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I hate narking on a client, but my brother should’ve called that one in. Akara wouldn’t have ratted them out to the parents. They’re all adults.
And at least we’d all know they were drinking and taking a joy-ride.
Quinn glares at me. “What?”
I’m disappointed in him, and I can’t hide that from my face.
“Oh—fuck,” Eliot curses, causing us to look back. His gaze is latched to the clubhouse’s deck where their parents are descending in a fury.
“Is that Mom?” Tom squints and holds a hand above his eyes.
“Brother, see you in the afterlife,” Eliot says. He taps knuckles with Tom, but they don’t leave Luna. They stay while Farrow speaks softly to her and helps her to her feet.
She needs X-rays.
“Can you talk to Dad?” Luna pleads with a pained wince to Maximoff.
He caves. “Yeah.”
“Akara to Quinn, why am I just now hearing about your client on a golf cart when it’s already flipped?”
Quinn clicks his mic. “It wasn’t important.”
The line dies, and I can feel Akara halfway across the golf course cursing the night sky with frustration and anger. Our mistakes are his mistakes.
My brother drops his mic cord. “What?” he growls at me again.
“I didn’t say anything.” I catch the sight of Jack—my Jack—running towards us, a heavy Steadicam strapped to his chest.
I read his lips from a distance. He mouths, are you okay?
His concern shouldn’t surprise me. Hell, his appearance shouldn’t either, but both do. Probably because I just thought…he’s filming.
He’s working. How is he making time for me? Especially when my ass struggles to make more for him.
My chest rises, longing for Highland to keep his pace towards me. And I nod to him. I’m okay. But I could use a Jack Highland hug.
A kiss. Three kisses. Endless amounts.
Fuck, I’m greedy.
“You didn’t have to say anything, Oscar—you had that look,” Quinn snaps.
My gaze tears back to my little brother. I hold up my hands. “I’m just standing here, bro.”
He scratches his jaw, his gaze pierced with venom. The scar under his eye—I wasn’t there when he was KO’d in the ring. A hard punch split the skin on his cheekbone.
“You need to say something to me?” I ask very gently, not trying to set him off.
I am genuinely confused on why he’s so heated off so little. And I want to know.
“You’re the one who’s not talking,” Quinn retorts. “You’re just staring at me like I flushed your Doritos down the drain.”
I crack a grin. “Good analogy, bro.”
He glowers. “Fuck you.”
What the hell? “Quinn—”
“Just say it!” He gets in my face. “You think I should’ve called it in. You think I should update Akara on every little movement I make because I can’t do my job—”
“I never said that you can’t do your job.” My eyes narrow in confusion, hurt. “Do I think you should’ve called this one in? Yeah. Do I wish you did? Yeah.”
He groans into a frustrated growl.
“I never said you’re a bad bodyguard.”
“You didn’t have to!”
“Is that what this is about?” I question.
“Fuck off,” he growls, shoving me back with two hands to my chest.
I rock from the force and step back on my own accord. Giving us space. “Just talk to me, bro.” Please.
He’s stewing. Glaring.
I snap. “This feud is in your fucking head, Quinn!” I point an angry finger at my temple.
“In my head?!” He rams his hands at my chest, and I stumble back against the golf cart we up-righted together. We draw attention, but if I even look away from Quinn, it feels like the whole golf course will explode.
“Quinn.” I come forward.
He grabs the collar of my shirt like he’s trying to shake me. There’s so much fucking pain in his face that I don’t understand.
Voices pitch all around us, but the cacophony bleeds away.
It’s just me and my twenty-two-year-old brother.
Talk to me.
He takes a swing.
I duck—he knew I’d duck.
His right hook slams into my ribcage. Wind knocks out of me. I heave for breath. We honestly don’t physically fight like this a lot. I’ve been hit plenty of times in my life, but the worst ones always come from my brother.
He comes back, and we grip each other. Wrestling upright, trying to get a strong hold, and we draw each other further away from the golf cart.
His fist connects with my gut again.
Fuck.
He rams me into a sand pit. Little spotlights illuminate the pit, and I see better. I sock him in the jaw—just to keep Quinn from landing a harder blow.
His lip is split—I split his lip.
What the fuck am I doing? I feel sick, and I grapple trying to stand up in the sand. But we’re both taught to fight, not flee.
We grew up learning to solve issues with our fists.
Fight it out.
I’ve never wanted to fight my brother.
He socks my face, the blow so hard that I land on my ass. Blood fills my mouth; I wipe it with my hand while a groan rips through me. Another blow.
