Chapter Three

Brooks

Clay lived just a few blocks from the duplex we'd grown up in, our families living on either side for our entire lives. Until, well, until his parents each died within a few years of one another. And he hadn't been able to keep up with the bills.

It was a small apartment building, maybe fifty or so apartments. Which was likely why they were anxious to get Clay's shit out, so someone new could move in.

"I'll leave these with you," the super said, handing me the keys after unlocking the apartment. "Figure you will be in and out a lot," he added, sounding apologetic, but firm.

People died.

Life had to still go on.

That was the vibe he was giving.

"Appreciate it," I said, nodding. "How long do I have?"

"I'd really like to be able to get someone new in here the beginning of the month. Clay, he kept the place nice. Don't need to do much in there."

Two weeks and a couple days.

Realistically, it was plenty of time to clear out an apartment.

Emotionally, it felt way too fucking short.

But I would have to rally.

"Such a shame," the super said, shaking his balding head. "He was so young still."

"Yeah," I agreed, a knife stabbing me in the chest.

"Well, I'll… leave you to it. If you need some boxes, there's always a stack out back. Sometimes they break ‘em down, sometimes they don't."

"Thank you," I said, realizing how unprepared I was to actually do this job.

I needed boxes.

Black bags.

To know what local places took furniture donations.

A fucking storage unit for shit I didn't know what to do with, or didn't want to part with.

The super walked off, and I pushed open the door, getting hit in the face with that unique scent closed-up spaces had. Dead air, dust, with the slight undercurrent of a person's ‘house smell' underneath it all.

In Clay's case, it was a familiar house smell.

Lemon cleaner and the cologne he'd been wearing since we were teens.

Clay's parents had been borderline hoarders growing up, the house always jam-packed and, while not filthy, not exactly clean either. They were both too busy working double shifts to be able to keep on top of shit around the house.

As soon as he was old enough, Clay started unpacking and cleaning. His compulsion toward cleanliness stuck with him into his apartments as he moved on.

I don't think I ever went to his place to hang out and found clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, or not finding the place smelling like lemon cleaners.

As a whole, the place was neat.

But there was a desk near the windows that overlooked the street. And that thing was a fucking disaster.

Papers were strewn everywhere.

It was more than the super looking for information on the next of kin. This was weeks or even months of junk accumulated.

Weird.

I walked over there, finding the folder sitting on top of the mess with the words In case of emergency written on the top in black permanent marker with Clay's trademark sideways, blocky print.

I had that same print taking up a full fucking page in my yearbook. Not because he wrote me some massive note. Just because he had no ability to keep his writing an appropriate size. His teachers used to rag on him about it all the time.

Taking a steadying breath, I flipped open the folder, finding everything you could possibly need if something happened.

A living will with excruciating detail about what he did, or did not, want done to save his life.

His actual will, leaving the assets of his ‘estate'—his bank accounts, car, the contents of a safety deposit box, everything worth anything—to his sister.

But behind those more official documents was a handwritten note saying that the cleaning out of his apartment would be a task completed by me. Hence why the super had called me, I guess.

Knowing Clay, he didn't want to leave this kind of work to someone close to him, someone who would find it hard to do it, but wouldn't have a choice.

It was dated just a few months ago.

Strange timing, but maybe he was just trying to get his affairs in order. You start to think about that shit when you hit a certain age.

I flipped through some more shit—the proof of paying off his car, the account numbers for his bills—that kind of crap.

But there in the back, print even messier than usual, was what seemed like a hastily written note.

Brooks -

Take care of Cali for me.

- Clay

That was it.

His true final wish.

For me to take care of Cali.

His little sister.

Memories flashed across my mind.

Caliana had been eight years younger than us, all long limbs and warm brown skin, always following Clay around like a shadow. I mean, she didn't have much of a choice. Her parents were working, and Clay was who was in charge of her after school after their grandparents died and couldn't lend a hand anymore.

