Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (15 page)

Her eyes are like black glass when they look up at me, her shoulders hunched so much, the bones are like sharp edges pressing against the fabric of her shirt. “You ask for too much, Brooklyn,” she says.

Pain slices hot and deep against my heart.

“Tell Nala I’m fine.” The first tear falls, betraying her. She swipes at it, taking a layer of makeup with her. “
I’m fine
, Brooks. Stop trying to save me.”

She brushes past me, hurrying through the door and slamming it behind her. I don’t chase her, not because I’m honoring her wishes, but because I know it won’t make a difference.

She has to want to be saved.

The family doctor’s words come back to me, reminding me that at some point, she has to want to get better. If she doesn’t, I’m always going to be fighting a losing battle. And I’m going to keep losing her.

My fist is through the wall next to me before I register it. I stare down at my hand, the scrapes and cuts, the drywall and plaster dust. Flexing it, I embrace the pain for the focus it gives me, the central point that takes away from the pain of helplessness and fear.

I hate this. Fucking. Hate. It.

This disease she suffers from is invisible to me—it taunts us all, forces us into action that only alienates her further, because Ashton knows she’s sick. It’s not that she’s ignorant or naïve. She knows. The issue isn’t acknowledgement; it’s belief.

Ashton knows she’s sick, she just doesn’t think she’s strong enough to get healthy. She doesn’t believe in herself, and she doesn’t believe in any of us who want to.

I flex my hand once more, noting the small cuts I’m going to have to clean. And then I look at the wall. That I can fix. Walking out to my truck, I ignore the ache that’s burning a hole inside of me while I gather my tools.

My phone beeps in my pocket. I take it out and swipe my finger across the screen.

Beach?

I look at Hunter’s text and think of saying
no
. But… I don’t really want to say no, I just feel like I should. I hate that, too, this guilt which settles over me every time I talk to Ashton. Guilt because I can’t help her get better, guilt because in some fashion it’s my fault that she’s sick, guilt because I know she’s somewhere hurting herself right now and I’m going to go see my friends and put her aside for a while.

I think of what I told Jordan, of how she can’t feel responsible for her brother. He’s a big boy. Just like Ashton’s a grown woman. We all have to live our own lives.

I text back.

Yeah. Swing by my place first. I need your help fixing my wall.

His response is immediate.

Banging the headboard again? Lucky Jordan.

Somehow, the disgust and tension I was carrying starts to dissipate just looking at those words. That’s what talking to family does.

Because it feels right, I send Jordan a text, adding a bit more flirtation to. Then I put my phone away and finish grabbing my supplies to repair the wall.

Chapter 23

Jordan

Brooklyn without a shirt is impressive. More than, really.

Not that he’s the only impressive one. Hunter is here, and Mal, much to Nala’s annoyance. When we arrive two hours after Brooks sent his text, the boys are already shirtless and throwing a Frisbee; two surfboards lay in the sand next to a cooler, some chairs, and a few backpacks.

We’re near the jetty, a place I haven’t been yet. On the way over, Nala explained they probably chose it because it’s a place people can surf all day long with decent waves. She has her board. We have barely said hello to everyone, and she’s stripped down, heading to the water. I watch her a second, worried, though I know it’s pointless since I can’t do anything for her.

She’s been quiet since we saw Ashton and Mason at the party—sassy still, but quiet in her thoughts, like she could drown in them if she isn’t careful.

“Hey, Red.”      

I wave to Hunter and Malcolm. Mal already has a surfboard in his hand and his back to us while he follows Nala to the water. I watch them for a second, enjoying the view and the moment. It’s a gorgeous day—lots of sun, blue skies, barely any wind. This beach isn’t as crowded as some, and it’s definitely not as pretty as Malibu, but somehow, I feel more at home right now with a cooler full of beer and a ratty blanket than I ever did on the private beach of our Malibu home.

Hunter also watches Nala and Mal, and then he turns and shakes his head, adjusting the black cap he’s wearing.

