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Chapter1
Weston
27 Years Earlier
The air in my room clung to my skin, heavy like the summer heat that pressed against the windows. It was another one of those late nights where sleep slipped through my fingers like sand, elusive and mocking. I cradled the guitar, smooth wood against my palm, fingertips dancing clumsily over the strings. The notes stumbled into the darkness, a melody that wouldn’t quite come together. Dad always said music was for those who couldn’t hack it in the real world—a frivolous pursuit. But fuck that. The passion for rhythm, for sound, for the raw scrape of flesh on string—it pulsed within me, a secret rebellion against every damn expectation.
The house was quiet, save for the uneven strumming that spilled from my fingers. Parker was back too, his presence a constant hum beneath my skin. Outside these walls, we were the Ashbourne brothers—privileged, according to plan, the embodiment of our father’s ambitions. But inside…… Inside, I, Weston, lost myself in chords and yearning, playing notes that would never reach the ears they were meant for.
My room was a sanctuary, walls plastered with posters of rock legends and guitar gods who knew what it meant to bleed for their art. They whispered to me in the stillness, urging me on, pushing me to embrace the dissonance that lived in my chest. My brother—he got it, even if he didn’t say it out loud. He got me.
The night wore on, each strum of the guitar a silent scream into the void, a plea for something more than this gilded cage. Parker and I—we were supposed to be the same, cut from the same cloth of expectations and privilege. But while he rode his motorcycle and defied the grip of our father’s world, I danced on the edge, my escape found in the strings beneath my fingers, in the music that set my soul alight. The song slipped off my tongue, a quiet confession in the dark. My fingers stilled on the strings, and I lingered on the edge of something raw, teetering between silence and sound. Then, cutting through the night, an engine growled—a familiar beast come to life.
I rose, abandoning the guitar. The floorboards were cold beneath my feet as I moved, drawn by the noise that shattered this hushed hour. Each step toward the garage was heavy with a pulse I couldn’t ignore—Parker’s pulse. The air thickened, anticipation coiling tight around my chest. With each stride, the scent of oil and rubber grew stronger, pulling me forward. A shiver tracked down my spine, a primal response hardwired deep within my bones. Parker. The door creaked open, my heart thrumming in time with the motorcycle’s idling rumble. That sound—it was like a siren call, luring me into the depths where secrets thrived in the shadows. A tingling hunger spread across my tongue; it was him, it always fucking was.
Parker’s presence filled the space, intoxicating and undeniable. There was no mistaking the way my body reacted, every nerve ending flaring to life, every breath tinged with forbidden desire. He was the match, I was the kindling, and goddamn if I didn’t want to burn. The garage swallowed me whole, a cavern of chrome and shadows. Vintage cars gleamed under the dim lights, but they paled against the sight in the corner. Parker. Perched on his motorcycle like some god of speed, all sinew and careless grace. His chestnut hair, kissed by the sun’s own fingers, fell across his forehead. Those hazel eyes—catlike, almost glowing—didn’t even glance my way. He was a picture I’d memorized, lines and angles etched into the darkest corners of my mind.
I stalked closer, each step deliberate, the space between us electric. The bike rumbled beneath him, a dragon resting at the feet of its master. And there he sat, straddling it effortlessly, as if born to command beasts of metal and fire. My breath hitched, envy and longing twisting inside me. That ease, that damn allure—it wasn’t fair.
“Looking good,” I said, though the words tasted like ash.
He flicked a lighter, flame dancing briefly before meeting the end of a cigarette. A drag, a plume of smoke—the air turned sharp with the scent. “Always do.”
“Don’t you know smoking is bad for you?” The words slipped out. A weak attempt at normalcy, an anchor in the storm he stirred within me.
The grin. That damned, knowing grin that spread across Parker’s lips—it was like a punch to my gut, sending a surge of heat straight through my veins. The battle was constant, a never-ending war inside me. My desires, twisted and wrong by any standard, were honed in on him. I wanted Parker. My brother. It shouldn’t be like this, but fuck if I could help it.
