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REID

T oday started off just like every other day.

Awfully. I spent the morning nursing a headache and sipping coffee at the kitchen island while Mason reamed me out for almost getting myself killed by taking illicit drugs.

They didn’t seem illicit when I paid for them and took them in the middle of the club, but whatever floats his boat.

At least the headache isn’t a migraine, thank God for small mercies.

My leather jacket barely cuts the cold wind as I walk across campus, but the aesthetics are what really matter. Black skinny jeans, black vintage leather jacket, black shitkickers, and resting leave me the fuck alone face, almost guarantees me that I’ll be undisturbed on my way to class.

Favorite classical music blasting in my earbuds, the day doesn’t seem like total shit.

Maybe it’s only up from here. I’ve got two of my easiest math courses this morning, then I can shit off the rest of the day.

If Mason isn’t home at least. If Mason is home, he’ll surely make me do something absolutely evil like clean the oven or rearrange my closet to go from shades of gray to black.

The man acts like he’s a decade older than me but we’re only four years apart.

Sure, he’s somehow smarter than me, but that doesn’t make him better.

I scowl thinking about Mason yelling at me earlier this morning.

Who does he think he is? I huff as I redo the argument in my head.

This time I snap back, tell Mason to let me do what I want, stop hovering like a freaking helicopter mom.

Just because our parents are dead doesn’t mean he’s my mom now.

He’s just my brother.I don’t care if he became my guardian when I was still a teen.

He’s not my parent. No matter how much he might think he is.

The door to the mathematics building is heavy as always, so I have to use a little extra force to shove it open. Of course, this makes me lose balance, trip over the rug inside, and spill my coffee down my pants.

“Fucking A,” I curse. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and lift my face to the heavens.

“You’re alive,” someone says from in front of me.

Snapping my eyes open, I find myself face to face with the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.

Dark, wavy hair that’s been haphazardly styled to obscure his forehead.

Almost black eyes, plush dark pink lips that have a sheen of wetness on them, and tattoos peek out from under his too-tight T-shirt.

It’s freezing outside and he’s got no jacket on.

Amazing. His eyes bore into mine, endless dark pools that root me to the spot.

“Oh.” His eyes flick down to the spilled coffee on my pants. The most lethal smirk of all time tilts just one corner of his lips up. “Deja vu.”

Huh? My eyebrows furrow as I stare up at him. “Do I know you?”

He blinks slowly, once, twice, and then turns his face away to look over his shoulder. A few beats go by before he turns back to me, face now a blank slate.

“No, sorry. You looked like someone I knew.” He reaches out as if to touch my elbow, then seemingly thinks better of it and retracts his hand back to his side. With an awkward clearing of his throat, he steps back toward the hallway leading to the stairs. “See you around.”

What an odd morning I’m having. I rush to the bathroom to wipe off as much of the coffee as I can, but it’s useless because it is now a permanent part of my outfit.

Better that than vomit. Wait. An odd memory niggles at the back of my brain, like a sneeze that just won’t come.

Infuriating. I toss my now empty cup in the trash and flee the bathroom toward my class a few floors up.

The building is silent on the higher floors, as the upper-level math classes attract the more quiet sort of student.

Thankfully. Probably why I chose the major to begin with over Mason’s insistence that I choose one more suited to my personality.

Mason had then had the gall to suggest I get a business degree. As if he even knows me. Such a turdface. I push into the classroom just in time, the professor trailing in behind me. Normal class.

Thankfully, it’s a little warmer outside when I step into the bright midday sun after both of my courses are finished.

I’m still smarting from the loss of my coffee earlier.

I bite my lip and wiggle my nose as the hoop through my nostril itches from the cold.

I really should take it out tonight, but I’ve always been terrible about exactly two things: taking care of myself, and remembering to do something just before bed.

Both things usually culminate in my falling asleep in the same clothes I wore that day .

It’s a twenty-minute walk back home, something I’m eternally grateful for today.

Less time for Mason to hound me about my bad life decisions.

Might as well infuriate him further by smelling like smoke when I walk through the door.

