The Brother Read online

  “Who the hell was that guy?” Aubry asks, as we pick up our shoes and limp to her car. The night was a huge success. We doubled what we projected in donations. It is past midnight and my feet ache from the heels I wore.

  “Liam Lockwood,” I say.

  “He was like, so hot. So. Hot.” Eve laughs at Aubry’s enthusiasm.

  “I don’t know, there was something about him I can’t put my finger on,” Eve says.

  “Yes. Me, too,” I say. A fleeting sense of ... Holden. I do not say that part out loud.

  “I’d put my finger on him,” Aubry muses. I smack her because Lotte is trailing behind us, listening.

  “He asked me out,” I admit.

  We pile into Aubry’s car, tired but content.

  “What’d you say?” Lotte asks. Her grin wide and curious.

  “I said no.”

  All three voices squawk at me.

  “Stop, stop. I don’t date,” I say. I throw one hand in the air. “You know this.” We pull on the main road. I cannot wait to put on comfortable jammies and curl up in my bed.

  “You do for that man,” Aubry says.

  “What did he say when you told him no?” Eve asks.

  “I think you should go on one date, Nora.” It is Lotte’s statement that affects me the most.

  “Why is that?” I ask her.

  She stares out her window for a moment. Her profile highlighted by the moonlight in the rearview mirror.

  “Because dates are normal. Dates lead to love sometimes. Because you deserve love.” Her voice is soft and dreamy sounding. It makes me smile. In the dim light from passing street lights, I can see Eve’s eye glisten with unshed tears.

  “Thank you, Lotte,” I say.

  The rest of our ride home is spent in silence.

  It’s a week after the event when I see Dr. Richardson next. Eve, Aubry and I have been busy since the gala outlining new programs we will be able to offer in the coming year. We can finally hire new therapists and group leaders to offer new programs.

  Dr. Richardson glows today. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders as we chat. It makes me want to abandon our session and ask her to coffee to chat about what is new in her life. Is there a man? She looks like there is a man. She looks softer than normal, more content. Her posture is more casual than usual.

  “I heard you’ve been frequenting Craigslist again,” Dr. Richardson says. I frown and dig a fingernail into the side of my thigh. I stare at the bookcase just behind her.

  “I really wish Aubry wouldn't talk to Eve who then tattles about me to you.”

  “They care about you. About your mental health. And I do, too.”

  “I am aware,” I say.

  “Are you cutting again?” Whenever I am engaging in questionable behavior, she asks this question.

  I shake my head. “No. Just ... the encounters.”

  She purses her lips and makes a note. “I don’t condone your ... encounters, Nora.”

  “Again, I am aware,” I say.

  “Let’s talk about why you feel the need to do that.”

  “Do what? Have one night stands?” I ask.

  She shoots me a look and I am stricken with guilt. She is not the enemy.

  “To partake in anonymous rough sex.” Her words punctuate the air around me. I blow out a breath. I rub my eyebrows and grimace.

  “I feel ... druxy. Tristful. Vacant. There is a hole inside me since being with Holden. Consensual, vanilla sex doesn’t fulfill me. I feel even emptier afterwards. And to have that, you must date, and the few times I’ve gone that route, I felt culpable.”

  “Guilty. That’s new. Why that?” She pierces me with her gaze, pen hovering over her pad.

  “Because it’s how I felt,” I say and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Nora, come on.” She is irritated with me and my avoidance. I don’t blame her.

  “I felt like I was cheating on Holden.” There I said it. Out loud. To a human. That is a step in the right direction. Dr. Richardson is silent long beats.

  “Holden is dead. The fact that your relationship with him was not based on truth or healthy, for the sake of your mental health, let’s attack it from a different perspective.”

  I lean forward in my seat.

  “You loved him. Right or wrong, it’s your truth. I can’t work around that with you. So, I’m going to have to work with you on it. You fell in love with a man, and he died. You’ve got to learn to cope and move forward.”

