32. Echo

32

Echo

T he blowjob helps. So does the look on Byrd's face when I emerge from the bathroom in my own tight, tailored slacks and a black Versace shirt that shows flashes of ink and skin through the devore pattern.

He kisses me stupid in the elevator on the ride down to the parking garage, then drives us to the sprawling big-top lot under the Bay Bridge with a hand on my thigh. He's also one hundred percent as hot as I imagined leading me past the lines to the backstage area and chatting up the chick who lets us in through the staff entrance.

I've been to a dozen Cirque du Soleil shows before, both with my parents when I was younger and later with Asha—including a whirlwind tour of every Vegas casino show my bestie and I could fit into a three-day graduation trip the summer after we finished high school.

Being backstage is different. Byrd knows at least a third of the performers by name, and their respect for him is obvious in the way they break from their warm-ups to say hi and ask him questions as we move through the impressive space. Even here behind the scenes, everything glitters in royal blue and gold, with costume racks and spotting blocks and insane professional rigging everywhere.

There's no rope act in the show we're seeing, but the guy who does the solo Chinese Pole grins when Byrd introduces me and launches into an excited explanation of his rope background and how he adapted a few of "our" classic moves for the pole.

No one notices my scars—in fact, half of the people I meet seem to assume I'm one of Byrd's new recruits, which is flattering as hell. And still, Byrd doesn't bat an eye when I slip my hand into his warm, calloused one and lean into him like the cheeky twink arm candy I'm perfectly happy to be tonight. He leads me through the dark wings and presses me up against the taut canvas wall to claim my mouth and palm my dick before dragging me half-hard and breathless to our front-row balcony seats.

The spectacle never gets old. Nor does the thrill of recognizing moves I've executed on the silks or the tumbling floor performed by real professionals under dazzling lights. It's a wild combination of elation— I can do that —and awe for the jugglers, contortionists, and fliers doing the kind of skills I've never attempted.

Byrd holds my hand through the whole first act, running his thumb along the ridge of my scars with casual ownership. Like they're a piece of me worth cherishing.

At intermission, we weave our way through the hyped-up crowd to the VIP lounge, where he leaves me with a glass of champagne and a wink before heading off to find a restroom.

The crowd is thinner here, and no one is paying attention to me. Shooting off a quick text to Byrd, I wander past the roped-off entrance in search of a place to smoke and end up outside general admission by a row of port-a-johns separated from the parking lot by a chest-high chain-link fence. Even in July, the Bay Area nights are soaked with the Pacific's damp chill, so I tuck myself into a corner by a dark trailer out of the wind and rest my elbows on the fence, wishing I'd thought to borrow Byrd's jacket so I could wrap myself in his lingering heat.

"I hear congratulations are in order, baby brother."

The familiar voice sends a shock of rage through me, banishing the cold in an instant. I turn slowly to face him and marvel that he can look the same after everything I've learned. Slim and arrogant in his charcoal suit, with a wraith-like smile tugging at his stupid, pouty lips and too much product in his dark curls.

"Are you disappointed?" I ask, matching his mocking tone. "Sorry, not sorry."

"Why would I be disappointed? I think it's cute that you want to follow in my Cici footsteps."

Would it be too dramatic to throw my drink in his condescending face? Instead, I take a sip, forcing my fingers not to crush the plastic flute.

"I know what you did," I tell him.

He doesn't even flinch, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. Careful those wrinkles don't become permanent, big brother.

"What is it I'm supposed to have done this time?"

"Dad's the one who told me." That wipes the casual smirk off his face.

"Dad doesn't know shit," he asserts, but my words etch cracks in his poise. "He's loved nothing better than to imagine the worst of me ever since his perfect little trophy wife gave him his perfect little trophy son."

Fuck him and his little . I push off the fence, straightening to my full height, and almost grin when he takes a step back. That's right, Gabe. The little trophy son is taller, stronger, younger, and hotter than you'll ever be. "I can't help it if he's always seen through your bullshit."

" My bullshit. Sure. Nothing to do with the fact that he's coddled and pampered you since you were born. Of course his precious Jericho couldn't possibly have made a mistake. So much easier to blame it on the son he never wanted."

I refuse to feel sorry for him. "Maybe the reason Dad doesn't love you enough has nothing to do with me. Maybe he's always known you're a fucking psychopath ."

"Am I the bogeyman in all your nightmares, baby brother?"

"Am I the bogeyman in yours? How threatened and petty do you have to be to try to break me to prove—what? That you're better than me? That I'm as worthless as you are? Did you think Dad would actually forget what a disaster you are because I have pins in my arm?" My voice is starting to draw alarmed glances from the other showgoers, and I wrestle it back under control. "It didn't work, big brother ," I hiss. "I'm stronger than ever, and everyone knows the truth about you now."

It's a good last line. I should leave him and go back to Byrd in the VIP lounge. Drink another glass of mediocre champagne and tease him about all the things I'm gonna do to him later. But Gabe is still glaring at me, leaking cold fury and jealousy like cyanide, and I'm suddenly shaking with something sadder than righteous contempt.

"I'm not afraid of you, Gabe," I say, tossing the last inch of my drink into a nearby trash can and slumping back against the fence. "I never have been. I just thought it would've been cool to have a brother once upon a time. I didn't know you hated me so much."

"I don't hate you," he lies. "I'd have to give a shit to hate you."

"You gave enough of a shit to try to ruin my life. "

"And is it? Ruined? Or are you here, ‘stronger than ever,' the same daddy's golden boy you've always been?"

He's the broken one. Small and helpless under the weight of his resentment. How could I have been so fucking naive? I close my eyes, but he keeps going.

"Why don't you come talk to me about ruined lives after you've been on your own for a few years. Oh, wait. That'll never happen. You've got your trust fund waiting to keep you swaddled in never-never land forever."

Got a thing for lost boys?

I'm fucking done.

"Fuck off, Gabe. I really want to punch you right now, but I don't want to waste two good surgeries on your face." I study the fingers on my right hand and swear I can feel the screws beneath the flesh and tendons. "But I can't promise Byrd will show the same restraint, so you might want to disappear before he finds me."

" Baardwijk ?" He bursts out laughing. " He's your rehab coach?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "And my boyfriend."

"Oh, baby brother. You really can't help yourself, can you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Poor Jericho. Have you ever had anything that wasn't mine first?"

What?