AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I open it. Step inside. Wait for my eyes to adjust.
Emerson’s place wasn’t designed like mine. It’s more subdued. Most of it is like a homey, eight-thousand-square-foot art gallery. It’s so quiet I can hear the waves rolling on the beach.
The main feature Emerson’s house has in common with mine is that it’s very,veryclean. It smells lemony. The citrus reminds me of Bristol, warm in my bed.
“Em?”
Silence.
Doesn’t feel great. My pulse gets louder, thrumming over the waves. I thought he’d be waiting in the foyer when I got here. I didn’t plan on a search. I don’t know where I’d begin to look. Small spaces, obviously, but there are a ton of rooms in this house.
“Where are you, motherfucker?”
I push open the door to his office. Nothing inside but moonlight. There’s a dining room across the way, also empty. A tall package leans against one wall. He had a painting delivered. That’s normal, at least.
Nobody in the den. Nobody in the kitchen. My footsteps feel loud as hell.
There are more rooms on the ground floor. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
The door to Emerson’s biggest gallery is partially open.
I put a palm to the heavy wood and push it out of my way. Emerson’s wife is an artist who loves to paint the ocean. The gallery is full of her pieces. There are several new ones, added since they got married.
I don’t hear him. Don’t see him.
Just silence and art. A silence that sets my teeth on edge.
I stride in, my irritation at its peak. The door begins to close behind me. “What the ever-lovingfuck,Emerson? You—”
There’s a single footstep on the wood floor.
I whip toward the sound, my brain a scramble ofDadandsomeone’s out thereandfight.
My hand comes up in a fist.
Emerson’s faster.
He comes out of nowhere, his fists colliding with my chest. The last shred of my civilized brain, the one not choking on adrenaline and old memories, notes that it’s not a hit. It’s a grab. He’s got my sweatshirt in a hard grip. I shove against it on instinct. Against him, backing us up a few feet. Stay ready to punch him.
Older,a small voice whispers.Dangerous.
The force of his hold on my sweatshirt backs this up, and for a heartbeat I’m not Will Leblanc, billionaire entrepreneur and underground boxer. I’mWill, if you fucking breathe wrong, you’re never coming outside again. I heard that, you little bastard. I’ll make you wish you were dead.
Except it’s not my father with my shirt in his fists. It’s my brother.
It’s basically my own face looking back at me, except his expression is cold and distant and blank. It’s the face I might have had if our childhood turned me into a person instead of a monster. Make no mistake, he’s fucked up. But he’s fucked up in a humanway. Not like me.
His eyes say he might as well be on another planet. Lost in the galleries he sees in his head. It’s only the tremble in Emerson’s fists that gives any indication he’s still here.
This isdefinitelynot good.
“Emerson.” I pull the punch. Push at him instead. “Em.”
He shakes his head, the motion so slight it’s practically nothing.No.That’s all I get.
“Listen. Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay. I’ll wait with—”
Emerson hauls me in closer. “No. It’s. Not. I want it tostop.”
