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He grimaces. “Some sister you are. No support at all.”
“Aw, Mercky. You’re cute. I’m sure girls are falling over their feet to get to you. They’re so blinded by you they can’t see any other guy. They cry out your name as they come on someone else’s cock and can never find true love because of you.” I pause for dramatic effect. “How was that?”
“Screw you.” He pouts and makes sad eyes at me. “That was fucking awful.”
I laugh. “I thought it was being supportive.”
“That’s it, I’m not making any more playlists for you.”
“Aw, don’t be that way. You know I adore your playlists.”
He grins. “You’d better.”
But he knows it’s true. We share the same taste in music. He says he taught me everything I know in that respect. I insist I am the one who got him hooked on alternative pop, hip hop, and indie rock music since I’m older by a year.
It doesn’t really matter.
Merc and me, we’re close. Closer than we are with Octavia. She was always kind of like a second mom to us. But Merc and me, we’re thick as thieves. We’re like twins. He knows about stuff that happened to me. I know about stuff that happened to him, that nobody else knows.
And we pretend we know nothing and that nothing ever happened, that life is a unicorn’s rainbow fart and smells of roses.
That’s how we roll. It’s easier to get through the day—and night—that way. Besides, I kind of like the smell of roses… and my illusions. They’re warm and cozy like this kitchen. I try not to think I lost my trust in men, in people, my confidence in myself, and that now I fake it every day.
Try not to remember that the only place I’ve ever felt safe since we left Destiny is Jarett’s arms. That all I want is to grab my phone and call him, find him, meet him.
“Gigi? Hey.” Merc tugs the headphones off my head. “What did you think of the song?”
“It’s awesome,” I say, and can’t even remember the melody. “Gimme.”
“Goes on your new playlist,” he says with a grin, pleased with himself. “Songs for the winter.”
“That sounds sad.” I take a sip from my tea. I think of Jarett’s bare apartment and shiver involuntarily.
“Nah. Winter is a good time. You know, a time to rest and reflect, a time for secret changes under the surface.”
“Wow.” I gape at him. “That was deep.”
“Read it somewhere,” he says sheepishly, cheeks coloring, and jams the headphones on his head. “Going to make that playlist.”
“You do that,” I mutter, watching him as he leaves the kitchen, blond hair standing up in all directions.
I’m happy when I make him smile. When I see joy in Mom’s, or Octavia’s eyes. I want the people I love to be happy.
I want Jarett to be happy, and safe.
But he’s not mine to care for, to worry about, to want and to love. My trail of clues has gone cold.
So he’d do anything about his adopted family. So maybe he’s steadfast and true to those who help him.
But why should I be glad when he seems to care more about his creepy asshole of a brother than me, or even himself? It sounds like his promise is an excuse to stay on the wrong side of the law. And that’s not good.
Not good at all.
When I return to the kitchen later to make myself a sandwich and grab a glass of milk, my thoughts still on the same man, the same dilemma, I find Mom baking.
Figures I was so lost in my own mind I didn’t notice the divine smells wafting up. My stomach must have noticed, though. No wonder it’s been rumbling for the past hour, demanding to be fed.
Mom glances up from the row of perfect cakes she’s baked and smiles. “Hi, sweetie. Merc said you were home today. Feeling okay?”
