“Exactly. That’s how good of friends they are to me, willing to give up their dream so that I didn’t have to leave my brother behind. It fucked me up for a while—the guilt still does, I guess, but I chose the band. Told Hunter if he couldn’t get his shit together that it wasn’t fair to everyone else to throw the years of hard work away.”

I draw in a deep breath, trying to wrap my head around the decision he had to make and the added weight it must be on his already burdened shoulders. And I also think he’s fortunate that he has friends like the guys who offered to give up the possibility because he meant so much to them. It also explains the tension between them all to an extent.

“And then of course we hit it big and I could see his resentment eat at him. Watched as he tried to undermine situations between the guys and me but they stood firm from our shared history and always had my back. So he moved on to everything else he could fuck up for me.”

By now my head is spinning at all of this information, so I just nod. His eyes reconnect with mine and give me the courage to comment. “And that’s where I come in?”

“Fuck if I know.” He blows out a breath, his free hand reaching down and grazing over the length of my jaw. “I couldn’t save my dad, but I tried to save Hunt … still am in a sense. I pay him a portion of my cut because guilt eats at me, I guess. Either that or I’m stupid … but I promised my dad I’d take care of him and I’m trying to. Am I enabling his habit that he can kick every so often before he uses again to deal with his shit? Probably. Do I cover for him, when I shouldn’t? Always … but it’s getting old and I’ve started resisting more and more, causing him to become more bitter, going after anything I have to prove he’s better, I guess. Restore that ego of his I damaged. Women, family, friends. Anything I want, he tries to fuck up in his own personal vendetta to get back at me.”

“So then kick his ass and tell him to leave what’s yours alone.” The comment comes out as a reflex, and I immediately regret the inadvertent declaration. I cringe and avert my eyes knowing that’s like the kiss of death to a guy, particularly one like him who’s probably used to changing women like he does his underwear.

The silence kills me so when I look back up, I don’t expect the lopsided grin that spreads lazily on his face and lights up the sadness in his gray eyes, but it’s such a welcome sight. “What’s mine, huh?” He angles his head to the side and stares, lips pursed, eyes reflecting the thoughts flickering through his mind. “You staking a claim, Trixie?”

Is the sky blue? If I worried that his confession was going to push me away from him, I was way off base because now I only want him more. Deciding to demonstrate, I sit up and climb over his lap so that I’m facing him, my legs straddled on either side of his. His brow furrows and lips turn up as his eyes never leave mine, questioning my actions without using words.

When I bend forward and brush my lips to his, my bare breasts skimming over his chest, and then lean back so that I can see some of that discord clear from his eyes. “If hot sex on my washing machine is part of this claim,” I say pressing my mouth to his again, slipping my tongue between his lips to tempt and tease in a seductive dance before pulling back again, “then hell yes, I’m in.”

He laughs softly, and the momentary playfulness makes me feel a bit more settled. But I can feel the weight of sadness begin to descend again and before it can grow roots, I slip my arms around him and pull him into me. With our positioning, his head rests just under the curve of my neck and I can feel him hesitate slightly, can feel the unease with his sudden vulnerability, but I don’t let go. I know this can go one of two ways because a man’s vulnerability is akin to having his heart lie on the outside of his chest, unprotected and defenseless.

It also means it’s open to possibility.

My gut instinct that he needs to be comforted could backfire. I could be so off base and scare him the hell away, but he came here. He needed me. I feel his hesitancy, his want to rein in the emotion, be strong and not break with weakness. Fulfill his promise to his dad.

And then he reacts, tightening his arms around me, gathering me into him. An exhale of a stuttered breath, fingers pressing desperately into my back, silence settling around us as he holds on and finds the comfort I’m offering without strings or claims. And yes, I know we’ve had sex already, been as close to someone else as we possibly can be, but at the same time, this feels ten times more intimate in the moment than the joining of our bodies.

I run my hands up his muscular back, slide my nails in his hair and scratch his head gently in a silent show of support. His response reminds me of a little boy needing someone to comfort him so I do just that. I hold him tightly, pressing kisses into the crown of his head, fingertips grazing his skin, our hearts beating in time with each other’s.

