Rose
MY MUSIC BLARES FROM MY alarm at eight in the morning, my cue to get my butt out of bed. It’s Sunday and I have the eleven o’clock brunch shift at Bono’s.
My head pounds and my stomach rolls as I sit up. I definitely shouldn’t have had that last shot. Ugh. I scratch at the rat’s nest that is my hair and let out a deep exhale.
I hear Oscar banging pots and pans around as he makes his usual Sunday breakfast for us. From the bathroom, the sound of water comes on, and I figure it’s Trenton already up. He lives a few blocks from here, but stays over sometimes, or I stay at his place. He’s been asking me to move in with him permanently since graduation, but something holds me back. Besides, Robert lets Oscar and I live here rent-free. It’s not over-the-top fancy, but it’s nice and in a great part of Greenwich Village.
Oscar breezes in carrying a large ceramic unicorn mug with I’m Magical written on it. “Morning, sunshine. Thought you might need one of these after seeing a certain someone last night.” He sits next to me on the bed, sipping from his own matching mug.
I try to grin, as much as I can with a hangover. “Remind me to never drink again.”
He arches a brow. “You know what Frank Sinatra says about people who don’t drink . . . that when they wake up in the morning, it’s sad, because that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.” He chuckles as he sips on his coffee.
I smirk. “Your hero is wise, and you’re an old soul with the heart of a hipster.”
“You know it.” He eyes me carefully. “Seriously though, do you recall everything that happened last night?”
I squint, my brain attempting to retrace my night after seeing Spider, but it’s blurry. I scrunch my nose up. “Did I order something called a Cherry Blow Pop?”
“Three of them.”
I almost gag. “That’s why I’m so queasy.”
He crosses his legs. “Not surprising with peach and amaretto liqueur, and some kind of green liquid that I have no idea what it was.”
“That’s not even cherry!”
“I distinctly recall you not caring as long as it did the job.” He cocks his head. “But . . . a word of advice: the things you say when you’re drunk are usually what you really think when you’re sober.”
My head throbs even harder, if possible. “Crap. What did I say?”
Oscar grimaces. “You went on a tiny rant about sexy rock stars and how they’re all assholes who screw anything with a pulse.”
I bite my lip. “Crap. Did I mention you-know-who?”
He gives me a look. “Baby girl, pretty sure we all knew who—even Trenton.”
I curse under my breath. Four years ago when I started dating Trenton, I didn’t bring up Spider. At first it was because I didn’t want Trenton to think he was my rebound guy when he so obviously was, and then later when my feelings for Trenton had grown into love, it just wasn’t appropriate. Spider is my stepbrother, and most think it’s wrong—especially people from Highland Park.
“Thanks for the warning,” I say as I take a deep pull of the frothy liquid and lean my head against the headboard. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d be considerably less stylish, and you’d be hungry.”
I grin. “I’d have more money though.”
“Who needs money when you have me?”
The water clicks off in the bathroom and I stand, noticing I’m still wearing my underclothes from last night’s outfit: a white lace bra and panty set. I sigh. No sex with Trenton; unfortunately, I’m not surprised. Lately, we seem to be drifting, both of us caught up in our everyday lives. But I do love him and I know he loves me.
Oscar whistles his appreciation. “Your body is rocking, but word of advice, your hair is ready for Halloween.” He pats me on the leg. “Now hop on up and let Mama Oscar make you some pancakes.”
“I love you!” I call to his back as he flounces out of my room and heads into the kitchen.
By the time Trenton makes it out of the bathroom, I’m dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a camisole. I’ll wait to shower after breakfast; my topsy-turvy belly needs grease to make it feel better, and quick.
He comes into my bedroom already dressed in madras shorts and a sports polo. I study his face, looking for signs that I revealed too much about Spider the night before, but he seems his usual calm self. A bit unemotional, nothing seems to ruffle his feathers. Sometimes I wish he had more passion, but it’s just . . . him. At least he’s predicable.
I recall the night we first slept together. It was after Spring Fling and my heart was still devastated from Spider. Lonely and depressed, I did what I told Spider I’d do; I focused on Trenton. That night, Trenton got us a hotel room and was gentle and sweet when he took me. Lying in his arms, I cried for my stupid broken heart, but in the coming days, I learned to love him. We’ve been together ever since, an easy and drama free relationship.
He gives me a peck on the lips, smelling minty and fresh.
“Where you headed?” I ask. “I thought we’d eat breakfast together.”
He styles his hair in front of a mirror propped on my dresser, working product into his sandy blond locks. “Can’t. I’m meeting some of the partners at a country club in Connecticut. I need to get on the road if I want to make tee time.”
