Page 47 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

Lizzie

Even if I wanted to pretend like I hadn’t thrown myself at Jonas and slept with him, I can’t, because I’m sore and practically walking with a limp for a couple days afterwards.

Well, that’s an exaggeration, but I am definitely sore. It’s a nice sore, like a dull ache, and it reminds me of the way he fucked me and filled me and completely dominated me.

I want to pretend like I had complete control over that, but I didn’t. That scares me a lot, but it also sends a thrill down my spine.

I’ve been craving control. Ever since the accident, I’ve needed to be in complete control of everything around me. It’s part of why I hate driving, and it’s definitely why I haven’t gotten my life together sooner. But Jonas has slowly but systemically shown me that I have no control, and maybe that’s okay.

Riding my bike is freedom, but it’s also chaos. I can’t control what the drivers around me do, and that’s terrifying. There have been moments where I’ve been afraid a car might swerve too close, moments where I crossed when I shouldn’t have, and those moments are bad. I need to stay safe. But I also need to accept that I can’t live a safe life tucked away in a bedroom in a nice house in La Jolla. Even there, someone can get annoyed and punch me in the face.

I can pretend like Jonas isn’t dangerous, but I know he is. There’s more to him beneath the surface of tattoos and anger and drugs, but he’s still that thug everyone used to be afraid of. Maybe he’s softened now, smoothed some of the rough edges, went into a legitimate business, but that darkness, that badness, it’s still inside of him.

And I like it, as messed up as that is. I’m drawn toward it, because it’s that kind of chaos that I need in my life, it’s that chaos that makes me feel good.

Even if I want more though, he’s barely looked at me these past few days. Ever since we slept together and he disappeared into his room after we got home, he’s barely come into the café and is constantly leaving to hang out with Don and the other skater boys. He says they’re finishing up the movie, but I think he’s trying to avoid me. When I see him at home, he’s always brief and nice, but it never goes past that. I can smell him smoking in his room, but he doesn’t come out to talk to me.

I shouldn’t be surprised. He told me he’s a bad man, and I know he is, but I know it’s more than that. I know it’s Ezra.

I decide to stay out later than usual. Instead of going right home, I take my bike out on a long ride, pushing my pedals, the wind on my skin. More than the freedom, I’m starting to like the actual burn of exercise in my thighs, the feeling of triumph when I’m finished. I like the discomfort, the pain, because I’ve embraced it and I’m choosing to feel it. The pain’s good, and in the end, it’ll make me a stronger person, a harder person.

Or at least my ass is going to look fantastic from all this biking.

Jonas’s Jeep is parked in the lot when I finally head back home. I go inside, carrying my bike up the stairs on my shoulder before unlocking our door and letting myself in. I park the bike against the wall and look around the living room, my eyes passing over the little nest where I sleep and finally stopping on the glass wall overlooking the back porch.

There’s the bright orange glow of a joint out there. I can’t see Jonas since it’s dark outside but light inside, and as the orange cherry slowly fades away, any hint of him being out there disappears.

I walk over to the door and step outside. It takes a second to adjust to the shadows, but there’s Jonas, sitting in a chair with the front legs in the air, a joint between his lips.

“Hey,” I say to him.

“Hey.” The chair drops down on all fours as he leans forward. “I just got home. Where’ve you been?”

“Biking.” I run my hand through my hair, still slightly damp with sweat and pressed down from the helmet.

“We have to get you a light,” he says, a little smile on his lips. “I mean, if you’re going to be riding all night.”

“I like it,” I say, feeling stupid. I bite my bottom lip and glance away from his gaze as he takes another hit.

“Good. I’m glad.” He stands, releasing the smoke from his lungs, and heads toward the door. He has to brush past me, but instead of letting him go, I grab his wrist.

It’s like a tree trunk. He looks down at my hand and then meets my eyes, his eyebrow quirked. “What are you doing?”

“You keep ignoring me.” I squeeze his wrist tighter.

“You think maybe there’s a reason for that?”

My heart quickens. He’s not denying it, which is good. “I know why,” I say. “It’s because of Ezra.”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, it’s because of him.”

“He’ll get over it. I mean, he hasn’t been so bad lately, and—”

“You have no clue, Lizzie.” He shakes his head. I keep a grip on his wrist though, and he doesn’t pull it away. “It’s gone too far.”

“What happened?” I ask, afraid of the answer. The image of my brother that I’ve built up in my head these past five years is slowly being eroded away before my eyes, and I know this is going to be the end of it.

I thought he was so cool. He ran away from home, got out of that abusive trap, and started his own life. He hung around with guys like Jonas, did things I could never picture, had this whole existence outside of the comfortable little La Jolla bubble I got used to. I saw his Instagram posts, his Facebook posts, and I built up this whole mythology around him.

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