Cupping my hand to protect the cigarette as I walk, I take a deep inhale when I finally get it lit.

The burn of the smoke settles my nerves, but reminds me that all I’ve had today was half a cup of coffee and two bites of a croissant.

God damn, I’m starved. The prickling sensation of being watched washes over me.

I pause in the middle of the sidewalk, cigarette dangling from my mouth as I glance around.

A few people are milling around but no one is paying a lick of attention to me, just how I like it. Must’ve been a phantom thought.

Taking a final drag of the cigarette, I toss it down, then hurriedly stomp it out with my boot at the base of the stairs leading up to the house. Mason will surely see it there, shining like a beacon of my descent into revelry and madness.

The hushed sounds of Mason whispering furiously into his phone draws me toward his office on the first floor.

One hand pressed to his forehead, the other cupped around his mouth, he looks the picture of a distraught man.

For one tiny moment I worry that something terrible has happened, but then I remind myself that the worst thing that could happen to us already has.

Nothing else can hurt that bad. His gaze lifts to mine and every ounce of emotion disappears from his face.

He furiously hangs up, then lifts his light blue gaze to mine.

“How was class?” Mason asks, clearly pretending to actually care.

I scowl. “Fine. Why? Having me sent off to rehab?”

Mason rolls his eyes and dramatically pinches his nose. “You don’t need rehab. You need someone to care about you, which is precisely why I’m here.”

“Precisely,” I mock with a sneer.

Mason stares, his eyes narrowed to slits.

We’ve always been like this, even before the death of our parents.

Siblings have a one-way ticket on how to rile each other up the most. The only thing that keeps us from killing each other most of the time is the fact we’re all the other has now.

Also, probably the money. Committing murder surely ensures we wouldn’t have access to that cushy, ever-growing pile of money to spend how we see fit.

“Reid, please stop with the drugs,” Mason begs with his shoulders slumped. “It terrifies me.”

I blink slowly at the sound of actual fear in his voice.

My lip twitches and I look down at the ground as a surge of emotion bubbles up inside me.

No. I won’t feel it. The sounds of Mason standing from the chair, his soft footfalls stepping closer echo around us but I do my best to stand unmoving. No emotions. None. I can’t.

“Reid,” Mason whispers. He’s close enough to touch, but doesn’t.

I take a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut as I count my inhales and exhales, doing my best to curb the panic threatening to choke me.

All I can hear is the whistle of the air from my flared nostrils and the soft sound of Mason rubbing his fingers together, an anxious trait he’s had since childhood.

“Don’t ask me to make promises that I can’t keep,” I implore softly, soft enough that for a moment I’m afraid Mason didn’t hear me. But when I look up, he’s looking back at me with those eyes so identical to my own, to our mother’s, that I’m afraid I’ll barf up my internal organs.

Mason nods slightly. “Alright.” He returns to behind the desk, his eyes now firmly on the computer in front of him. “I’ll keep saving you until you tell me to stop, just so you know. We’re all we have left.”

“Unfortunately,” I mumble, fleeing the room before I can see the heartbroken look on his face.

I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening hidden in my room to avoid Mason.

Earbuds in, classical music blasting in my ears, I draw in my notebook until the world fades away.

I brush the graphite on the page, hoping to smear it a little, and pull away with a small smile when it has its desired effect.

Somehow I’ve ended up drawing the hot guy from earlier, the slight curl of his dark hair over his ears, eyes so deep they’re almost black, warm glow of his skin under the black tattoos.

He’s committed to memory now, along with the other people in my notebook.

When my room darkens, I roll out of bed to get dressed for my evening out.

I scroll through my phone hoping to find someone to hook up with, but nobody is appealing to me tonight.

I’ll have to find someone the old-fashioned way at the club, then traipse off to abathroom stall for five minutes of feeling like I mean something to someone.

I desperately need a trip to the salon for a touch-up of my roots.

I don’t want anyone to be able to tell my natural color.

As far as anyone else is concerned, I was born platinum blond.

The natural red of my hair makes me feel like I see my mother’s face staring back at me in the mirror. The blond makes me someone else.