He spits his drink in my face when I say, “I told them you had crabs.”
“You didn’t?”
Trained in both the art of deception and how to spot it, I give him my best I’m sorry face.
He buys it in a nanosecond. “You little wench. I have been working on that outfit for months.” After bumping me with his hip, he locks his blue eyes with mine. “You good?” He doesn’t say he’s desperate to fix the damage I’ve caused to his player ways, but his eyes sure do.
“Yeah, I am good.” I nudge my head at the scantily clad women for the second time. “Go get them, Ace.”
With a playful wink, he slaps my backside before prowling toward the women no longer glowering at me. I wait for him to disappear back into the living room before taking my drink and me outside for a second breather. Since the earlier clouds have lifted, the moon bounces off the white wood trestles of the back porch of my family’s ranch. The pain in my chest isn’t as dense as I was anticipating. I actually smile while recalling how I tiptoed across the warped floorboards to escape to Brandon’s house for an hour or two almost every night. The night of Joey’s admission was the first time I had stayed the entire night.
As memories of my past make my heart thump with happiness, I dig my cell phone out of my pocket to text a well-used number. A ping of pain stabs me in the chest when I discover I don’t have any reception. We’re in the country, but anyone would swear we’re in the middle of the Sahara for how bad the reception is out here.
When I pivot around to see if the reception is any better inside the house, I’m frightened to within an inch of my life. A partygoer I wasn’t anticipating has his shoulder pressed against the thick tree trunk. His chin is covered with a thick beard, and his eyes are sunken and tired-looking.
“Madden,” I greet him before sidestepping past him to climb the back patio steps, forever eager to get away from him.
This is terrible for me to admit since he’s Brandon’s brother, but I’ve always found him a little creepy. He hasn’t done anything to me to make me uncomfortable. It’s just the way he looks at me. There’s not an ounce of respect or admiration in his slit eyes. More times than not, I feel like he’s glaring at me with hate.
I stop on the second step when Madden taps my shoulder, requesting my attention. When I turn around, he asks, “Where’s Brandon?”
His sign language capabilities are poor, so I keep my reply as simple as possible. “I don’t know. That is why I am trying to message him.”
His eyes drop to my phone that shows no signal before they lift back to my face. “You can use my phone.”
I tap on the antenna signal on my screen that shows there’s no reception before wordlessly thanking him for his offer.
My thanks freeze halfway when he says, “I have a satellite phone.”
“Satellite?” I ask, certain I misread the movement of his lips. An error is understandable. It isn’t often you hear of a first-year military officer being able to afford a satellite phone, and the number of times Madden runs his index finger under his nose makes it hard to read his lips.
“One of the perks of having a dad in a high position, I guess.” He looks glum, which is also surprising. He’s always been the apple of his daddy’s eyes. Isn’t that why he’s following in his footsteps? “Here. Brandon’s cell phone number is already loaded.”
When I accept his phone, he removes my drink from my hand to save the barely consumed contents spilling onto his shiny new toy. “Thanks.”
I pace deeper into the darkness for some privacy before hitting the message button. After typing out a quick “Pls call me” message, I stare down at the screen, begging for it to buzz.
As it did many times earlier today, my text message goes unanswered. This isn’t like Brandon. He must either have his phone turned off or his battery has died. The latter seems more plausible for how often I texted it when he abandoned me at the dress shop.
“No luck?” Madden asks when I hand him back his phone.
I shake my head before accepting back my drink, needing something to soothe the dryness in my throat. After a big gulp, I confess, “He said he would meet me here. I just didn’t expect him to be so long.”
Either over our unusual small talk or sick of deciphering my replies, Madden mouths, “It could be worse. He could’ve left you to rot at Dartmore.” Ignoring my stitched brows, he spins on his heels and stalks the stairs I attempted to walk only minutes ago.
After a few minutes of silent contemplation, I trace his steps. I’m not searching him down. I’m seeking the closest tap. Joey is known for mixing his drinks with more alcohol than soda water, but it shouldn’t be hitting me this fiercely. I feel I’ve drunk half a gallon of vodka. When I bump into the island in the middle of the McGees’ kitchen, Racheal’s eyes lock with mine. She was talking to Douglas, the once wide receiver of our local football team.
“Are you all right?” she asks when she notices my clutch on the cabinets.
I brush off the worry mask slipping over her face with a quick nod. “I am fine. Just zonked from a big day. I might go have a nap.”
“Okay, grandma.” Even through the haze blurring my vision, I can tell her smile is apprehensive. “I’ll come check on you in an hour or two.”
“I am fine. Enjoy the party.”
It’s lucky I know the floorplan of the McGee ranch as well as I do, or my poor eyesight would have had me missing the balustrade of the stairwell. After guiding myself up the stairs, I enter the first room on the right. This is Brandon’s childhood bedroom. It still has the twin bed we lost our virginity on pushed against the wall, and his desk is still housing the letters of acceptance we got while waiting for word from Browns.
Mrs. McGee was able to keep the ranch as a shrine because Mr. McGee decked their new house out with everything they could ever need. They basically just locked up and moved out—kind of similar to my family home, except there’s no one to return back there but me.