Most of my memories of her were from when we were teens, and she was still eight or ten. Hanging around, soaking up everything we were saying.

And to us, as much as we tried to be patient with her, she'd just been… kind of annoying. We wanted to be chasing girls and shit like that, but you couldn't run game when you had a little girl trailing behind you, saying embarrassing shit, or asking uncomfortable questions.

By the time we were twenty, though, Cali was old enough to be left on her own, so I didn't really see her much anymore.

Thing was, though, before she turned eighteen, Clay and Cali lost both of their parents. Making Clay her legal guardian.

So, once again, she was back on my radar, though I wasn't sure I saw her much at all until the night of her eighteenth birthday. When she'd decided she was grown and could stay out all night without saying a word to Clay. Leading to the two of us hitting the streets, looking all over for her.

Finally finding she'd somehow gotten herself a fake ID and gotten into a fucking bar.

Walking in, it was like I saw her for the first time.

I dunno what it was.

Because she wasn't a kid.

Because she was dressed grown for the first time.

Whatever it was, I wasn't just seeing her, I was noticing her.

All that skinny that I'd known her for had rounded out a bit, making that gold sequined club dress she had on hug her around her hips and ass, showing off some shapely legs. At the time, her hair had been crazy long and pulled into rope twists around her pretty square face, dominated by big, almost black eyes, plump lips, and a straight nose that tilted up ever so slightly at the tip.

"Fuck, she's fucking wasted," Clay had grumbled as he'd followed my line of vision to find his sister. Sitting on the bar. A halo of interested men around her.

I hadn't even noticed until he'd mentioned it. But, yeah, her eyes had been bleary, her smile a little loopy.

Clay had charged over toward her, yanking men out of the way, then lifting Cali off of the bar, too drunk to realize her brother was pissed off.

Clay had all but carried her outside, leaving her with me as he went to get the car. Where she'd hung all over me, telling me how she liked me better than the guys at the bar.

And I tried not to notice how she wiggled against me, how her breath was warm on my neck.

Because she was drunk.

Because she'd just barely turned eighteen.

Because she was my best friend's baby sister.

I stayed clear of her as much as I could after that, not liking that there was even a spark of interest in my body.

I shrugged it off after a while, telling myself that it was nothing, that I'd just been young and, well, horny. That feeling of a twinge of desire around Cali was simply because I hadn't gotten laid in a while.

Eventually, Clay and I fell out of touch.

And, honestly, I kind of forgot Caliana existed.

Now, though, seeing her name there in Clay's print, knowing he wanted me to look out for her now that he was gone, memories of her started flooding back to me.

Little flashes of seeing her coming and going from Clay's place when I was there to hang. Catching sight of her in a store somewhere.

I wondered if she still smelled like vanilla and roses.

"Fuck," I hissed, shaking my head at the direction of my thoughts.

It didn't matter what she smelled like.

Or what she looked like.

She was Clay's sister.

Now Clay was gone.

And she had to be like my little sister.

I didn't even know where the fuck to look for her, though. I never crossed her path anymore, leaving me wondering if she'd moved out of Navesink Bank when she'd gotten her own place.

Maybe I'd find more information when I looked through some of Clay's shit.

Decision made, I moved around his apartment, taking stock of what was around, using a note app on my phone to make plans.

I grabbed those boxes the super talked about, and started packing away nostalgic shit that I knew I wouldn't be able to toss in a dumpster, or shit that I thought maybe Cali would want. Photo albums, an ancient family bible with birth and death dates dating back to the early nineteen hundreds, Clay's old trophies, school jerseys, and yearbooks.

I cleared out the shit under the cabinets and in the linen closet that weren't really any good to anyone. Open cleaning supplies, boxes of open bandages, shit like that.

Then it was time for the closets.