  “Are you really doing this?” I ask.

  She glances at the ceiling. “Nora, we’ve been working together for almost two years now. I know that you understand right from wrong. I know that you aren’t psychologically impaired. I want nothing more than to help you live a healthy life from here on out. So, if we need to address Holden as a relationship, then we will. I will—for you.”

  “I need a little pain to get that traditional pleasure reaction. I don’t know how to get that in a normal relationship.”

  “Normal is relative. I don’t like that word. Many couples try all sorts of things to spice up their sex lives. You aren’t the only one,” she says.

  “Yes, but men are strange about hurting a woman.” I twist my fingers in my lap. Although I trust Dr. Richardson, it does not make divulging my truths aloud any easier.

  “Rape fantasies are very common.”

  I nod. I know this. “But ... if you know someone well enough to be in a relationship with them, then it is not really the same. You both know the other is pretending.” I pick at a string at the hem of my shirt.

  “What are you saying?” she asks. She sets her pad and pen on the side table to focus on me.

  “That I don’t want pretend. I want consensual, but the pain aspect can’t be faked. I don’t want a guy cringing when he hurts me. It has to be ... authentic.” I roll my shoulders. Dr. Richardson contemplates my words in silence. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth while she thinks.

  “Have you considered any of the dating sites that lend themselves to different fetishes?” she asks.

  “Is it a fetish I seek?” She rolls her eyes at me. I suppose in any other therapist-patient situation that might be frowned upon, but our relationship is solid.

  “Semantics, Nora.” I laugh, because she has called me out on my bullshit this time and it is not often she does that.

  “Okay, okay. I will, at the very least, check out a fetish dating site to see what it is all about.”

  “I think that would be a much healthier alternative to Craigslist.” I nod at her and lean back in my seat.

  “What else is on your mind?” she asks.

  “Desolation, I suppose.”

  “In what way?”

  “I have nothing. My family. My child. My love. All gone.” A weight lifts as my words tumble out. Sometimes stress relief is as simple as saying something out loud.

  “What about Eve and Charlotte? Aubry? How do they factor into your life?”

  “Sometimes I can be present in a room with all of them and still feel ... alone. Maybe distant or out of touch are better terms.”

  “Disconnected,” she says.

  “Yes,” I exclaim. “That is exactly the feeling.”

  “That’s very normal. Are you taking your antidepressants?” she asks.

  “I am.” I nod.

  “Good. The next time that feeling surrounds you, let it. Sit with it. Feel it. Examine it. Marinate in it, no matter how uncomfortable. Sometimes, you just need to accept an emotion to come to terms with it.”

  I nod again. “Okay. I can do that.” She makes everything so cut and dry. Simplistic when it appears overwhelming to me.

  “Don’t let it eat you whole. Does that make sense? If you can simply acknowledge that it is there and stay present in the moment, I think you will find it won’t affect you so harshly.”

  “When did you get so astute?” I ask, smiling.

  “When you gave me that damn word a day calendar.”

&n
bsp; We laugh for a moment. It is in sessions like these with Dr. Richardson that I feel hope toward my future. That I am thankful to have her in my life. We are a team more than we are patient and therapist.

  Liam

  “We all have our vices, son, but why her?” My father rounds his desk. I make a mental note to disable the GPS on my car.

  “Why not her?” I ask.

  He stops inches from me. He is old but still formidable in size. “I told you no. Specifically. I've given you everything. Taught you to run the business, how to be respected and feared and yet, you take it all for granted. You disrespect me.”

  “I'm not a child, Dad.”

  His hand moves lightning fast, connecting with my stomach. I double over in pain.

  “You're my creation, you belong to me. Now get up and get your shit together.”

  “Yes, sir.” I stand and swallow thickly.

  “Leave that girl alone. She could ruin everything we’ve built.” His dismissal of her only makes me want her more. He can’t even bring himself to say her name. I don’t bother wondering why, but I want him to say it. I want to hear him say Nora’s name. To acknowledge her.

