Page 4 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

Don’s grin comes back and he takes the money. “Yeah, boss, I got you.”

“Good.” I take a breath and let it out. “Decent day. You trying the ten gap again, Vinny?”

“Fuck yeah, I am,” he says, nodding, his eyes a little blazed.

“Good.” I look back at Don. “Make sure you hit it too, and get it on fucking tape.”

“Sure, okay. I got you.”

I sigh again and nod, knocking him on the shoulder. That’s pretty much all Don ever says, but it’s all he needs to say.

The guy’s a five-foot-four Vietnamese kid, nineteen as of last week, and he’s the best damn skater in the whole fucking state. He’s fearless with foot skills I’ve never seen before and the ability to get up on railings most guys wouldn’t even bother with. I once watched him hold a manual for five minutes, his front wheels in the air as he balanced himself perfectly, guiding the board down hills and around obstacles.

I turn away from the two kids and head back toward Half Pipe. I’ve been trying to get a decent video of Don for months now, but every time we get some footage, something goes wrong. Either they don’t get Don doing some amazing trick, or someone drops a camera, or Don gets hurt and can’t ride for a few weeks. I’ve only managed to put up a few short clips on YouTube, which are getting a lot of love, but he deserves better.

As I head back inside, something catches my eye. It’s a body, huddled up against the side wall of the Half Pipe, a duffel bag at its feet. I step around the corner, ready to tell the bum to fuck off, but my anger dies in my throat.

The girl looks up at me with beautiful green eyes, her thick raven hair spilling down along her shoulders. Her lips are full and frowning as I notice the bruise.

Black, I think as she cocks her head at me.

“Lizzie?”

Her frowns changes into a slight smile. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

Of course I would, I want to say, but I swallow that. Of course I’d recognize the fucking gorgeous little sister of my best friend. The last time I saw her was almost two years ago, her gorgeous, tight little ass practically shining in the high afternoon sun. Ezra told me to stop staring, we were just there to say hey. She rolled over onto her back and arched an eyebrow at me, her friends all pretending like they didn’t recognize me. Ezra bent down and said something to her, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy staring at her, trying to figure out how Ezra’s awkwardly pretty little sister turned into that gorgeous fucking woman.

That was two years ago. I was twenty-three and she was eighteen. I heard about the accident, happened not long after I saw her. She hasn’t been around since.

“I recognize you,” I finally say. “You waiting for Ezra?”

She nods a little. “Yeah. He said… I could call.”

I stare at her and she falters under my gaze, hugging her knees a little tighter against her chest. The memory of the day Ezra got kicked out of his house comes back at me. She was just fifteen the day her asshole stepfather Royal punched Ezra in the face and slammed his head against the wall. That was the day Ezra left and never looked back, and I went with him. He told her that if he ever touched her, she could come to him, or at least that’s what he told me in the Jeep as we drove off.

And now here she is, black eye and a duffel bag.

Fucking shit.

“Come on,” I say, bending over to grab her bag.

Her hand shoots out. It latches on to my wrist and pushes it away. I’m surprised as she leans forward defensively snatching her bag and getting to her feet.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, slinging the strap over her shoulder.

I hesitate a second. I was just trying to be nice, but I can see the hint of wildness in her eyes, the fear and the anger, and a little bit of something else. Something wounded, something broken.

I decide to let it go. “Come on,” I say again, leading her inside.

I set her up in the front shop and tell Lane to make her whatever she wants. “Aye, aye,” Lane says, the tiny blonde girl saluting me like a sailor.

“Be nice to her,” I warn. “That’s Ezra’s sister.”

Lane pauses. “Seriously?” she asks.

“Seriously. See the resemblance?”

“Not at all.”

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