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Bailey

My brother, Mason, is one of those people that my grannie used to call silent, but deadly — I know. He can often be found working at the small shop our dad used to own, fixing brakes on cars, helping little old ladies change the air in their tires — free of charge, or just generally getting himself covered in grease.

Mason didn’t accept Dad’s death, and Mom’s new marriage, as well as the rest of us. Not that I was okay with it, but I was only twelve and didn’t have a choice in the matter. Mason was sixteen, and he had spent every waking moment following our dad around the small four-car mechanic’s garage in the heart of Los Angeles. When Dad died, the shop sat empty for four years until Mason was able to open it back up.

Mason doesn’t come around much, so I usually end up going to him. I skipped the ride with Christian this time, after our bickering match in the car the day before, and caught an Uber instead .

Mason’s sprawled out under a car when I arrive, but I know he sees me walk up. Mason notices everything.

“What’s on the plate?” he asks, not moving from his spot of wrenching things.

“Blueberry cookies.”

Mom used to make them all the time for us when we were kids, but now, she has cooks to do things like that. Sometimes I bribe one of the cooks to bake some for him. Meeting Marcus has been both the best and worst thing to happen to her. After she and Dad divorced, she was so lonely, I think she would have slept with the Pope, had he offered. Not to mention, we were falling drastically far behind on bills. Marcus had swooped in with his millions and fancy cars and hired help and saved the day.

Mason slides out from under the car, a large grease mark on his cheek bone. My brother’s objectively handsome. He’s got the same dark hair as our mom, but he’s got Dad’s blue eyes, like my own.

I lick my thumb and rub it across the grease smudge of Mason’s cheek, who just shakes his head in disgust and grabs a cookie, dirty hands and all.

“Can I help you, Mom?”

I roll my eyes and take a seat on the rolling chair he uses in the garage. I purposely wore a tee shirt and jeans, not only to avoid the dirt on anything nice, but also because Mason’s garage is in a bad part of town. Just last week, someone was stabbed a block over. Mason doesn’t seem to mind, though. With his permanent scowl and muscular build, no one messes with him, anyway .

“You want to hold my dick while I piss, too?” he asks, biting the cookie like he’s picturing it as my head.

“No. I think your diaper will hold you off for a little while.”

He throws the remainder of the cookie at me and it bounces off my cheek, making me laugh.

“I actually came to tell you I’m leaving for a while.”

Mason eyes me suspiciously. “They finally making you check in at the institution?”

I roll my eyes and throw a whole cookie at him, which he catches and finishes in two bites.

“No, asshole, I’m going to stay with Andi and help her get all her wedding plans figured out. She asked me for help.”

“You sure she’s just not trying to get you out of that house?”

Mom and Marcus’s . . . Again, Mason hates it. I don’t think he’s stopped by since Christmas and even then, he was only there long enough to give us our presents. Mine had been a journal with prompts at the top. I haven’t used it yet, because some of the prompts hit a little too close to home. Toughest day of your life? Not ready to cover that topic. I can barely make it through a session with Kenya without wanting to hurl myself into Lake Michigan.

“How’s Mom?” Mason asks, wiping the grease off his hands on an old shop towel that looks like it’s lived a thousand lives and all of them bad.

I shrug. “The last time I saw her, she was trying to marry me off to one of her friend’s sons while falling asleep at the dinner table.”

He shakes his head, rolling back under the car. Mason doesn’t agree with Mom’s habits. When she and Dad divorced, she’d started taking prescription sleeping pills and they had given her a weird form of narcolepsy. I think it has everything to do with the wine she washes them down with, rather than the pills themselves.

“And Savannah and Mila?”

I roll my eyes. “Savannah’s her usual dramatic self. She’s taken to wearing black lipstick and ripping all her clothes.”

Mason peeks his head out from under the car, eyeing me. “Another boy?”

I chuckle. “His name is Spike .”

He rumbles of a string of curses to himself under the car.

“Mila is just Mila. You know how she is. Hopeless romantic and all. I think she’s deeply in love with a boy from her chemistry class.”

“Is that all you girls think about?”

“Hey,” I scold. “That is the last thing I’m thinking about right now.”

“That’s not what Christian told me.”

I scoff. Should have known Christian would be a little tattle-tale.

“It was a moment of desperation. I was drunk and lonely,” I wave, a flush crawling up my neck. “And since when did you become BFFs with Mom’s driver?”

He slides out, tossing his tools from the floor into the tool box. “Since he started hanging out around my sisters.”

I chuckle and shake my head. So damned protective . . . “He’s a nice guy.”

Mason raises an eyebrow at me.

“Not too nice, right? ”

“No, Mason,” I snap, shoving at his arm. “He just does his job.”

Mason sinks into the old office chair by the door, grabbing a cold bottle beer out of the mini-fridge on the work bench and popping the metal top without any trouble.

“Where’re you going to be staying in New Orleans?”

“Andi’s dad owns a house in the French Quarter.”

“And when are you coming back?”

“A month and a half.”

He eyes me like he wants to say something, but he’s holding back. I hate when he does this. Mason is always careful to not upset me, like I’m some kind of disturbed ticking time bomb that will go off at any mention of Drew’s name. A porcelain doll.