  He pours two glasses of scotch. My lack of productivity caught up to me. I have been so fascinated watching Nora, that my work suffered and thus, Daddy felt it necessary to check up on me. I don’t know how he knew it was Nora from my various locations, but he somehow put two and two together and a sucker punch is the price to pay—for now. I have no intentions of leaving her alone. Not now that I’ve held her in my arms. Felt her skin, smelled her minty breath. In fact, I welcome the beating my father will give me when he finds out I’m dating her. And I will be. Very soon.

  He hands me my glass. I take it and gulp it down in two swallows. He shakes his head at me. Scotch should be savored, not devoured.

  “How is the contract negotiation going with Yuri?” He leans against his enormous desk and crosses his ankles.

  “It’s fine.” I wave a hand through the air.

  “Fine won’t cut it. Yuri and Gregor are game changers for us. It has to be perfect, Liam. Spotless.”

  “It will be, Dad,” I say. I drag a hand through my hair.

  The deal for the docks downtown has been on every investor’s radar. It’s big money. Big profit and given the dock’s reputation, paid in cash. Shady dealings are nothing new to me but men like Yuri and Gregor run with a bigger, more powerful crowd than we normally do. One wrong step in this deal could put me six feet under. These men don’t sue. They kill.

  Yolanda knocks before entering the office. She mutters something in Spanish at my father before taking the glass of scotch from his hand and leaving a delicious smelling plate of dinner on his desk.

  “Do you even know what she says to you?” I ask.

  Dad laughs and shakes his head. “All I know is that woman is determined to keep me alive. She thwarts all my bad habits whenever possible.”

  “Sounds like she’s more than just a maid,” I quip.

  Dad stands to his full height and instantly I feel like a child. “She’s nothing more than the help.”

  I nod and stand. I’ve had enough of my father for one afternoon. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  He grunts at me while rounding his desk but says nothing. No goodbye. No see you soon. Just silence. Our family never was good with social graces.

  Carol has left a plate covered in plastic wrap in the fridge for me. With a note reminding me to eat it. I laugh at her attempts to keep me sane and healthy. It’s late and I’m tired but the second I fall back on my bed, my mind wanders to Nora. The way she felt in my arms. Her smell. The way that green dress rode her curves and complimented her skin. I bolt up and check my calendar on my phone. In three weeks I have a gala to attend. I could bring anyone. There are countless women who’d like me to ask them but I am only interested in one woman. It will take time and effort to get her to agree to go on a date with me.

  I need a plan.

  Wednesdays are my least favorite days. I’m usually slammed at work and the weekend isn’t soon enough to covet, but today I’m in a good mood.

  “Mara,” I call out from my office. She pokes her head in.

  “What do you need, Liam?” she asks nervously. She is always nervous around me, despite the many times I’ve told her to relax. I am not the tyrant boss my father was.

  “Take a long lunch. It’s gorgeous out today.” She narrows her eyes at me but when I tell her I’m serious, she smiles and thanks me. But not before reminding me of a few pending items I need to sign off on.

  It’s yoga day. Nora’s yoga day. Her class gets out at eleven thirty and she nearly always goes to the park to read afterward. Today, I’m going to crash her solo party. I walk three blocks up from the office, cross the main road and enter the park at the opposite end she frequents. When I get to the end of the path and haven’t passed her, I resort to the cafe at the top of the park. It should be on her way from the yoga studio. Unless she changed her plans this morning. But she rarely does that. Nora is a creature of habit.

  I order a coffee while keeping one eye out the door. By the time I sit and take my first sip, I see her. I begin to stand but stop myself. She is leaning against a building. Her face, usually rosy from class, is pallid. I watch her as she approaches the front of the cafe. She looks nervous. Anxiety? It makes sense. The interview she gave mentioned as much. The charity she started. Symptoms of PTSD. I wait her out. This is perfect. I can be her knight. Save her from herself. I smirk, lean sideways, knock on the glass and give a little wave.