We sit like this for some time, the songs changing on the speakers overhead, the feeling of our naked bodies pressed skin to skin an added bonus.

“Did something happen tonight to upset you besides the obvious?” I murmur.

He sighs, the heat of his breath warm against my neck. “I got into it with Hunter after trying to distract his sights from you with that sorority girl. If he thought she was what I wanted, then he’d go after her, and not you.” I hear the honesty in his voice, and I smile softly, the hurt he caused me forgiven. “Then we got a call—Mom was having a rough day so we went to see her and things only got worse from there. She wasn’t happy to see me because … That’s another story.” He blows out a breath, the keys I need him to hand out going back into his pocket. “So I hit up a bar and drank till the anger lessened … but I just kept thinking about you. I needed to see you and you wouldn’t respond or pick up the phone, so here I am.”

“I’m sorry you had such a shit day,” I tell him honestly, struggling trying to process everything. I don’t have much to contribute so I’ll say the one thing I can. “I’m a big girl, Hawke. I have no problem telling your brother to go to hell myself.”

His laugh is low and derisive. “I know you can but Hunter’s an all costs kind of guy, and I always wonder how much there is of Dad in him. They ruin someone else while self-destructing on purpose. Dad was larger than life but everything was in extremes. Hunt’s the same way.” He adjusts our position so that he leans back, my body now falling into his, and he sets his chin on my shoulder. “Jealousy is a nasty bitch, sometimes. I love my brother—it’s just how it goes—but most of the time he uses our past as an excuse to pardon his actions, his drug habit, and the ruin it leaves in its wake…. And while I may love him, that doesn’t mean I have to like him all the time either.”

“I understand that.” My thoughts whirl over how lucky I am that even though Colton had a childhood full of inexcusable things, he always protected me fiercely. And in the same breath that notion makes me understand why he wants to protect Hunter the same way. “Why not just distance yourself? Let him trip and fall and have to deal with the consequences himself? Maybe he’ll appreciate everything you’ve done for him.”

“In theory that works, but that’s not the promise I made to my dad.” Before he falls silent, I hear the conflicted love so raw in his voice it grates through it. “I’m all he has, Quin. He might be an asshole, he might try to hurt me, hell it probably makes me look like the biggest pussy in the world for not telling him to eat shit and die, but I can’t. When it comes down to it, he’s all I have left. He may be a manipulative fuck at times who deserves what he gets, but my mom would never forgive me if I cut him loose. And then what? I lose both of them and I’ve got no one? That scares the fuck out of me.”

We fall silent again as I hear what he is saying to me. It seems to me he has no one already. The thought makes me so grateful he has the guys in the band to be there for him. But I understand the sibling bond. Colton and I are close and he’s adopted, so I can’t imagine the connection between two twins who underwent hell together. I don’t understand what Hawkin means about his mom holding on and it’s the second or third time he’s implied something is wrong with her without being more specific. I want to ask, want to understand his cryptic comments, but I let it go. He’s baring his emotions and there is no way I’m going to ask for more from him.

I get his loyalty to his twin, understand his acceptance of being hurt while trying to make everyone else feel better, but it’s not his sins to atone for, they’re his father’s.

“I know it makes no sense Quinlan so don’t try,” he murmurs once he infers my train of thought. “It’s my own fucked-up guilt over something I had no control over. I know that, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about the past. It doesn’t change my family dying that day. Dad was my idol—right or wrong or selfish or cowardly—he made me make promises to him … and I truly believe a man is only as good as his word.” His voice trails off again, leaving my heart somersaulting at his confession. I think he’s finished but I stay silent. Then he murmurs, “And I’m just trying to be the best man I can be.”

I’m not sure if he says the words to me or to reassure himself, so I let the comment settle between us. I shift my body, our limbs still entangled, and I wonder if our hearts are slowly following suit.

Doesn’t he get that he’s so much more than the little boy who made promises and the man who’s trying to keep them? Thousands see it. He holds them all spellbound with his music. Hopefully in time, he will too.

The emotional overload of the day and the satisfaction of sating our desire together pull the ribbons of slumber until they wrap around our bodies, slowly tying us together until we succumb.