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Mixed feelings roil in my stomach, and I don’t have time to make sense of them.
“Beckett!” Eliot storms over to us.
Uh-oh. “Eliot,” I start, but he’s fixated on the phone in Beckett’s fist, and Tom curses loudly, distraught since his talking points must’ve landed flat and he’s nowhere near as strong as Eliot. I’ve seen Eliot lift more than Beckett in the gym, and Tom said Beckett’s ballet schedule includes gym time every day.
He’s on a war path towards Beckett. “Give me my fucking phone—”
“Stop!” Ben cuts him off midstride, thrusting a palm at his chest.
Eliot glares beyond him and tries to bulldoze Ben, but Ben isn’t thin or scrawny. These two are more evenly matched, seeing as how Ben is considered the jock of the Cobalt Empire. And he’s six-five.
Ben just pushes Eliot harder. He barely stumbles.
“This isn’t worth it!” Ben yells.
“This isn’t worth it?!” Eliot shouts back like Ben just stabbed him in the heart. “So when it’s something you care about, your anger is worth it—”
“That’s not what I meant.” Frustration grates his voice.
“Then what the fuck did you mean?” Eliot asks painfully, eyes flashing hot.
“It’ll make things worse!” Ben rages.
“Things couldn’t get much worse!” He shoves his brother.
Ben shoves back. Eliot can’t escape the towering wall that is Ben Cobalt, not without a fight, and they begin grappling more forcefully, more furiously—but they’re not even furious at each other, not really.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Tom breathes, jogging over but staying a foot out of the brawl. “You’re an uncle now, dude! This isn’t good uncle behavior!!”
Ben has Eliot on the ground, trying to pin him. Eliot is wrestling Ben back, their faces reddened with visceral anger.
Eliot vs. Ben.
This isn’t the strangest sight to witness. I’ve seen it before at the Key West rental house, back during my brother’s bachelor party. Ben was trying to restrain Eliot, and Eliot was on a dark voyage, headed for revenge—but I don’t even know if revenge is the source of his wrath now.
And back then, Moffy was there.
My older brother was the one who put Eliot in an MMA hold. He was the one to end the entire heated moment, and without him present, I can’t see how this’ll go.
Tom catches Ben at the waist to pull him off Eliot.
“No, Tom,” Beckett warns.
I go do my part to help calm down Eliot. Squatting, I put a hand to his broad shoulder, and his elbow juts backwards and jabs my mouth.
Ah…the sting radiates. My palm flies to my mouth. Stumbling away, I taste the bitter iron of blood. My lip throbs.
Eliot doesn’t even notice me. Didn’t even see me or feel the elbow-to-the-mouth. Have my powers of invisibility really kicked in?
“Luna, Luna,” Beckett says quickly, seizing my arm and drawing me away from his brothers.
Not invisible.
“I’m fine,” I mumble against my hand. I wish Donnelly were here. The other bodyguards know not to intervene in family disputes, but maybe Donnelly would’ve been the one beside me. Or is that just a fantasy too?
Eliot is still wrestling Ben, and Tom is wedging himself too much between them. Limbs are being tangled and caught, and suddenly, Tom lets out a sharp wince.
“Fuck, fuck.” He grits between his teeth, shooting to a stance and clutching his wrist.
Beckett comes forward, his hand on his forehead like someone shielding the sun. “Enough,” he says too quietly and then shouts, “ENOUGH!”
It stills the room.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard him yell that caustically. He sweeps his brothers and the mess strewn around them. His breath is uneven. “Enough.”
I go to my best friend. “Tom?”
He has his back to everyone, even me.
“Did he…?” Ben pants hard, everyone going eerily still. “I-I didn’t…did I?” He looks to Eliot.
“No, it was me,” Eliot murmurs, concern darkening his features.
“I twisted an arm…I-I thought it was your arm,” Ben stammers, eyes glassing.
“Tom?” I mumble behind my hand.
“Hmm.” He winces, then says tightly to the room, “I’m okay.”
Eliot stands in haste, but his focus isn’t glued to the phone. He extends a hand to help Ben to his feet, but Ben is too dazed to take it, watching Tom in pain. So he rises on his own.
“I can call Farrow?” I whisper. He can check Tom’s wrist, see if it’s just sprained.
Tom shakes his head. “I’m okay, really.” He whirls around to us—but then hurriedly gathers his leather jacket off the floor. Once the jacket is on, he stuffs his hands in his pockets, not letting anyone see the damage.
He needs his hand in prime condition to play the guitar.
To his brothers, he forces out, “I’m okay.” He frowns at me. “What’s with the hand over your mouth?”
“New fad,” I mumble.
Eliot beelines for me. He catches my wrist and lowers my palm. “Oh, fuck.” More concern rips at his face.
“Is it that bad?”
Tom cringes. “Your lip is busted.”