He’s beautiful, with his classic features and calm disposition. His skin is clear and golden, tanned from the sun, not necessarily his heritage. His eyes, so light and pretty, framed with long lashes the same light gold as his hair. His face is almost angelic in its beauty—very different from Malcolm with his scrolling black tattoos that climb his arms and over his shoulders. Mal is not beautiful in a classic way, but in a fallen hero kind of way, where girls know he might be bad, and still fall willingly.

But Brooklyn—the minute I lay eyes on him, I have to stare. His shoulders are broad and thick with muscle. He has long, strong limbs, a trim waist with heavily-muscled abdominals, and skin smooth enough I can see small grains of sand sticking to it. Add in the colorful art adorning his left arm from shoulder to wrist, I’m staring. And I’m staring hard.

His hair is pulled back like it so often is, his jaw shadowed with the perfect amount of scruff. Nothing about him screams pretty, yet, when I see him like this, my mouth waters and my body starts to tingle.

As if he knows, he steps straight up to me, using his index fingers to tap the wide brim of my floppy straw hat back. His body blocks the sun, and we stare at each other a minute. I was worried it would be weird because of what happened. Worried he would see me differently, and whatever we have going on would end.

And then he sent another text today—not necessarily flirty, but fun.

Is the beach anywhere on that list of yours?

It made me smile, as much from the content as from the fact that he was texting me. Now, I’m staring at him while he takes in my floppy hat, bare feet, and button-front cover-up shaped like a man’s shirt and stopping mid-thigh.

His lips kick up in a small curve, but his unshaded eyes tell me something else.

Impulse strikes me. Rising to my toes, I grip his shoulders, placing my face inches from his. His eyes drift to my lips and back, and I lean forward, slowly, unsure if this is the right move. When he meets me halfway, tilting his head and bringing a hand to my waist, I stop wondering if it’s the right move, and think only of how it feels.

His lips are smooth and hungry when they move over mine, his teeth adding the slightest nip to my bottom lip before he suckles it to take away the sting.

In comparison to the last few, it’s a short and simple kiss. Still, it leaves my knees a little wobbly.

“Christ, I need a girl.”

I drop back down from my toes, throwing a shy smile at Hunter. He shakes his head, but his face is amused when Brooks rests his arm around my shoulders and brings me close.

“You have a fan club over there,” he says, pointing down the beach to a group of girls. Then he picks up the Frisbee and wings it in their direction. “Better go fetch.”

Hunter laughs, taking off at a steady jog. I hear the girls’ chatter from here.

Brooks turns me and his lips are mine again, the arm around my shoulder bringing me closer, his other hand gripping my hip. “I painted you yesterday,” he says between small kisses. My head feels fuzzy and light; if he wasn’t holding me up, I know I’d fall down.

“It’s the second time.” He angles his head and sweeps his tongue across my lips. I wrap my arms around his waist and try to concentrate on both his words and how his mouth feels. It’s a losing battle.

“I used this photo of you from the day at the skate park—your eyes were fierce, your hand reaching up to cover my lens.” His hand on my shoulders slides over so he can cup my neck, fingers tangling in the strands of my hair under the brim of my hat. “I see you every day, Jordan, even when I’m not with you. And each time I see something new, I’m compelled to bring it to life.”

You are
. I don’t verbalize those words—because they feel like too much. Instead, I smile at him, rising to my toes and kissing him again, soft and quick, light. It feels natural—like somehow I have always done that.

“It must feel good to paint,” I say. He nods, releasing me and taking my bag from my feet. He spreads out a blanket and we settle on it. He leans back on his hands, his large form on display, feet resting in the sand because he’s too tall to fit all on the blanket.

I smile, sitting with my knees bent and legs together, unbuttoning my cover-up and shedding it. Today’s suit is my Betsey Johnson polka dots in grass green—a flirty skirt at the hips of the high-waist bottoms, with matching frill at the edges of the halter cups. I reach for my sunscreen, squeezing a liberal amount in my hand before offering it to Brooks.

He smirks, shaking his head. “Even gorgeous skin is susceptible to cancer.”

“I’ll take my chances.” But he reaches for the bottle, pouring some into his hand and leaning over me. “Hair.” With my empty hand, I catch my hair and bring it over my shoulder and off my neck. His hands descend, warm and just a little rough while they smooth cream over my shoulders and back. He flirts with the tie of my top, and I freeze.

