The failure.
“C’mon, Hunter. Don’t be a dick to me. Dad’s just being Dad. I’m sure if you turn it on after a few suicide sprints, he’ll be wowed by how fucking fast you are. He’ll think he’s taught you a lesson and then tell you to meet up with us.” He shushes people around him and their noise fades. It sounds like he walked into a different room. “Hunter?”
“If only it were that easy.”
Easy to what though? Live in your twin’s shadow? Never be enough? Love your brother like he’s a part of you while hating him from jealousy?
“Look.” His voice lowers as someone yells, I need another brewski, in the background.
“Nah. I’m out. Get Mom. Don’t get Mom. She called you to get her, so figure it the fuck out on your own.” I end the call and toss my phone on the ground, then squeeze my eyes shut to push the tears back down.
Jonah doesn’t fucking care.
No one does.
And when I go to pick up the hammer to finish punishment number one, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
I look over to where Terry Fischer plays with the ties of the bottom of what could be called a T-shirt if it had more fabric to it as she walks toward me. Her shorts are short, her legs are sinfully long, and her sandals high. When she rocks back on her heels as she licks her lips and bats her eyelashes, every damn ounce of blood in my body heads south and my mouth goes dry.
“Hey. I thought you were going out to Rick’s house for some beers before we meet up for pictures and then head to the dance.”
I stare at her—I mean how can I not—eyes blinking and lips parting, before I realize she thinks I’m Jonah.
There’s a split second where I hesitate and she continues—her hips swaying, her fingers accidentally twisting her shirt tighter over her boobs—and I keep thinking about my brother.
How much he thinks he loves her.
How he’s already lost his virginity to her. (Hasn’t everyone at Hillman High?)
How he has fucking everything without trying, while I have to work so damn hard at everything . . . but for what?
“Jonah,” she croons as she stops within a foot of me, laces her fingers with mine, and swings our arms. “What’s wrong?” Pouty lips. Cleavage right there. Perfume. “Your daddy make you finish this since I distracted you the other day from finishing?”
Her giggle fills the air and her tits jiggle when she does. I’m mesmerized.
“Yeah.” I smile and emit a nervous laugh. No wonder Jonah keeps volunteering to come over here and work on Watson’s property.
“You gonna answer that phone?” she asks. I didn’t even hear my cell ringing again.
“It’s probably Hunter.” I roll my eyes. “You know how he is.”
She laughs again and twirls a lock of hair on the finger of her free hand. “So . . . you’re not out with the guys?”
“I had to finish this. I’m meeting up with them in a bit.” I wrack my brain to remember what was supposed to happen this afternoon. “I—uh—thought you were getting your hair or nails or whatever done,” I fumble.
“Why?” She leans up against me. “You don’t think I’m pretty just like this?”
Jesus. Hell. Fuck. Nerves vibrate through me just as fast as the adrenaline does, and I swear I can smell it coming from my pores.
I’ve dated girls. Lots of them. I’ve been to second base a few times, while the guys think I’ve all but slid home.
But this is Terry Fischer, innocent sweetheart to parents and blowjob queen to the boys of Hillman and the almost-men at the local junior college.
“Pretty?” I lick my lips, my mouth dry as cotton, my dick harder than it’s ever been before and my balls ache. “You’re so much more than pretty.”
“Jonah,” she says in a singsong voice as her lips meet mine. The hammer drops to the ground with a thud right beside the cellphone that starts to ring again as her fingers slide around my neck and thread through my hair.
Terry Fischer is kissing me.
Our tongues touch, and she moans loudly as she presses her body against mine.
My thoughts are frantic. What am I supposed to do now? I’m going to hell.
Oh my God, this feels so fucking good.
She thinks I’m Jonah.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
The kiss grows greedy, if that’s even a thing. Like I can’t get enough of it or her, and it’s easier to get lost in her kiss than to acknowledge the tinge of guilt over how I’m kissing my brother’s girlfriend.
“Is old man Watson still not home?” she asks as she looks around the empty backyard before pulling my hand up and pressing it against her breast.
“No.” I gulp. I try not to move, because if my jeans rub too hard or she grinds again against me, I swear to God, I’m going to come in my pants.
Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.
I try to recite the hockey greats. Anything to get my focus off what her nipple feels like beneath the thin fabric. Hard and soft and her breast the perfect weight as if I know what that is.
“He—he’s still out of town.”
“Should we do this now? Like you and me? So my hair doesn’t get messed up later and my parents don’t wonder?”
Jesus.
I’m not Jonah.
Oh my God, he’s going to kill me.
She runs a hand over the outside of my pants and my eyes all but roll back in my head. If a cool breeze on any other day is enough to make me stand at attention, her hand is doing so much more than that.
“I—sure—I—”
“I mean, we can do what we did before—with me sucking you and you licking me . . . but, I brought a condom.” She holds a foil packet up and my eyes bug out of my head, causing her to giggle as my breath all but stops.
“Yes. Please. Um—”
“You’re acting funny,” she says as she pushes me toward the patio furniture and grabs my shirt, pulling me toward her to meet my tongue again.
My pulse pounds in my ears. My breathing is shallow as I try to process what’s happening. As I realize the next closest house is half a mile away and Terry Fischer is here and wants to do it with me.
I guess the rumors were right.
I guess Jonah wasn’t lying.
Don’t think about Jonah. Don’t think about—
“C’mon, J. Feel my panties. Feel what you do to me.”
She guides my hand between the flimsy cotton shorts to where it’s warm and moist and—
Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.
“Ohhhh.” My own moan is all I can hear as her hands slide inside my jeans and circle around me.
Gretzky. Crosby. Lemieux. Roy. Howe. Orr.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DEKKER
THE SAXOPHONE FLOATS THROUGH THE air above the steady drone of chatter. Sculler’s Jazz Club is crowded for a Thursday night and by the looks of my company—Finch and his wife, Maysen, and Callum—the few drinks have settled and the exhaustion from the game tonight is setting in.
Finch with his uniquely good looks—longer hair with almost clear blue eyes—has his arm hooked around his wife’s shoulder. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name and am too embarrassed to ask, so I’ve spent the better part of the conversation making sure to avoid saying anything where I need to use it.