“Weston?” His voice was laced with smoke and challenge.
I circled the motorcycle, moving closer, close enough to touch. To feel the heat of his body. “Why are you still up?” he asked, his tone casual, as if we were discussing the weather and not why I hovered at the edge of insanity every night.
“Can’t sleep,” I mumbled, my throat tight, words barely squeezing out.
“Why not?” There was a teasing lilt in his question, but his eyes searched mine, probing.
“Can never sleep when you’re not near me.” The admission hung heavy in the air, bold, dangerous. I snatched the cigarette from between his fingers, our skin brushing—a spark, maybe imagined, maybe not—and placed it between my lips. Smoke curled into my lungs. A poor substitute for his touch. Silence stretched, thick and loaded, the taste of tobacco and taboo mingling on my tongue.
“Where were you?” The question cut through the haze of smoke, but Parker just swung his leg over the bike and dropped his helmet onto the worn leather seat.
He strode toward the door without a word, leaving my question dangling in the charged space between us. I followed, the heat of the moment nipping at my heels, the need to know clawing up my throat. The darkness of the garage morphed into shadows that played along the walls, echoing the turmoil inside me. Parker’s figure was a beacon, the lighthouse guiding me through the tempest of forbidden longing. His stride was purposeful, muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt as he pushed through the door, out into the night air that still clung to the day’s warmth.
I was on him, my steps quickening, driven by an urgency I couldn’t tamp down. The scent of oil and metal faded, replaced by the fresh, open promise of something intangible, yet so fucking close I could almost taste it. He hit the stairs, boots thumping against the wood, each step a thunderclap to my racing heart. What secrets did the night hold in its silent depths? What had he sought out there in the dark, alone?
“Dammit, Parker!” My voice was a low growl, barely human, as I reached out and snagged his arm, yanking him back. He stumbled, a curse spilling from his lips, his body colliding with the wall with a dull thud.
“Get off me, Wes!” His voice crackled with anger, but I pressed in, closing the space until our chests nearly touched. His breath was hot against my skin, tinged with the ghost of nicotine.
“Tell me,” I whispered, my mouth inches from his ear, demanding, desperate. The pulse in his neck leaped, a beat too erratic, too alive. Every inch of me strained closer, seeking, craving the truth that lay hidden behind those damned hazel eyes.
His back hit the wall with a force that echoed through the empty hallway. Eyes wild, breath ragged, Parker stared at me, chest heaving, searching for words I wouldn’t let him find. My hands, shaking with a need I couldn’t name, shot to his face. I crushed my lips against his. Hard. Hungry. A sudden, savage silence filled the space between us, swallowing every protest. His body tensed, a battle of instincts waging war beneath his skin.
“Fuck,” I breathed into him, not breaking away. The taste of tobacco lingered on his lips. The ghost of rebellion. I drank it in, drowning in the heady mix of desire and taboo.
He fought, a reflex, a denial of what was unfolding. His mouth moved against mine, a contradiction—pushing away while pulling me deeper into the abyss. I felt his resolve wobbling, crumbling like a cliffside beneath the relentless assault of the sea.
My fingers threaded through his hair, gripping, demanding surrender. Short strands slipped between my knuckles, chestnut silk dyed gold by the slumbering sun. I yanked him closer, erasing any gap that remained, molding him to me until his resistance melted. Heat spread through my veins, igniting every corner of my being. The world reduced to the press of his body against mine, the softness yielding beneath the hard line of my jaw, the subtle shift as he gave in, gave up, gave everything.
Parker’s hands found my waist, tentative, then firm, anchoring himself to the storm I’d unleashed. Our breaths mingled, ragged and raw, the only sound in the silent house. Time fractured, splintered, lost to the moment, to the man, to the madness.