“This skin—like porcelain.” He places a kiss on the back of my neck, and the skin in question pebbles. “I was trying to get it right the other day when I was painting. Nothing seemed to show how perfectly smooth and beautiful it is. Flawless.” I shiver visibly this time, and his lips curve when they touch my shoulder. Then he leans away, dropping down to his hands again, leaving me flustered while I try and cover the rest of my exposed limbs.

Eventually, the tension and need eases and we sit comfortably, laughing when we spot Hunter heading toward the water, three girls at his heels, another at his side. We look farther out and spot Nala and Mal as they each surf what Brooks assures me are pretty gentle waves. They look big and scary and rolling, but neither of them falls, so I trust Brooks is right.

“Do you think they will ever be together?”

Brooks doesn’t ask who I’m talking about—he doesn’t answer either. I know he’s most likely thinking of how much he can say without hurting or betraying either of them. “Nala told me a little,” I say, tilting my head to look at him. “And even if she hadn’t—it’s easy to see they feel something for each other.”

He nods finally, eyes still out on the water. “When you feel something so big for someone, people say the where and the when doesn’t matter. But they’re wrong. She was young, and so was he. What they felt was too big to comprehend, too much for two people who didn’t understand each other fully. He’d do anything for her,” he says, his voice serious and low. “Even leave her.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She was fifteen—more like fourteen when he really fell for her. Beyond the fact that he was almost a legal adult and she was just starting high school, he was a professional skater who spent more time out of the state than in it, and even less time than that in San Diego.” Brooklyn leans forward, bringing his knees up to circle his arms around. “Love isn’t something that can save everything or everyone—and Mal knew that he couldn’t keep her. He wasn’t ready—and whatever Nala thinks, she wasn’t either.”

“And now?”

Brooks shakes his head. “Now, they both need to figure out if they’re done being hurt.”

We don’t talk any more about them because Nala ends her last run and heads up the sand toward us. I laugh when Brooks takes out his phone and snaps three pictures while she’s walking.

“No one’s safe, are they?”

“This is the way I remember her—always. Even when she was this little elementary school kid, with crazy-ass hair and this tiny frame, she had a board. Ashton would sunbathe, make sand castles, and Nala would devour wave after wave.”

His voice trails off, and I don’t know if it’s because he said her name, or because the memory is bittersweet after recent events.

“Jordan? Jordana Richards?”

Both Brooks and I look up in time to see a Zach-Morris-look-alike scoop me up from the blanket and twirl me in circles. Cologne—strong, with an out-of-place woodsy scent—infiltrates my nostrils and makes my head spin even more.

Abruptly, I hear the Dolce model gargle out a “Hey man,” before the spinning stops and I’m airborne. The chest I land against is smooth and warm and solid. When I breathe in, I smell nothing but the sea.
Brooklyn.

“Hands off.”

“Who are you?”

There is an air of familiarity in the voice. I tap Brooks’s shoulder and wait for him to set me down. Standing, I turn and look into the face of Leyton Briggs—one of Mason’s best friends from high school who was overly flirty this summer. Since he’s a walking petri dish, I was not flirty back.

“Leyton, hello.”

I don’t look around for Mason, but I know without a doubt he’s somewhere close—which means Brooks just might get to make good on his promise to punch him.

Chapter 24

Brooks

The Ken doll wearing pink Chinos and an open sky-blue button-down is exactly the kind of guy I expect Jordan’s used to. He’s poster-boy pretty with shiny, styled blonde hair, a perfectly-golden tan, and boat shoes on his feet, even though he’s in the sand.

Christ, he should be on the poster of a cologne add. I’ve been standing behind Jordan and staring at him for the last two minutes while he tries to engage her in conversation. Every now and then, he reaches out to touch her, a casual run of his fingers over the brim of her hat, her shoulder, her forearm.

I thought I would snap his hand off the first time he did, but then Jordan did one better: she stepped back. Those mere inches put her back against my front, and the death glare Pretty Boy gave me was more satisfying than the right hook I envisioned giving him.

Each time he reaches for her, she inches even farther back. Now, we’re snug together, my hands curled around her hips.