Page 38 of Raise Me Up

Unfortunately, it’s like any other night when I come home late from work. Quiet. Dark. Unsettlingly so.

I’ve decided I hate it.

Unease stirs in me when I don’t find Beau on a bar stool or sprawled on my sectional.

Did he leave?Was one good fuck all he needed to get back out there and conquer the world? Or was I just a stepping stone on the way to connect with someone else in Dallas?

I think about him with Stas. How he made her laugh with such abandon, head tipped back, long hair spilling down her back, and brown eyes lit up with joy I haven’t seen from her in years.

Was it jealousy that drove me to follow them up to my music room last night? I’m not surewhatI was thinking. Only that I didn’t want to miss whatever was playing out between them.

No, I’m not jealous. I’m selfish. I’m hella overprotective, too. I’d do anything for my twins. Chalk that up to being raised in a dangerous house where I witnessed just how horrible humans could be. How easily they can tear a chasm inside you when they refuse to give you the most basic of necessities.

Like fucking love.

I don’t want Stas or Beau to ever experience that kind of pain.

Cutting through the formal dining room, I take the stairs by twos. When I don’t find Beau in the music room, my head turns to the spare bedroom with the door closed.

I approach cautiously, ear straining for some sort of confirmation that he didn’t leave without saying goodbye.

Then again, he doesn’t owe me shit.

What if he’s in there with Stas? What if the two of them want to pursue something without me?

Soft plucking of nylon strings comes from behind the door. I listen for a few moments, stunned in place by the emotional melody Beau’s playing. It splits me open. Makes me bleed. Makes me question why he’s here and not out on tour playing with Lithos.

I crack the door, peeking in at him resting against the headboard in bed, one of my guitars held against his bare chest. His left fingers move fluidly over the strings, but he keeps pausing to shake out his right hand in frustration.

Did he injure it?

Concern spreads through me. The last thing I should do is close myself in a bedroom with him.

“Liam?” he asks hesitantly.

I sigh, the discomfort in my chest growing. “Yeah. We should talk.”

The bed creaks, and he pads over to fully open the door. I can’t help my eyes from running down his chest. He’s wearing a pair of my gray sweatpants, and they’re barely clinging to his hips.

Clenching my jaw, I fist my hands at my sides to keep from putting them on his body.

Beau gives me a knowing little grin. “Or we could skip the talking.”

I have a brief moment of weakness where I think about leaning down to capture his mouth. Of pushing him back until he collapses on the bed, pinning him down, and spending hours driving him to the brink of pleasure.

When I don’t give in for once, the spark in his blue eyes fades. He runs a hand through his still-damp hair and walks over to the bed to plop down on the edge.

It’s then I realize there are no lights on in his room, just the faint glow of the streetlamp through the half-closed blinds.

“Why are you playing in the dark?”

“Had a headache,” he mumbles.

I stride into the connected bathroom to retrieve medicine from the cabinet above the sink. I pull out two Tylenol, grab the bottle of water from the nightstand, and hold both out for him.

He looks up at me defensively. “You know, I didn’t come here for this.”

It takes a glare to get him to accept my offerings. After swallowing the medicine, he rolls out flat on his back.