Page 158 of Broken Brothers

“Chance—”

“Not right now,” I said, deciding that was the closest I could come to compromise. “I don’t want anything to do with him until I figure things out.”

“You realize Morgan would probably welcome the chance to hear from you.”

“He doesn’t deserve that fucking chance,” I snapped. “He’s a fucking rat and he doesn’t deserve shit.”

What happened to control of your emotions, Chance? What happened to having a better grip of yourself? You fucking idiot.

Layla visibly recoiled at the harshness of my tone and the vitriol of my words.

“You do have a lot to figure out,” she said, although she said it more sorrowful than judgmental. “I’ll be in my room. You’re welcome to come in if you’d like.”

She moved without another word, gently closing her door behind her.

It was tragic how, despite all the thinking I had done this morning, despite all the stoic rationalizations that I’d made, despite all of the settling down I’d done, just a few words from someone I cared about could cause me to break. All it had taken was for Layla to say someone’s name, and it was like I had to fight the curse that would have stuck if I had not done anything. It was beyond aggravating and frustrating.

So much work, and yet a single instance could ruin it all. The ratio of building time to destructing time was so lopsided it would have approached infinity in some instances.

Then, once more, I heard crying.

“Goddamnit,” I muttered to myself. “Good job, Chance, you jackass.”

Unlike before, when I had let the tears go by, I didn’t want to just silently extricate myself from the situation. I knew going in there would present some risks, but I was well past the point of avoiding risks. I mean, what more did I have to lose? I had a million bucks in my account—it’s not like walking in could cause me to lose money.

I gave a gentle knock to warn Layla I was coming in. I slowly opened the door to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, her tears still wet. I sat by her, put a hand on her thigh, and then said nothing as she leaned in to me. I cupped her head with my hand.

It seemed the only person I had pressure put on was Layla. It wasn’t fair for her to have to figure things out with me while also figuring out a job, while also probably playing middleman between my mother and me, and who knew what else. There was probably so much Layla was experiencing that went beyond this—though she could be emotional, I doubt she was crying just because of me.

“You OK?” I said.

Layla didn’t say anything, trying to control her sobbing. When she finished, she looked at me with wet eyes and a red nose. I had never seen her look so vulnerable at that moment.

Slowly, she put her hands on my face. I put mine on hers. Our faces, separated by mere inches, both looked at the other with an expression that said “do we want to do this?” Her eyes fluttered open and closed, as if she couldn’t decide if she was going to move in for the kiss or not. I caught my breath a couple of times, gasping in uncertainty as to what was about to happen.

I couldn’t… but I wanted… but what if… but then…

The words went in and out of my mind, like breaths caught mid-gasp. They forewarned of the emotion I might have felt, but they didn’t do anything to stop the action at hand. I was leaning closer.

And closer.

And closer.

“Layla,” I whispered.

“Chance,” she whispered back.

I grazed her lips. She parted hers slightly.

And we kissed.

It was a slow kiss at first, one heavily dosed with caution and uncertainty. Was this really the right move? Even if it wasn’t, would pulling back create some heartache and pain both of us didn’t want to face? Should we go all the way?

The kissing organically picked up in intensity, eventually leading me to push her onto the bed and slide on top of her. We weren’t yet pawing at each other’s clothing, but our hands were exploring each other more, hers on my back and mine on her face. We weren’t erotic yet, but we were sliding down that path with little in the way.

It stayed in this dangerous zone for several moments of kissing, and I knew that if I crossed that barrier—perhaps with a bite of her neck, a slide of my hand to her breasts or her pussy, or even just something as simple as a French kiss—I could not stop myself. For the sake of Layla’s sanity and my own self-respect, if I started it, I had to finish it.

Except it wouldn’t really be finished with an orgasm. It would continue past this moment, with an expectation of continuous sex, maybe something even more.