shared yesterday. This is awkward, filled with the memories of the last time we saw each other. We were in a courtroom, and he’d just been awarded his “freedom” from our family. And, boy, did he take flight. He never looked back from that day forward. If I hadn’t reached out, there’s no telling when we would have reconnected. Maybe never. Maybe he would have been fine with that.
“So how are the folks?” There’s a studied relaxation to Rhyson. I may not have seen him in years, but I still recognize the tension in his shoulders. The stiffness of his back belying his false ease. He isn’t just waiting for news of our parents. He’s braced for it.
“They’re good.” I load the last plate into the dishwasher. “They talk about you a lot. I know they miss you.”
“Miss me? Or the money?” he asks bitterly. “Are they not getting their monthly royalty checks?”
“That isn’t fair, Rhyson. I know they didn’t handle everything the right way all the time when they managed your career.”
“Is that what you call enabling my addiction to prescription drugs so I could get through shows? So they could build their fortune at my expense?” Anger flares in Rhyson’s eyes and colors his face. “Spare me the song and dance about them missing me. They have fifty percent of every dime I’ve ever earned. That was the price they named to let me leave. They aren’t getting anything else from me.”
I’m quiet for a moment, wondering how much I can press on this wound before he lashes out at me even more.
“And me?” I blink at the tears blurring the vision of my brother in front of me. “Do I get anything else?”
“I didn’t know you wanted anything in the settlement, Bristol.” Rhyson frowns. “But we can arrange—”
“How dare you?” Indignation tremors through me and makes my voice shake. “I call you. I write you. I text you. I fly to freaking Los Angeles and am hauled around the city all day while you Liberace in the studio, and you have the nerve to think I want your money? I don’t need your money, Rhyson. I have a trust fund that will take care of me for the rest of my life if I don’t want to work, which I do.”
His eyes lay so heavily on me I feel them like a weight. He never looks away from my face when he asks his next question, as if he might catch me in a lie.
“Then why are you here, Bristol? What do you want?”
God, I come here with my heart bleeding on my sleeve, and it’s still not enough for him. He needs me to cut it out and hand it to him in chunks of flesh and blood.
“I thought it would be obvious what I want.” I tip my chin up defiantly and meet the skepticism and mistrust in his eyes. “I want my brother.”
8
BRISTOL
WHEN RHYSON SAID I could come and watch him in the studio, he wasn’t lying. That’s about all I’ve gotten to do. He certainly hasn’t talked to me much, and I can’t imagine the complete focus it takes to create music at this level. Rhyson hasn’t budged in eight hours. He’s obsessing over four or five notes that, to his ear at least, are not “falling right.” Whatever that means. He’s barely looked up except when I brought him a sandwich, which still sits half-eaten on the piano.
At least I’ve knocked out my internship application. Machiavelli is all done.
An irrepressible grin springs to my lips as I remember Grip’s reaction to my thinking his tattoo was misspelled. Mental images of the muscled terrain the tattoo adorns melt my grin. I’ve had plenty of time to remember how much I enjoyed hanging out with him yesterday. Rhyson’s warning wasn’t necessary, but it remains fresh in my mind.
He isn’t ready to be good to any one girl.
And I am but one girl.
I glance down at the cleavage on display in the dress I changed into. Definitely a girl and definitely ready to let off some steam. The painted-on black bandage dress shows off all my assets, especially the ones up top. It lovingly traces the curves of my waist, hips, and ass, leaving my legs bare from mid-thigh. I’ve left my hair hanging down my back in loose waves. My makeup is smoky eyes and red lips.
“I deserve a night out,” I tell the girl in the mirror. “Three thou- sand miles and I’m