Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (16 page)

“So, I decided to take the semester off, hang with my bro on the beach and get away from the gloom and doom of the East coast. Seeing you has definitely done that.” Pretty Boy smiles, and it looks a little lecherous, like the Cheshire Cat. He’s been talking the entire time, spouting some bullshit about how he’s so overworked, he had to take time off from his fancy-ass school where “studying is dragging him down.”

When he tells Jordan for possibly the fifth time how “different” Ivy League schools are, how difficult, I want to wring his neck.

Let him go surfing. Maybe the undertow can drag him down.

“Hey,” I reach over and take the red Solo cup Hunter hands me. He looks at Jordan. “Red, you want something?” She glances over her shoulder, but before she can answer, Pretty Boy is shoving his hand out in front of her.

“Leyton Briggs, out from Harvard for a while. I’m Mason’s best friend.”

I raise my brow, amused that he has so blatantly ignored and overlooked me for the past while. Hunter’s too classy to leave him hanging, though. Had that been Mal,
Leyton
either wouldn’t have a hand, or he’d be holding it in the air for no reason. “Hunter Jackson.” And then to Jordan, “Red?”

But she’s not looking at Hunter, she’s looking at me. Because Pretty Boy
Leyton
is Mason’s best friend—which means that somewhere on this beach is the asshole who’s dating my sister. The asshole who also happens to be the brother of the girl I want like I’ve never wanted anything. The same asshole who let my sister drink, get high, and then proceeded to yell at his sister when she was honorable enough to drive him home.

The asshole I’m about to find and put in his goddamn place.

“Where are your friends, Leyton?”

Pretty Boy finally looks to me, a little surprised. Hunter’s eyebrows wing up, also surprised when I say, “You guys should come join us.”

Leyton eyes Jordan again and I have to keep myself from grabbing him around the throat and letting him know what will happen the next time his eyes veer farther south than her nose. “Yeah, sure. Mase is just up the beach with the guys he lives with.”

Leyton walks a few steps away to send a text, and Jordan turns fully now, her hands resting on my chest. Her face is worried. “Brooks,” she starts.

“Don’t worry, Red, I just want to talk to him.”

She stares a second longer. Eventually, she nods. I feel a little bad when she turns away from me and heads back for the blanket and Nala, but I don’t follow.

“Want to tell us what’s going on?” Hunter asks. Mal is with us now, hat on backward, sunglasses over his eyes, Solo cup in hand. His tats are on full display since he’s shirtless. Though he appears calm and relaxed, I know that can change in an instant.

“Mason Richards is dating my sister. Jordan and Nala ran into them at a party a few nights ago—Ash was wasted; so was he. They were going to drive home.”

“Fucker,” Mal says around a swallow of beer. I nod.

“Pretty Boy over there is here with him now. I figure it’s time I talked to the man, figured out what his intentions are.”

Mal’s nodding, always on board with a little confrontation. Hunter, though—he’s doing this stare thing. The one that says he knows there is more to the story, and that the information he’s missing is important.

Bastard.

He doesn’t have time to ask, because dumb ass reappears and his friends are right behind him. I don’t think I would have been able to pick Mason out based on my knowledge that he is Jordan’s brother. They look nothing alike. His hair is burnished blonde, his tan flawless, his physique filled out in a way that screams
gym
.

His face gives him away, though. His friends are more than happy to see Nala and Jordan and the group of females who followed Hunter back here. Already, they’re dispersing, helping themselves to our cooler, dipping into their own, and scouting out which girl is most interested. A glance at Jordan shows she has her back to me, a textbook open in her lap.

Nala is flicking her eyes between Jordan and me—she’s torn, understanding both sides.

I’m not even sure what Jordan’s side is.

“Mason?”

He nods, staying where he’s at. Ashton is nowhere to be found. I don’t know if that means she’s at home with our mom, or if she’s somewhere else, alone.

“Brooklyn Novak. Ashton’s brother.” And then I plant my fist in his face, and all hell breaks loose.

Hunter takes the Pretty Boy who spins first, and Mal straight-arms the next two who try and come to Mason’s defense. As numbers go, we’re three to their seven. As a fight goes, we may as well be the Vikings invading England.

