Page 9 of Never Kiss and Tell

“I can pick up some slack,” I say. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“That’s the thing. How would you feel about staying down here for a month and a half until the wedding?”

“Really?” I ask, not completely against the idea. “I mean, yeah, if it will help you. What will I do while you’re in school?”

“There’s so much to see down here, especially in the Quarter. Plus, you could always just annoy my brother. He’d hate that,” she says triumphantly.

Charlie Coulter. Never have I met a man with such a large stick up his ass. He’s as handsome as the devil with dark blonde hair, grey eyes and cheekbones that could slice an artery. But he’s also a major asshole. I’m pretty sure the man sleeps in a coffin and only comes out to steal virgins in the night. He’s made it abundantly clear since the day I met him that he’s not a fan of me, but that’s fine. I don’t really like him, either. Spending a month in his city seems like less fun than getting a filling in every tooth at the dentist.

On the flip side, though, itwouldgive me time to spend with Andi before she’s married. I’ve heard the food is great. I don’t have anything tying me down in California. No job. No husband. No Kenya to give me weird homework. It would be so easy to just slip away for a while and focus on someone else’s problems.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Andi muses, “but I thought it might help to get away for a while, too. We have that house in the Quarter, just waiting for a little blonde to come stay.”

God must be sick and twisted, because my phone buzzes against the side of my face. I pull it back and my stomach drops.

It’s a text with a picture attached. On first glance, it makes my palms grow sweaty and my stomach hurt. On second glance,it just disgusts me.

It’s a woman, tied with rope in what has to be an uncomfortable position. Tears stream down her face, though she’s smiling. Her back and rear are bright red, marred with scratches and bruises.

Drew: Thought you might miss me.

My stomach recoils at the sight and I erase the picture.

“You know what,” I say, running a tongue over my teeth. “I’ll be on the next plane down.”

“Yay!” she squeals into the receiver. I pull the phone away from my ear, chuckling. “I’ll clean up the house and make sure you have everything you need. You let me know if there’s anything special you want and I’ll get it ready for you.”

Andi launches into all her plans for us for the next month and a half and though I listen, I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything but the image seared into my brain. If there was ever any doubt that Drew loved me, it was completely gone. You don’t do something like that to someone you love.

Kenya wants me to find what makes me happy.

I’m going to see if it’s hiding out in New Orleans.

Bailey

My brother, Mason, is one of those people that my grannie used to call silent, but deadly — I know. He can often be found working at the small shop our dad used to own, fixing brakes on cars, helping little old ladies change the air in their tires — free of charge, or just generally getting himself covered in grease.

Mason didn’t accept Dad’s death, and Mom’s new marriage, as well as the rest of us. Not that I was okay with it, but I was only twelve and didn’t have a choice in the matter. Mason was sixteen, and he had spent every waking moment following our dad around the small four-car mechanic’s garage in the heart of Los Angeles. When Dad died, the shop sat empty for four years until Mason was able to open it back up.

Mason doesn’t come around much, so I usually end up going to him. I skipped the ride with Christian this time, after our bickering match in the car the day before, and caught anUberinstead.

Mason’s sprawled out under a car when I arrive, but I know he sees me walk up. Mason notices everything.

“What’s on the plate?” he asks, not moving from his spot of wrenching things.

“Blueberry cookies.”

Mom used to make them all the time for us when we were kids, but now, she has cooks to do things like that. Sometimes I bribe one of the cooks to bake some for him. Meeting Marcus has been both the best and worst thing to happen to her. After she and Dad divorced, she was so lonely, I think she would have slept with the Pope, had he offered. Not to mention, we were falling drastically far behind on bills. Marcus had swooped in with his millions and fancy cars and hired help and saved the day.

Mason slides out from under the car, a large grease mark on his cheek bone. My brother’s objectively handsome. He’s got the same dark hair as our mom, but he’s got Dad’s blue eyes, like my own.

I lick my thumb and rub it across the grease smudge of Mason’s cheek, who just shakes his head in disgust and grabs a cookie, dirty hands and all.

“Can I help you, Mom?”

I roll my eyes and take a seat on the rolling chair he uses in the garage. I purposely wore a tee shirt and jeans, not only to avoid the dirt on anything nice, but also because Mason’s garage is in a bad part of town. Just last week, someone was stabbed a block over. Mason doesn’t seem to mind, though. With his permanent scowl and muscular build, no one messes with him, anyway.

“You want to hold my dick while I piss, too?” he asks, biting the cookie like he’s picturing it as my head.

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