“Never said she has. But she still wants to be with me.”
He looked like a ghost, his skin so white it was as if he was losing blood. “She deserves more.”
“No argument there. But she deserves more than you, too.”
Angry silence exuded from his pores.
I stared back, sitting in the parlor that was empty except for two angry men.
In silence, he stared, the tendons in his hand popping as he gripped the armrest.
“Grave, just let it go.” I knew this was about more than just Camille. A childhood obsession from birth, everything was a competition, everything was about proving his worth. Now Camille was a trophy we both wanted, and neither could back down and admit defeat.
“She was mine first.”
“Then she ran away from you and straight into my arms.”
His hand gripped the chair a little harder.
It seemed like there was only one way out of this ordeal. Death.
“You’re a good-looking guy with more money than he needs. Even with your broken arm, pussy is the easiest commodity to come by. You don’t need Camille. You can replace her with someone better.”
“I don’t want someone better. I want the woman who’s been in my bed for years.”
“For occupying your bed for so long, she doesn’t seem to care much for you.” Not the way she cared for me, not the way she detailed her heart in her secret notes. “Grave, it was just a job for her. A job she did so well that you forgot she was working. But she’s out of that line of business now. It can never be what it was—unless you force her.”
All he did was stare.
My brother was an asshole, but I assumed he was above that.
“Let it go,” I repeated. As I sat in front of him, I saw the quiet features we shared, remembered those times we’d played video games together or threw the ball around in the yard. When we were kids, the prejudice wasn’t on fire. The anger started later, after puberty, when my father’s preference for me became more obvious. The knife in my jacket was reserved for his heart, but I wanted to keep it tucked away, find another solution that didn’t involve death for either of us.
The hardness of his stare told me he tuned out every word I said.
This would not end peacefully.
I knew what I had to do. It just felt cheap when he only had one arm, not that it would slow me down. I got to my feet.
He did the same, one side of his jacket sitting on his shoulder. His eyes remained focused on me, as if he anticipated the move I was about to make. At my height and with my same intensity, he stared me down.
I felt the pocketknife against my wrist, ready to slip into my fingers once I gave it the right tug. It seemed both appropriate and cruel to butcher him with the childhood gift, but it was the only thing I could sneak inside.
He stared.
I stared.
I tugged on my wrist and felt it land in my fingers.
Grave’s eyes flicked away from mine, looking past my shoulder.
“Son.”
It’d been a long time since I’d heard that voice, a voice that hadn’t changed since I was a boy. There was a subtle plea in its depths, but also a silent ring of authority. I looked into my brother’s eyes and saw the faint silhouette of his reflection. “Grave and I were just catching up.” I slowly turned around to meet his gaze. “Was just about to sign Grave’s cast. You think I should draw a dick or some tits?”
I hardly ever saw my father, so every time we came face-to-face, I saw how time had changed his appearance. He was a little grayer in the beard. Flecks of white were in his short hair. He seemed a little shorter too, as if time had compressed the length of his spine. He didn’t look at me the way Grave did, his emotions locked inside a bulletproof box. He was still a strong man who’d hit the gym since he was my age, and that gave him an edge that most men of his generation lacked. He stared at me, not the least bit amused by the sarcasm. “How are you?”
“How am I?” I blurted out the question with furrowed eyebrows because it felt so anticlimactic. The pocketknife was tucked in my fingers, the intention hidden from their unsuspecting eyes. “Grave is back to his old bullshit, wanting something of mine he can’t have. And here you are, judgment in your eyes, scolding us like children. How the fuck do you think I am?”
He slid his hands into his pockets. “Not here to scold, Cauldron.”
“Then why are you here?” I demanded. “Because if it’s to catch me off guard, my guard is never down.” I always looked over my shoulder. Always expected the unexpected. I hadn’t anticipated my father’s presence this evening, but I was certainly unsurprised by it.