Mason swings back, which I didn’t expect. I have time to turn, and I take the hit to the jaw instead of the nose. Grabbing him by the shirt front, I bring him in close, taking away his leverage, lifting him to his toes. I’m easily three inches taller, and though he’s not as weak as I predicted, he is hungover and I am not. That, combined with my size, have more than given me an advantage.

“Don’t go near my sister again.”

“Says the guy who made her fucking cry this morning.”

My hand twists in his shirt, the other making a fist. It would be so satisfying, but I don’t hit him again. Anything more happens, and the police will be called soon. Shit, they may have been already. “Because I care about her. You don’t know Ashton.”

His eyes are bright and defiant, despite the dark circles underneath them. The playboy exterior he wears fades a little, and I see a desperate guy with every reason to fight.

“Don’t fucking tell me I don’t know her. Who holds her every night when she cries? Who takes her to the doctor when she gets sick? Who checks on her five times a day to make sure she isn’t scared or sad or alone? Because it’s sure as fuck
not you
.”

He shoves my hand away from his shirt and I let him. My heart is racing and my stomach feels sick. My lungs can barely drag in any air. I’m suffocating, even though I’m outside.

“Who gave her the drugs?” I spit out. Mason flinches. “She could die—at any minute. Did she tell you that? Cardiac arrest, infection—those are real possibilities for Ashton. If you’ve been taking her to the doctor, it’s because her immune system is compromised. Which means drugs and drinking and parties are the worst goddamned idea.”

Mason clenches his fists. Blood trickles from his mouth and nose, but he ignores it. “I have her,” he says. I hate that a part of me feels bad for this guy. He loves her, or thinks he does, and he’s running himself ragged trying to make her happy—to save her. Whether or not he knows the depth of her illness, or even what it is, he knows something’s wrong. I can see it in his eyes—he’s scared shitless because he knows. It’s killing him, like it’s killing her and all of the rest of us.

“No one has Ashton. Only her disease. Better learn that quick, or you’re both heading toward a crash where there are no survivors.”

And then I turn and walk away, shoving one of his cronies out of my path and heading for the water.

There are people milling around everywhere, but I ignore them and stand there at the shoreline, breathing while I try and pull my shit together. I need to go find Jordan and apologize, to see if she is all right.

Before I can turn to do that, a hand touches my arm, gentle, unsure.

“I’m sorry.”

Jordan’s voice is resigned. Not hesitant like her touch. Because she is sorry—she’s sorry for what happened, for her brother, for me. Reaching for her arm, I bring her next to me. “Why, did you punch someone?” She doesn’t laugh; I don’t either.

“He’s my brother,” she says, and I get it. She doesn’t love him all of the time, but she can’t hate him either. I feel the exact way about my sister. Why else would I let her tear me apart like this?

“But I understand, Brooklyn. If I could make him stop seeing her…”

I pull her closer and press my lips to the top of her head. “It would only make things worse. Ashton wants him—she depends on him. If he leaves her now…” I close my eyes thinking of what might happen. “He can’t. But if he fucking lets her party or use again and I find out, punching him will be the last thing I do.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No. I want you to stay away from him. He’s floundering right now, Red; I can see it the same way I can see Ashton’s illness. He isn’t safe for you.”

She wraps her arms around me, and for a while we stand there, watching the surfers get up and fall down on their boards. One guy eats it before he’s gone so much as ten seconds, and Jordan giggles. I don’t know if it’s the relief holding her brings, or the beautiful day despite what just happened—or maybe the sound of her laugh, but I’m scooping her into my arms before I think overmuch about it.

“Brooklyn, what are you doing?”

“Taking you swimming.” I give her points—she doesn’t squirm. No embarrassing thrashing or death threats, no screaming. She argues quite calmly as to why I should put her down—right up until the point that I’m waist deep and going farther. Then her panic sets in.

“Brooklyn, don’t you dare dive in.”

I laugh, pressing my lips to hers, bringing her taste into my mouth. “Too late, Red.”