I’m disappointed, but also relieved.
I need some space today to think, to rehash every detail of my interaction with Spider last night—which is wrong. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. “It feels like we barely see each other these days.”
His eyes find mine in the mirror. “They like me, and I need to foster these relationships if I want to move up. I have a good feeling about this company.” He walks over and wraps me in a hug. “Come on, don’t be glum. You know, you don’t have to wait tables or even get your graduate degree—”
“But I want to,” I say, cutting him off.
His mouth tightens. “It just feels like between you working at Bono’s and school, you’re too busy for me.”
I stiffen and pull away. This is a familiar argument with us since graduation. He’s a traditional guy who wants me to be done with school and spend my time with him. Sometimes it feels like he’s putting distance between us and staying busy on purpose, just to manipulate me into doing what he wants—which is to quit everything and move in with him.
He exhales. “Then maybe we can do lunch one day this week?”
“Of course.”
He heads to my bedroom door, but before he goes, he looks back at me, a quizzical expression on his face. “By the way, I find it curious that Spider didn’t want to celebrate with us last night. Is there some kind of tension between you two?”
“No,” I say rather quickly.
He frowns. “You sure? You ranted about rock stars last night. There seemed to be some . . . animosity there.”
“I was trashed. There’s no telling what I said.” I wave him off. “Spider’s . . . fine. We just lead very different lives.”
He nods slowly, but there’s a look in his eyes that says he doesn’t believe me. He pauses for a few moments as if he’s going to say something else, but then he walks out the door. I let out a sigh of relief when I hear him telling Oscar goodbye in the kitchen as he leaves.
Half an hour later, things are looking up as I stuff a wad of the best bacon I’ve ever had into my mouth. Then a knock sounds at the door.
Oscar is busy frying more bacon, so I saunter over to the door and open it, half-expecting to see Trenton. He’s forever leaving stuff here and then making a mad dash to find it.
It isn’t Trenton.
“Morning, stepsister.”
Shock ripples over me as my hand grips the edge of the door, and just like that, I can’t breathe. He’s in front of me—again. I will my heart to slow down.
He seems more confident this morning, and it throws me.
“What . . . how did you get here?”
He gives me that devil-may-care shrug of his. “I’m your neighbor. Right next door.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” I can’t think straight. I can’t even begin to connect the dots. He’s entirely too handsome for how early in the morning it is, and I know I look like a deranged person with scary hair.
“Because my father is your stepfather and he owns this building. He told me last night we were on the same floor. I heard your music this morning, and I just made a guess that this one was yours. Guess I was right.” He leans back and points to the apartment door to my left. “That one’s mine.”
“Oh.” I exhale, brushing at my hair. “Have you always stayed at 4E when you’re in town?” I know exactly how many concerts he’s had in New York—three. I went to the one where he didn’t come out to see me, but I push that out of my head.
He shakes his head. “Father said this was all he had in town—”
Oscar yells from the kitchen, cutting him off. “Good grief, stop grilling the man and let him come in and eat! We’re from Texas, girl—where’s your hospitality?”
I smirk. I guess Oscar heard everything we said.
Interest lights Spider’s eyes. “That would be great,” he says softly. “It smells great in here, to be honest. Plus, I don’t have any coffee over there. I’m dying.”
Screw southern hospitality. I want to tell him to go fuck himself, I really do, but I can’t. It’s him in the flesh, and he has a power over me.
“May I come in, Rose?” His eyes are pools of sunlight through amber, and I sigh.
“I’d never deny a man coffee.” I grit my teeth and step aside to let him in, and his hand accidentally brushes against mine. Electricity hums, igniting my insides, but I shake it off.
He enters the kitchen and I make mean eyes at Oscar for inviting him, but Oscar barely notices. He’s giving Spider air kisses on both cheeks like they’re old friends. I stick my tongue out at him behind Spider’s back, and he ignores me.
“What will it be this morning, Spiderman? Pancakes? Omelet? Mind you, you better eat good, because I only do this once a week.”
Spider grins as he makes his way to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. “I’ll take anything you have left.”
“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” I grumble.
He sips at his mug. “Clean living. It’s amazing how great mornings are when you’re not recovering from a bender.”
I give him a look, searching his face for truth. Robert mentioned that Spider was clean the last time I went to visit them, but I refused to think on it too much, to wonder about what his life was like now.
He pauses. “I haven’t used alcohol or drugs in almost two years. Now cigarettes . . . that’s another story.”
“That’s incredible. I’m really happy for you. Congratulations.”
He shrugs and gets quiet.
Thankfully, the silence is filled when Oscar sets a plate down in front of him. Spider dives in, slicing his meal and eating it with excruciating slowness, savoring each bite.
