Chapter 20

BENNY

This party blows.

I hate it.

The beer tastes like piss, and the music is too loud, and this guy grinding up on my lap is only making my dick softer. Not his fault I'm in a shit mood, but I'm getting irritated at him anyway.

He had one job. Take my mind off Harrison. But like my dick, my brain is doing the opposite of what it's supposed to.

The guy runs his mouth along my neck, and it actually makes my skin crawl.

I tap his thigh. "I've had enough. Get off."

"If you wanna get me off, you've gotta give me something to work with."

"No. Get off as in vacate my lap. Now."

He scowls and climbs off me. "You're such a fucking dick, Dalton."

"Duh." I roll my eyes and watch him walk away. He's hot, and it won't take him long to find someone else who thinks I'm a dick, and then they can bond over blow jobs.

I, however, see no blow jobs in my future.

I pour the rest of my beer out onto the floor and toss the Solo cup after it. I'm in peak dick mode, but I can't stop myself. Sure, I'm not the most pleasant person most of the time, but my bad moods usually pass quickly—Em helps with that—but this time, it's clung on like herpes. Instead of distance from my fight with Harrison making things better, it's only getting worse. I still feel like shit for snapping at Em over food earlier, and I've reached the point where I don't care if anyone spots us both here together.

Harrison hasn't responded to my message the day after our fight either. I've typed about a million since then too, all I was too chickenshit to send. I should be studying. I should be focused on school. I should be partying my heart out and getting the best of my college days under my belt, and I should be helping Em figure out what's next, but no.

No.

My stupid brain, which is apparently resistant to alcohol tonight, is determined to think about one person and one person only. Fuck it. I hate it.

Instead of spending any more time at this party, I climb the ladder to the attic and watch them all from the window there. Of course, it makes me feel shittier than ever, but so does everywhere, so fuck it.

I pull out my phone, trying not to be too depressed over the lack of messages and unable to stop myself from opening our texts. All amazing and cute and flirty right up to the radio silence. It's not fucking fair.

I'm typing before I can stop myself.

Sure, don't write back. Ignore me and act like I'm a total stranger. Real mature.

I give him a few minutes, and when there's still nothing, I kick the wall and try again.

I said I was sorry, what the hell else do I have to do?

Nothing.

You're acting like it was on purpose and it wasn't! Dammit, Harrison. This isn't fair.

The more I write that he ignores just brings on my frustration. I bite my fist as I smother a scream and plead with myself not to write anything else. Of course, I'm a dickhead and don't listen to that good advice.

Clearly weren't falling for me after all, were you? Why'd you have to go and fuck up my whole life, huh?

My phone vibrates, and the way my gut flips should put me in the hospital.

Are you drunk?

I glare at the three words, rage building that it's all the response I get.

Me:

No, I'm not fucking drunk.

Harrison:

Have you been drinking?

Me:

Yes, but it didn't work.

Harrison:

I'm glad you think that. Go to bed.

Those stupid tears are pricking my eyes at being talked to like a kid. He's not interested. He's not going to give me what I want. Apparently, I'm an even bigger mess than I realized because I'm out of control with my next message.

Me:

Can't. Gotta go get my dick sucked. Night.

He doesn't reply.

I can't even blame him.

My ringtone is piercing,and I forgot to close the blinds last night, so the sunlight is burning my motherfucking retinas. Apparently, the alcohol eventually started to work because I don't remember passing out in bed naked.

I also have a hangover, which means … I squint at the mattress on the floor and find Em gripping his head.

"Ow."

I grunt. "Me too. Thanks for that, asshole."

"Right back at you." He hugs a pillow to his face. "Answer your fucking phone!"

I grumble and reach for it, heart dropping when it's not Harrison's name on the screen. It's Asher's.

"Fuck."

I answer immediately because unlike West, Asher will call until he gets through to us. And considering hockey season has started, the fact Asher's calling means something is up.

"Who's dead?" I groan into the phone.

"Your brother."

I jerk upright. "Wait. Actually?"

"Not actually." It's like I can hear him rolling his eyes at me. "But he will be if he doesn't answer West's fucking calls."

My gaze flicks toward Em and away again. "Ah, yeah. Rhys is so bad at that?—"

"You know I'm not talking about Rhys. Where's Em? What's going on?"

"Em … Em … Remind me again?—"

"Pretending not to know who he is. Cute. Also how I know you're guilty."