Most of the clothes went right into bags for charity, but I left a few things hanging that I wondered if Cali would want. I imagine if I had a big brother, I would want to keep a shirt or two of his, wear it to remember him by kind of shit.

It didn't seem like it should, but by the time I was done with that shit, it was already getting late enough for me to need a break and some food, then crash on his couch, feeling weird about sleeping in his bed.

The next few days were much the same, using Clay's car to handle some errands, until, finally, I had some of the furniture picked up, and most of the bags taken out to charities.

But that damn note felt like it was hanging over my head by the fourth day.

Wouldn't taking care of his sister mean at least checking in with her? Seeing how she was handling her grief? Let her know I was cleaning out Clay's place? In case she wanted to help or take some shit?

With that in mind, I left the apartment behind, leaving my bike there, and taking Clay's car instead, looking around like Cali might be hanging around or some shit.

Honestly, it was pure happenstance that I came across her.

I'd been driving to go grab some more supplies—tape, boxes, and bags—when I caught sight of a set of long legs and a gold sequin dress.

There was no reason to assume it was the same damn dress.

But I couldn't seem to shake it even after I got my coffee and supplies, leaving me pulling up to the curb around from the club, staring at the line that only seemed longer than it had an hour or so before.

"Shit," I sighed, reaching into the backseat for my club cut, knowing it was the only way I was getting into a club this packed.

I slid it on over my tee, finding it strange to wear it after only a few days without it on. Despite the fact that it had been my uniform for years now.

Seemed like the different phases of my life were at odds with each other.

"This is fucking stupid," I told my reflection before climbing out of the car, kicking myself as I walked up the line, nodding my chin at the bouncer who clocked my cut, then waved me in.

The chances that the gold dress I saw was on Cali were low.

But, still, I made my way into the club, the air thick with booze, and sweat, and pheromones, the beat of the music thumping up through my shoes and through my body.

The place was enormous. And so packed that the dance floor was practically an orgy of bodies.

"I know you!" a voice said, loud in my ear to be heard over the music.

Turning, I saw strawberry blonde hair pulled up into space buns and sprayed with some sort of glitter that caught the lights as they strobed across the room.

My worlds kept colliding.

This was that club girl, the one with trouble written all over her.

"Not at the club tonight?" I asked, my gaze scanning the crowd, not wanting to give her the impression of interest.

"They're working," she said, pouting.

Working?

It was late.

There shouldn't be anything work-related going on this late. Unless something had gone down.

My gut twisted, my loyalty to the club battling with my loyalty to my old best friend.

If something was really serious, Fallon would have reached out. He'd have called all the people in, personal lives be damned.

Things were fine.

Maybe just a drop out of the area, so some of the guys were driving overnight to get there on time.

The club was fine.

I had to focus on my personal life right now.

I almost scoffed at the direction of my thoughts.

It had been so fucking long since I had something even resembling a personal life. And the only reason I had one now was because the only real friend in my life had died.

"They'll be back to entertain you," I told the strawberry blonde.

"How come you never entertain any of us?"

"Because someone has to keep an eye and make sure you don't burn the place down."

"Oh, but wouldn't it be more fun to dance in the flames?" she asked, whirling away from me with a big smile.

I was shaking my head at her when I saw it.

A flash of gold.

My head whipped over, seeing a girl with her back to me standing up on the bar.

No, not just standing there.

Arms up in the air, hips swaying.

Dancing.

Dancing on the bar.

I was ready to turn around, go back to the car, and call myself every kind of fool, right then. Because Caliana, the girl I'd known since we were both idiot kids, she was kind of reserved, the kind to stay at home—the night of her eighteenth birthday aside—and not bring a lot of attention to herself.

She was not the kind of girl who would dance on a bar at a club.

Except, as I stood there, trying to figure out the easiest way out of this crowd, she swayed her body around.

And there she was.

All grown up.

Maybe Caliana, the girl I knew, didn't dance on bars.

But Cali, the woman she now was, apparently did.