“Just spit it out, Mason,” I murmur, sitting his plate of cookies on the work bench beside him.

He grimaces. “Just have fun. Watch who you’re around. Don’t make me come down there.”

So much like Dad . . . Mason’s been watching over me since Dad passed, like a kind of grumpy guardian angel. When everything happened between Drew and I, I purposely didn’t tell Mason until Drew was out of town the week after. I knew he would go after him. He did. Drew walked away with a broken nose and a cracked rib. Mason walked away in handcuffs. I have the sneaking suspicion that Mom had forced Marcus to get Drew to drop the charges, but no one will tell me. Again — porcelain doll syndrome.

“I’m an angel,” I smile sweetly, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Angel of death, maybe,” Mason cracks. “Have you heard any more from Drew?”

Visions of the photo I saw last night dance in my head, making my stomach recoil. I laid awake for half the night, wondering if that girl is okay. I can’t escape this uncomfortable feeling from Drew having that much power over someone else.

It makes me sick.

If I tell Mason I’m still receiving pictures from Drew, as well as the occasional lewd text, he’ll go after him, again. I don’t want my brother to see the inside of a jail cell ever again.

“No,” I lie smoothly. “He’s probably moved onto his next victim.”

Mason watches me, like he’s trying to read my mind to see if I’m telling the truth. I’m glad he can’t. My mind is made up of twisted, jumbled paths that you can easily get lost in. Surely if he were to see that, he would commit me.

“You tell me if he does. I don’t want him showing his ugly face around here again.”

To be fair, Drew is highly attractive. Blue eyes. Brown hair. He’s clean and has a dimple in the center of his chin. He’s got some muscles from his daily workouts, but overall, he’s fairly lean. Like a man sculpted by Adonis, himself, but with a personality handpicked by the devil.

“I don’t think he’ll be bothering me anymore, since you broke his nose,” I say smoothly, brushing off any lingering feelings of melancholy wishful thinking that I could go back to a time before I met Drew.

“Good. Next time I’ll break his neck.”

Good Ol’ New Orleans.

As soon as I step off the plane, I can feel my hair expand two inches in width. While Malibu is definitely warm in May, it can’t compare the utter heat that radiates off the pavement in Southern Louisiana.

Thankfully, the air is on full blast in the airport. I wade through the crowds of people, mostly tourists here to spend the week drinking on Bourbon Street, until I spot a familiar brunette head poking out in the crowd.

“Oh my God, you’re finally here!” Andi squeals, throwing her arms around me. The familiar scent of her Chanel perfume makes me tear up and I squeeze her tighter.

“And I’m not drunk. I only had one drink on the plane.”

She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length to look at me. Her gray eyes light up, almost the same shade as her brother’s, just lighter.

“God, you’ve changed so much in the last couple months. We can’t go this long without seeing each other again.”

I haven’t actually changed at all, except for maybe leaving Drew.

“We have so much to do while you’re here — and not just boring wedding stuff. I have a whole month of fun planned for us.”

I grin as I grab my bag from baggage claim and follow her to the door that will surely lead to my untimely death via heat stroke.

“My dad is dying to see you. Oh, and everyone at the restaurant wants to meet you, too.”

Anxiety bubbles low in my stomach. I’m never good meeting new people. To say I have to force myself to suck it up and be social is an understatement.

“Don’t worry,” Andi waves a hand, sensing my apprehension. “Everyone will love you. You’re so much easier to get along with than me.”

Maybe that’s the problem , I think, chewing on my tongue. Maybe I wouldn’t have ended up where I have if I had learned to stand up for myself. I admire Andi and her ability to do whatever she wants, no fucks given. No one questions her because she’s been this way her whole life. I’ve always done what I was told, mostly so I can get on Mom’s good side, on the rare days that she actually has one. I can only imagine the fit she’ll be throwing when she realizes I left town and didn’t tell her.

Okay, is it immature and highly irresponsible of me? Yeah, probably. Did I feel like I was going to suffocate if I spent another second being Mom’s perfect little doll, dressing up like she wanted, marrying the man she wanted and even eating the food she wanted? Hell, yes.

“So, how is school?” I ask as Andi maneuvers her big BMW through the busy city streets. Millions of little restaurants pass by and I wonder if they all secretly serve the same food, just under different names.

“Well,” she lets out a breath through her teeth. “I’ve maxed my schedule so I can get a few extra classes in before the honeymoon.”

“Sounds unbearable,” I grimace, leaning back in the seat. I hated college, save for living with Andi. It felt . . . stuffy. Everyone was so serious unless they were at a frat party and even then, all anyone wanted to talk about was their next big move. Being the oddball out, I couldn’t participate in those discussions because I had no idea what my next big move was. Then, I got engaged to Drew straight out of college and Mom roped me into her lifestyle and before I knew it, an entire year had gone by and I still didn’t have a job.

When I approached Mom about possible career opportunities, she gave me the same line she always has. Focus on the wedding, Bailey. You don’t have time for a career right now. When I found a job working for a finance company in the city, Mom cut that short, demanding Christian go with me and stand watch in my office. It was so embarrassing and my boss didn’t like it, so I quit after a week.

