Page 1 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

Prologue

“You little fucking twat. You bring that shit into my house? My fucking house? You’ve been a goddamn burden on your mother for too fucking long now, you little shit, and you pull this? I’m going to break your smug little—”

I turn away from the scene in front of me, softly shutting the door. I can still hear Royal’s voice, grating like a fork down a chalkboard, anger tingeing every word. I step away from my brother’s room and head slowly down the steps before pausing halfway as Royal’s voice gets even louder. There’s a crash, and for a second I’m suspended in the air, my breath stuck in my lungs as I fall through the clouds. Terror rings all around me, but I don’t know why I can’t move.

It’s not like this is the first time that fucking asshole yelled.

“It’s almost funny.”

A new voice pulls me back to earth. I frown and slowly turn my head to find Jonas Larsen leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, his shaggy hair falling down into his face, his baggy hoodie slightly askew like he was just in a scuffle. He looks up at me, a smile on his thick, full lips, and he raises a perfect eyebrow.

“I mean, the guy’s practically always drunk. And he’s pissed about a little weed?” Jonas snorts. “What a prick.”

“Yeah,” I manage to say. Jonas makes a little motion with his head and pushes up off the wall, walking toward the kitchen. I follow him like there’s a tether wrapped around my waist. He’s magnetic, especially now, when I’m so afraid for my brother that I want to cry.

Instead, I sit down across from Jonas at the kitchen island as he rummages through the refrigerator.

“You guys have this big fucking kitchen and there’s nothing to eat,” he grumbles, and pulls out a bottle of kombucha. “Like, what the fuck is this?”

I laugh a little bit despite myself. “Kombucha. My mom drinks it.”

He opens it and sniffs. “Smells like feet.”

“Yeah,” I agree, not sure what else to say. This is the most I’ve ever spoken to Jonas, my brother’s best friend. He’s been floating in and out of my life for a few years now, and I know a million stories about him. I know about the time he broke into the janitor’s closet in high school and spilled a can of white paint in the middle of the gym to protest the school spending more on basketball than books. I know about the time he slept with a teacher, and about the time he went to jail for a few months for possession. I know about the drug dealing and the partying and the fights. He and his skater friends are pretty notorious around San Diego, and I’ve always been a little afraid of him.

Ezra says he’s harmless, but I don’t know. He’s standing in front of me, rummaging through the cabinets with a scowl on his face, and I still think he’s the most terrifying guy I’ve ever met.

He’s also the most interesting, which is the reason I’m sitting down here instead of up listening to Royal scream at Ezra again.

“Bingo,” Jonas says, pulling out a jar of peanut butter. A second later, he finds a bag of wheat bread. “Close enough,” he grumbles as he pulls out a plate and a knife. “Although this should be white.”

“Mom says that’s basically just sugar loaf.”

“It is,” he agrees, and holds up the peanut butter. “What do you think Jif is, though?”

I shrug. “Peanuts are healthy.”

“Not when they’re covered in sugar.” He takes a huge glob and spreads it over a piece of bread. “Usually I’d toast this, but I don’t think we have time.”

“Time?” I echo, not really sure what he means.

He glances up at me, still frowning, but his expression softens a bit. “Nothing,” he mumbles, and goes back to making the sandwich.

I sit there and watch him as he works. Jonas the drug dealer, Jonas the skater, Jonas the menace. He’s handsome in a way that’s hard to explain, with almost severe high cheekbones, light brown hair, and gray-blue eyes the color of morning ocean. He catches me staring but he doesn’t say anything as he finishes up and presses the top slice onto the bottom, squishing the peanut butter just a little bit.

“Here,” he says, sliding the plate across the island to me.

I stare down at the sandwich sitting in front of me. “Thanks,” I say.

I pick it up. I’m not hungry. I really just want to leave here, go plug my ears up, maybe cry for an hour. I want to know where mom is right now, and why she lets Royal do this to Ezra. Whenever I ask, she just shakes her head.

”He’s a boy and he’s five years older, he gets treated different.

I’d believe her if it were true.

I lift the sandwich to my mouth and take a bite. I chew and swallow, practically on autopilot, but it’s good. I take another bite and Jonas leans toward me, eyes serious and searching for something.

“Listen kid, your brother can handle it, okay?” he says suddenly.

---