He looks hot—just eating—and it drives me insane. I huff and tear into a piece of pancake, probably looking like a mangy dog.
A bit later, Oscar gets up to put his mug in the sink. “Well, lovebirds, I hate to go, but I’ve got to go check on my man. Can I count on you two to get along while I’m gone?”
I sputter. “Of course.”
Spider grins. “Thanks for letting me crash your breakfast.”
Oscar gives Spider a serious look. “No problem. Just don’t be hurting my girl again . . . or I will kill you.” Before either of us can reply, he’s darting to his bedroom and shutting the door.
I inhale, mortified as Spider looks at me, his eyes dark with an emotion I can’t read. Maybe I don’t want to read it.
He wipes his mouth, his gaze intently studying me. “Do you want me to leave? I’m assuming you only asked me in because of Oscar.”
I swallow, my chest hurting as I take in his chiseled face, the way his perfectly sculpted cheekbones accentuate his jawline. My fingers ache to brush his hair off his face. Fuck. He’s ripping my heart open all over again . . . just by sitting in front of me. “Yes.”
He nods, a look of understanding on his face as he stands.
I stand with him, my hand clenching as I speak the words my brain couldn’t form last night. “The truth is, I don’t want to see you again. What you did to me . . . how you hurt me . . . it can never be undone. I just want to forget it ever happened, but I can’t do that when I see you.”
He nods. “Before I do, there’s something I want you to know.”
“What?”
He sighs and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He bites his lip and rakes a hand through his hair then rubs at the scruff on his jaw. He’s fumbling, trying to find the words, but he can’t.
My eyes go to the rose tattoo I saw last night, on the top of the hand with LOST on the knuckles. “Is that about me?”
He looks down at it. “Yeah. I get one”—he takes a deep breath—“every year we’re apart.”
I don’t believe him. My face feels hot.
He exhales. “The first year, I got a rose on my back. The hand was next.” He pushes up the sleeve on his navy sweater and shows me the inside of his arm, where my name is written in tiny script along his bicep. “I got this on year three.”
I take deep breaths, processing his words.
He stands there, fidgeting.
“And this year? What did you get?”
“Nothing. I’m waiting . . .”
“For what?” I say, my voice shaky, and I want to yank it back. I don’t want him to see how his words are affecting me, how his vulnerability is tugging at me.
He bites his lip and looks at me long and hard. “For you. This is the year I get you back.”
I gasp and take a step back. “You have no right to assume that—no right.”
“I know.”
“I have a life without you—a perfect one.”
“I know.” He sticks his hands in his skinny jeans.
“I’m with Trenton—”
“Trust me, I know.”
“And you can’t expect to just waltz in here and pick back up—
“I don’t.”
“You hurt me!” I yell at him, tired of his calm. I need him to be just as angry as I am. “You slept with someone else immediately after almost sleeping with me! You left me in Dallas after you promised you’d take me to LA. You’re a liar, a horrible, horrible liar, and I hate you for it.” My words are bitter and harsh, and it feels good to get them out, to say all the things that have built up inside me since he left.
He swallows, his face working with emotion, looking conflicted. “It’s just . . . I knew what kind of girl you were, tough and strong. I knew if you really wanted me, you’d find a way, and I couldn’t let that happen. That’s why I hurt you, Rose.” His voice sounds as if it’s been dragged over gravel. “I . . . I promised Father I’d leave you alone.”
“But why?”
He faces me head on, his face like stone. “He gave me a half a million dollars to leave Dallas and start my career. The condition was I had to leave you behind.”
I close my eyes. “And look at you now . . . you’re famous.”
He shakes his head. “No, Rose, look at you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You graduated NYU summa cum laude. You’re in graduate school. You’re living the life you wanted.”
Tears prick my eyes at the idea that he knows things about me that I’ve never told him, as if he’s kept up with me . . . but I hurriedly blink them away. I can’t be soft around him. It hurts too much. “You have no right to assume I wouldn’t have had those things with you in LA. You made the decision to take that money for you because you realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. I would have just gotten in the way of the things you really wanted to do—fucking anything that moved, coke up your nose, whatever.”
His face pales. “I deserve that. I left you with no explanation, and that wasn’t right. I’m sorry for Dallas. I wasn’t the man you needed.”
“You think you are now?” Disbelief is evident in my tone as I glare at him.
Who does he think he is?
Does he think he can just stroll right back into my life as if the past four years didn’t even happen?
He studies me carefully, his gaze brushing over my face and lingering on my lips. “You’re mine, Rose, always will be.”
And then he’s gone before I can even form a response.