"Guilty of what?"

Asher grunts. "Covering for whatever reason he's avoiding our calls."

Fuck. I'm too hungover and mopey to deal with this today. "Now, are you sure you're calling the right person?"

"I know how to press a contact in my phone, thanks."

"I'm just saying, how do you know this is Ben? Maybe you've called Em."

"Because Em doesn't make my brain itch the way you do."

I hum, wanting to wind this up. "Your brain is itchy? You'd think with Kole being a doctor, you'd avoid STDs. Though maybe it's a BDD. Brain Dumbass Disease. I hear there's no cure for that."

"Delightful as always, Ben. I know you've seen Em. Now, get him to fucking call West before our brother starts having kittens."

"But kittens are so cute," I deadpan.

"This act isn't. Serious talk, do we need to be worried?"

"About what?"

"About Em." Good. He's starting to get frustrated, which means he'll hang up soon.

"Who. Is. Em?"

"Your idiot twin brother. Look in the mirror and quit playing this game."

"Wait. I'm a twin?"

"Fucking hell."

"Question: how do you know I'm a twin?"

"We're not doing this."

He's so close now. "How can you be sure it's not just me? That you haven't been hallucinating this whole other person? I don't remember a twin. Do you love me that much that you need more of me in your life? I've gotta say, Ash, that probably worries me more than the hallucinations. You should get it checked out. And the brain itch. I hear losing your parents at a young age can make you kinda fucked?—"

The line goes dead.

I fall back onto my bed, wanting to be a whole lot more relieved than I am.

"West has been calling you?" I ask Em.

"Can't talk. Hungover."

"You're getting us both in shit. I can handle West and Asher over the phone, but if they come here?—"

"They won't."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"You can really see Asher missing a game or West skipping out on work as the season's just starting?"

He's got a point there. As head coach of a Division One hockey team with multiple Frozen Four wins under their skates, West is busy right from the start of the semester.

"What if they send Jasper?" I ask.

We pull identical we're fucked faces. Jasper is West's husband, and because he's a world more put together than any of my siblings, he's always felt like the adult in our household. We both love and fear him because when Jasper gets angry, he doesn't pitch a fit like a Dalton does.

He goes quiet.

Some of the most terrifying moments of my life have been sitting across from Jasper as he stared me down, waiting for me to cough up all my sins. As a tenured professor at CU and head of the math department, our cheating wouldn't just disappoint him—it'd kill him. I'm worried Em being expelled will do the exact same.

"Jasper has work," Em says. "They took all their vacation leave this summer."

"Don't underestimate them. You know West is good at going for the low blow."

"Too. Hung. Over."

"Fine, but you need to figure out something to tell them. I can't pretend not to know who you are forever."

"Maybe I should disappear, and we can test out that theory." He moves the pillow to grin up at me, but it does nothing to make me any happier.

I hate worrying and stress. Actually, I hate everything right now.

I rub the building ache in my sternum, wondering when the hell it will fuck off already. "Maybe you're right. Running away to Mexico is getting more and more appealing."

"Wouldn't work."

"Why?"

"Because the thing you're running away from is something that can't be left behind."

I'd ask what he's talking about, but I already know, and the last thing I want is for him to say it out loud.

"Well, moping isn't working. Texting isn't working. Hiding out from everything and running away aren't the answers. So, what do I do?"

"Go see him. Talk to him."

I groan as I think about what I sent him last night. "He'll probably punch me in the face."

"Eh. At least then you'll have something new to complain about."

"Fuck you, I don't complain."

"Not out loud." He kicks his sheets off. "But your face is loud, and I'm sick of listening to it."

"Hey. I just took on Asher for you."

"As you should. You're my twin. Deal with it."

I scowl as he pulls a T-shirt on. "I thought you were disappearing. Can you do that faster?"

"Nah, because then I'll miss your disastrous love life."

"I don't have a love life."

Em pushes the window open. "We might look the same, but I'm so glad we weren't gifted with matching attitudes."

"You'd be lucky to be as delightful as I am, pyro."

He laughs. "That was an accident!"

"Sure. Tell your old dean that."

"Whatever. Just put some damn clothes on. I see our dick enough on my own, thanks."

He jumps out the window, heading fuck knows where, but it's not like it matters. I'm not planning on leaving my room today.

Everyone on campus can think Emmett's me.

Hey, maybe Harrison will run into him first and yell at him instead.

I can only hope.