She'd chopped off her long hair, leaving her with a sleek black long bob. And where I'd only ever seen her bare-faced before, she had on some heavy, dark eye shadow and matching lipstick.

She looked edgier.

And, fuck, prettier.

And I hoped wherever Clay was that he could fucking forgive me for even noticing that shit.

Below her, a man had his head angled up, ogling her long, shapely legs.

Then he was reaching for his phone, trying to seem discreet about it, but the camera was on, and he was trying to get an up-skirt pic.

And Cali didn't even notice.

A growl moved through me as I cut through the crowd separating us, reaching out to grab the fucker's wrist as he tried to slip his phone into his pocket.

"Delete it," I snapped.

"Who the fuck—" he started, gaze starting to drift over me, pausing when he saw the one-percenter badge.

"I said delete it," I snarled, watching as he pulled the phone back out, unlocked it, then deleted the picture.

"Do it again, and I'll gouge your fucking eyes out."

"Got it, man. Got it," he said, in a rush to get away.

My glance cut back up to the bar. Where Cali was fucking oblivious to what just went down.

No situational awareness at all.

Before I could even think it through, my hand was shooting up, grabbing her wrist, and finally getting her attention.

"The fuck are you doing?" I yelled over the music as I yanked her down, watching as she went from shocked to confused in a blink.

"Brooks?"

I saw, rather than heard, my name, the music drowning her out. And I was never so fucking annoyed about music as I was right then, finding myself wanting to know how she sounded saying my name.

"Come on," I said, tightening my grip on her wrist as I turned, pulling her with me through the crowd.

I don't know if it was confusion or what, but she followed limply behind me.

Until, suddenly, as we finally broke out onto the sidewalk, pain collided with the back of my knee, making me release Cali as I whipped around, hand going for the gun I didn't have on me.

Until my gaze landed on this tiny fucking redheaded woman with blazing gray eyes.

"Get your hands off my girl, dickbag!" she yelled, making a surprised chuckle move through me.

"Wanna call off your guard dog?" I asked, looking over at Cali.

"Not really," she said, folding her arms over her chest, casting a look toward me that I couldn't really even identify.

The Caliana I'd known had been an open book.

But, then again, she'd been a child.

She wasn't that anymore.

She was all grown up.

And I couldn't read her anymore.

"You just go around in bars, grabbing random women? That's your kink?" the redhead raged. "I should kick your ass."

"My ankles are appropriately terrified," I said, watching the redhead's lips twitch a bit. "She's not random. I know her."

The girl's eyes moved back and forth between us.

"Well, she doesn't seem happy to see you," she said.

That she didn't.

"I'm not," Cali confirmed. "But I guess I can't let you shiv him either," she said, making my gaze move over her friend again, finding something sharp and metallic sticking out of her balled fist.

"Pity," the friend said, flicking the blade shut. "I've been wanting to try it out. But the guys I've been dancing with have been annoyingly well-behaved."

"How dare they deny you your bloodlust?" Cali said, shaking her head.

"Right? So… who are you? Why are you manhandling my girl?"

"I'm Brooks," I told her. "I'm… a friend."

Cali's snort was overpowered by her friend's next words. "A friend, huh? Then how come I've never heard of you?"

"I'm not really Caliana's friend. I'm her brother's… friend." I suddenly hated how there was a pause there. When, for most of my life, I would have said those words with my whole chest. It hurt more than I could admit not to be able to do that anymore. Or ever again.

"Friend, huh?" Caliana scoffed. "Didn't even show up at the funeral."

"I wasn't informed he'd died," I said, tone pointed. As next of kin, that would have been her place.

"Why would I inform you when Clay hadn't seen you in years?" she shot back.

"Seems you have harder feelings than Clay did. Since he had it in his final wishes that I deal with his apartment. And keep an eye on you."

That, it seemed, knocked the wind out of her.

"What?"