  Nora

  Holden. His eyes. His strong hands. His blade. His everything. Yoga generally clears my mind, but today, it wandered right into Holden memories. I can’t breathe. My anxiety pills were in my yoga bag. I know they were. I take them everywhere with me but I cannot find them. They are missing. I try all the tactics Dr. Richardson has given me to get through a panic attack but I am out of control. Holden. Dead.

  People stare at me as they pass. Perhaps that is just my paranoia. Do they know who I am? What I am? Do they see the sick twisted love-struck woman? The one who lived with the monster? Who loved the monster?

  I push his name from my mind. Leave me, I beg to myself.

  I stumble along the sidewalk toward the park. I stop twice to rest. To gather myself. People are watching. I am sure of it. I know they are all looking at me. I get near the cafe and the tension leaves me just a little. I am close enough to the river to hear it. Almost to the tranquility of the park.

  Someone waves from behind the plate glass window as I walk by the cafe. I lift my hand slightly and wave back. A knee-jerk reaction, then squint.

  Liam.

  Liam Lockwood. He waves me in. It catches me off guard. It is a distraction. A welcome distraction. I stand paralyzed for a moment before I push through the double doors. Reorganize my thoughts, my energy on the man grinning at me. Those eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks. His face a mask of concern. I hesitate but tell him I am having an anxiety attack as I plop in the seat across from him.

  “Aww. What can I do to help?” He leans back in his seat. “Just breathe.” I take a moment to gather myself. Liam doesn’t seem put off by the quietude I let hang between us. I don’t need people or conversations or background noise in my life. I find silence comforting. It is rare to find a stranger who does not mind. People feel the need to fill stillness with noise. He takes a sip of his coffee and I find myself watching his lips. The way they wrap over the lip of the mug. The way his tongue snakes out to catch a drip of caffeine. I exhale. The corner of his mouth tips upward.

  “Lemme grab a decaf,” I say.

  He raises a brow at me and his lips pucker in disbelief. I have an insane desire to reach out and feel his lips. I don’t, though.

  “Decaf is like a prostitute who only snuggles.” His face is dead serious and I can’t help but laugh.

  “Trust me, you’ll like me better when I’ve had
coffee—even decaf.”

  “It’s just not right. If you’re paying for it—you should get the pleasure that the caffeine affords your body.”

  I pull on the ends of my hair—a nervous tick. “I can’t take the caffeine right now.”

  Liam nods, his expression rife with sympathy. I head to the counter and order a decaf coffee black, before joining him at the table again. I already feel better. More tranquil.

  “So, what’d you do this morning?” he asks. He watches me in a curious way that I cannot quite put my finger on. I flip back and forth about telling him the truth or making up a story. It is not as though we are friends or going to see each other again, yet still I am leery.

  “Airport. Then yoga.” Truths. I tell him truths.

  He sets his mug down on the table. I watch the way his fingers move through the handle. They are large and the opening small. He can’t find a comfortable position to hold on. His fingers look rough but soft. I can’t explain it. Actually, I know they are rough, and it makes his fingers sexy somehow.

  “Oh?”

  I snap out of my thoughts. “Yeah. If you’re a people watcher, the airport is the most fascinating place. Everyone, all different walks of life and lifestyle come together. People look skittish, perturbed, apprehensive—as if they are walking around a jungle laden with wild beasts. The dynamic is engrossing. Everyone unsure of their role—the outcome of who they are supposed to be. Do you ignore the crying baby? Help someone put their carry on up? Are people receptive to kindness just because? Stranger altruism? People are so unhurried to smile and chat with the person next to them. It’s a curious thing, hanging in an airport or being on a plane where everyone acts like they're heading to a funeral—somber and cloistered.” I say. I am rambling. To a man I scarcely know. I squeeze my mug until my fingers ache.