Chapter 25

Jordan

Me: I just changed my major.

Brooks: To what?

Me: Computer Science.

Brooks: By choice?

Me: ;)

Brooks: Look at you, all grown up.

Brooks: For the record, the mental image I’m getting is of you in glasses at a computer. WOW.

Me: I do wear frames... Sometimes that’s all I wear.

Brooks: I’m using power tools. Don’t say shit like that. I might lose a finger.

Me: Power tools? *groan*

Brooks: Be in your dorm in twenty minutes.

Me: Are you serious?

Brooks: You groaned—On. My. Phone. 20 mins.

+      +      +

I knew I was playing with fire when I sent those texts. Behind my screen, I feel bold. In person, however, I’m a wreck.

It’s been eighteen minutes.

I’ve been in my room for ten of those eighteen minutes, staring at the door, dabbing a small amount of perfume on, brushing my hair, slipping it over one shoulder, slipping it back, putting it up, taking it down. A glance in the mirror has me wondering if I should change my casual outfit of silk-pleated shorts and matching tank, but I discard that as too much.

Besides, will he really care what I’m wearing? Oh, good Lord, is he going to take it off me? Am I going to
let him
? In the middle of the day?

My heart triples its pace, and I have to lean down to bring air into my lungs.

Things have been great between us—even with the scary and complicated connection our siblings have. When he punched Mason at the beach, my reactions were mixed. On one hand, I love my brother. Despite everything, we’re family, and that feels like it should mean something. But on the other, Mason is the quintessential rich kid: entitled, arrogant, the guy who believes he can drink and drive without suffering consequences. The guy who believes he can prove anyone wrong, even when undeniable facts are staring him in the face.

I wanted to punch Mason—but I also wanted to reach out and hug him, to tell him I understand how scary it is to care about someone like this. I wanted him to hear me the way he used to.

At exactly nineteen and a half minutes, footsteps sound down the hallway. A second later, a fist pounds on my door. I’m thankful that someone let him in—no way I’d be able to face him in the entryway and walk all the way back to my room for… whatever this is. Straightening, I take a deep breath and answer.

Brooklyn fills the doorway, his arms on either side of the frame, his eyes dark and focused when they latch onto me. He’s wearing white painter shorts, Timberlands, and a stained white T-shirt. His hair is pulled back, but strands are starting to slip out of his rubber band. He should not be attractive right now, a day’s worth of work on him, stained clothes, wild hair—my mouth waters.

He steps inside and I step back, my automatic retreat causing his brows to raise. I stop, determined to stand still though my heart is hammering and I feel like I might pass out any minute, especially when he closes the door. We’ve been alone together a few times in the past weeks while we have hung out, and we’ve gotten bolder in our kisses. The other night, after the beach, he walked me to Nala’s car and pressed me against it, his hands skimming over and under my cover-up while his lips drank me up.

But it was safe, because we were in public. Just like we were the night we shared our first kiss, and our second. We haven’t really been alone since our relationship became physical, so every step we have taken has been monitored and restrained in some fashion or another.

Except this one—the one where days of flirting over the phone have come to a head, and we’re staring at one another in my dorm room with the door closed. Nala has a late class—and then she’ll go to the Y where she teaches a swimming class. She might be gone for hours.

“Jordan.”

My chest is heaving—I can’t seem to make it stop, can’t seem to control myself. “Brooklyn.”

He steps forward. I lock my knees and stay where I am, tilting my head up so I can see his eyes.

“You’re teasing me, Jordan.”

I nod, trying to swallow. The saliva has evaporated from my mouth, making the act of speaking difficult. “You started it.”

His eyes flash, and then he reaches out and grips my waist. “Then I guess I better do something about it.”

Yanking me to my toes, Brooks plasters me against him and assaults my mouth—his lips sucking and rubbing, his tongue demanding entrance. I feel him grow hard against me, and if my breath wasn’t already gone, it would be now.

Oh my god, what am I doing?

Before I can answer that, Brooks has lifted me, setting me down on a bed—I think it’s actually mine—and coming with me, hovering over me while he takes his lips and fingertips on a journey of my neck and collar bone.