Lane
One month later
Along month had passed since Bess left. A verydrythirty days. An epic drought, so to speak.
During those weeks we’d only spoken three times. It was mostly my doing.
She did call me to thank me for the trip and the package I had delivered to her place the day after she returned home. I knew better than to believe she would ever pick up the phone and pursue me. She had done that once, and I didn’t expect it again.
And I used that to my deranged advantage, because I was a sick and very twisted person. On paper, I was decent. But inside I was fucking tormented. I had been for years.
The nice brother with skeletons in the closet.
After that I’d only called her twice more, making light conversation and never tackling the elephant on the line.
What were we? Or what could we be?
Because the answer was painfully clear. Nothing.
I was in Spain visiting a property for a large hotel conglomerate that wanted my services. The weather was gorgeous, the women were exotic and beautiful—not to mention ready, willing, and able—and I couldn’t get my head out of my ass.
Every afternoon, when the whole fucking nation disappeared to take a siesta, I paced my hotel balcony. With a small tumbler of scotch, I would roam the tiny open space, looking out at the wide countryside in front of me as I thought.
Thinking was very bad because it brought up my past, and that was a part of me I didn’t like to think about. I’d moved on, created a fucking dynasty through my own hard work, and the past had no place in that world.
At the moment, I stared hard at the amber-hued liquid in my glass, the oaky aroma mixing with the salty seaside air. All it did was remind me of her brown hair spread out in front of me, salty waves crashing in the background. Of course, Bess’s face was in the middle of all that glorious hair, smiling up at me as I enjoyed her body, taking my fill.
Sex had always been my escape mechanism, my secret weapon to burying everything else that tormented me. Now I was on a starvation diet from it, and it wasn’t working out for me. The nightmares had returned, and they wouldn’t stop. Bedtime had come to include a healthy drink and a long hot shower, where my own stroking did little to relieve my stress.
I had just tossed the rest of my drink back when my phone chimed with a text.
JAKE: Yo, bro! Where you at?
ME: Spain. What gives?
JAKE: I need some help.
ME: Of course. What now?
Jake didn’t text back. Instead my phone rang, his contact info coming up on the screen.
“Yo, Jake,” I answered, already lacking patience where my fucking twin was concerned.
“Listen, Lane, don’t be mad. I need money.”
I’d stepped into my hotel room to take the call, but the four walls and the stale damp air were stifling. Walking back onto the balcony, I said, “What the fuck, Jake? Money for what?”
“I had a deal go south. It went really bad.”
“What deal? You own a gym, you’re not in finance.”
“Well, remember Courtney?”
I let out a long breath before answering. “Yes. From Christmas.”
“She was a rep for this protein smoothie company, and convinced me to sign off on a PO for a huge recurring shipment. I can’t sell the shit. It sucks, and it keeps coming and the company wants to be paid. At least through the next six months, and then they’ll let me out of the contract.”
“Jesus Christ, Jake! Can’t you keep your dick and your business separate?”
