Page 5 of Her Brother's Best Friend

“I was going to heat up some frozen mac and cheese and read a book to be honest. It’s been a long day and--”

“I like mac and cheese.” I’m not giving her the chance to push me away with excuses. I’m still on edge from last night, and the only way I can get any relief is knowing Cass is safe.

The kitchen is small. Cass isn’t speaking to me, but she’s moving around like a damn hornet, grabbing bowls and spoons. Then she opens a cabinet and reaches for the top shelf for a bottle. She’s on her tiptoes and teetering and still can’t seem to grasp what she’s after.

Her tank rides up her back, and her shorts stretch, so the bottom curve of both cheeks peeks out from the bottom. I take her all in. Her curves, and her pale skin, and...my chest tightens and my cock throbs. I need to touch her.

I step behind her and lay one hand on her bare hip for leverage before reaching the other over her head and finding her secret weapon hidden on the top shelf. Touching her was a mistake. I’m throbbing harder, and my palms itch for more skin to skin contact.

She bristles at my touch, and that lights a fire in my belly. I want to turn her around to face me and remind her I’m not the guy who had his hands all over her last night. I’m the good guy. The one who wants to protect her. But as I bring the bottle down she was reaching for, my gaze lands on her arm and the bruises he left.

“Cass,” I whisper, delicately tracing my finger along her upper arm. Careful not to touch any of the bruised flesh.

She is quick to pull away and turns to face me. Fear wells in her eyes, and I back a step, giving her room.

She puts her hand over the marks on her arm and turns back to her task of preparing the food. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I do. Did you tell your roommate what happened last night?”

“Not yet.” She has the tray of frozen noodles in her hands and slides it into the microwave. A few button jabs later, and I can already smell the burning fake cheese.

“Does that creep come over here to visit?” I can’t let it go until I have some answers.

Cass takes the bottle of vodka she’d hauled down from the shelf and pours a healthy shot into a water glass before she answers. She tips the bottle to me, but I shake my head. I learned my limits a long time ago. A few beers with the guys is fine, but hard liquor when I’m already primed for smashing heads isn’t in my best interest.

“I only met Joe last night. If you’re not going to leave me alone, I’ll give you all the details, and you can do with them what you will. Veronica’s sister is married to his brother, a nice bank teller from the Bronx. They’ve been married about six months now the reason Veronica needed a roommate. She doesn’t know the guy past what her sister and brother-in-law have said about him, and I’m sure he doesn’t act like a sleazeball at family picnics.”

The microwave dings and Cass makes quick work of plating our dinner and setting it on the table in front of the couch. She’s given me twice as much as her portion, which reminds me of family dinners at her house when we were kids, and her mother would heap food on my plate like I hadn’t eaten in weeks. Which reminds me how much I owe to Cass’s family. Another reason I’m here.

Cass curls up at one end of the couch with her feet tucked under her and her plate on her lap. I take the other side, leaving my food on the table. She has the remote and skips over half a dozen ball games before landing on a sappy chick flick.

She’s punishing me, I can tell. I can handle it as long as I know Cass isn’t out there dating some loser who leaves marks on her skin. The only traces of man that should ever be left on her would be mine, and those would have been begged for by her.

I finish my plate while she picks at hers, and we don’t talk for the first two commercial breaks. She’s pissed I’m here but still can’t find the words to tell me to go and I’m not leaving until she does.

I owe too much to Cass to ever leave her alone.

3

Cass

Iwake with a start. Last I remember, I was lying down on the couch with my head on Luke’s lap, and he was stroking my hair. He’s stolen the remote and turned to one of those sports highlights shows while I dozed in and out of carb fueled sleep.

Now I’m in bed, and it’s near dawn, and Luke is nowhere to be found. I’m too wired to go back to sleep and too dazed to try to read, so I get up and dress and spend the next two hours surfing idea boards for haircuts and colors at the coffee shop a block from home. Since moving back to Brooklyn a few years ago, I’ve kept a chair at a friend’s salon near the financial district and make pretty decent money giving haircuts to businessmen and the occasional woman on their lunch breaks.

By sun-up, I’m dressed and ready to take the train into work. If I get there early, I may be able to squeeze in a walk-in or two. Veronica has been wonderful to let me crash with her, but the other night with Joe solidified my feelings of needing different arrangements. I’m not on the train for two minutes before my phone begins to buzz. We’re hitting the underground, so my connection dies before I can click on the alert.

By the time I emerge topside again near Wall Street, I have thirteen texts. All from Luke. All asking, then demanding to know where I am. He’s taking his role as protector too far, and I’m about to call and tell him so when my phone rings and Kyle’s number pops up on my screen.

“Cass, where the hell have you been?” He’s breathless and panicked. The only other time I’ve ever heard Kyle this on edge was the time our family dog went missing for an afternoon when we were kids.

“I’m heading into work. Why? What’s going on?”

“Thank God,” he says around a gulp of air.

My phone chirps again with a text, but I can’t answer it until Kyle tells me what is going on.

“Kyle. Why are you breathing so hard?”

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