“I know,” Andi concedes. “I don’t know what made me want to go back to school. Sometimes I think I’m crazy.” Andi excelled in college. She always knew what her next three big moves were. Get the degree, help run the restaurant, and now, study interior design, though I’m not sure how the three of those coincide.

“You aren’t crazy,” I interject. “You’re brilliant. Do you know how much I would kill to have my life figured out the way you do? All I have is a pipe dream and a crazy . . . family.” I cut myself off before I can say mother. Andi’s still touchy about losing her mom, rightfully so. I had only met her one time and from what I knew of her, she was a wonderful lady. Charlie had been the one to find their mom, gone after a long battle with cancer. I know it broke him, too.

Andi shrugs, turning onto the highway. “Oh, how’s the writing coming? I haven’t asked in a couple weeks.”

I groan and throw my head back against the headrest. “Can we not talk about it?”

“Oh, come on. What’s wrong?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m what’s wrong. Whoever thinks writing a book is easy should be thrown off a cliff.”

Andi snickers. “Of course, it’s not easy. It’s like having someone else inside your head. Not only do you have to keep track of their life, you have to keep track of your own, too.”

“And all their problems. Hell, I have to invent problems. It’s like playing God in my own little world of five thousand words.”

“See,” Andi points out. “Five thousand is good. It’s a worthy start and should be celebrated.”

I hold up my hand. “Please, no autographs, today.”

“I’m serious,” she laughs, pulling off the interstate and right into the heart of New Orleans.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?”

“Well, I have to go to the florist. I don’t know what to choose, so I was thinking you could help me? Oh, and we can go shopping. And eat.” She pauses to catch her breath. “There’s just so much I want to do.”

“We have five weeks,” I laugh, a small pang hitting me in the chest. Five weeks seems like a long time, but when you really think about it, it’s only thirty-five days. Andi will be busy with school for at least half of those. That means we really don’t have much time at all.

“Yeah,” Andi murmurs, not amused. “Five weeks of me working and wedding planning.”

I place my hand over hers. “Don’t worry. We’ll make time. I’m here to help.”

“Thank God,” Andi beams. “At least you’ll be able to write when I’m gone.”

I wince. I haven’t written in over two months.

“What’s the point?” I grumble. “I’ve been working on it since I broke up with Drew. The book should be done, by now. I’ve barely written anything.”

“It will come. Maybe being down here will help you get a new perspective.”

I doubt it. Between helping Andi and dodging her older brother, I imagine I’ll be pretty busy.

“Has Drew contacted you again?” Andi asks, her tone suddenly clipped. Andi never liked Drew and I could never understand why. I guess her intuition is just akin to that of a Disney fortune teller, because she was right.

“No,” I reply, instantly feeling guilty for the lie. I have this idea that if I tell anyone about the things that Drew has been sending me, they will yell at him and it will only get worse. Or someone, like my mother, will tell me he just misses me and I should try to connect with him.

Fuck that. I would rather walk through a bed of hot coals covered in razor blades than wait around for Drew to love me again.

I suppose, in his own, twisted little way, he may have. I mean, you can’t spend every moment of almost three years together and not have any feelings for someone. Dating Drew taught me that I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that love, though, no matter how lonely I feel sometimes.

“He’s off doing God only knows what with Marcus. Hell, for all I know, they’re having an affair.”

Andi wrinkles her nose. “As long as it’s not you.”

Yeah, as long as it’s not me. I still have to see him, though. My family still regards him as one of their own.

“So, tell me about Tom,” I say, hoping to change the subject and get off of Drew. I’ve only seen Andi’s fiancé, Tom, once, but he seemed nice enough. A lot different than the normal muscly, dark and, cough , naughty men she normally goes for. In fact, he almost seems a little too normal for Andi. Prim and polished — like Drew only without the classist attitude and, hopefully, the over-the-top kinks. “How is he doing with the wedding planning?”

She rolls her eyes. “He’s not. He hasn’t done a single thing to help.”

“What about Charlie or Kendra. I don’t expect your dad to be much help, but I feel like Kendra would love that.” Kendra, Andi and Charlie’s step mom, reminds me of my own mother, without the cut throat attitude of social status.

She shakes her head. “No one has been willing to help. I feel like I’m marrying myself.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out, we’ll marry each other. I’ll help you plan our wedding.”

This makes her smile. “As long as you can agree to an open marriage. I’m not sure I can sleep with my best friend. You’re like a sister. It would be too much. ”

“Deal.” I hold out my pinky and we shake on it, laughing at the stupidity in the situation.

“Want to go get something to eat? I haven’t stopped to just laugh in a long time and I doubt you have, either.”

She’s right. I haven’t been out with friends in a long time. Mostly because all those friends are also Drew’s friends and feel the same way that my mother does.

“Are you sure you can sneak away from your life for a night?”

“I’m serious. My whole evening’s open. Let’s go out and get cocktail wasted.”

I wrinkle my nose, though the idea of a drink does sound tempting. “Just a couple.”

Andi grins wickedly. “Just a couple.”