Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, #2)(10)

I’m still surprised that he wanted to come down here with me. He doesn’t like getting out of his element much and, as shitty as it sounds, I was sort of counting on that to keep him at home.

But it didn’t.

Maybe he needed a break from home, too.

For Kurt, home is Texas. He’s comfortable there, but I never will be. Once I left the town I was born in, I didn’t plan to return. Ever. Too many bad memories. I thought my brother and I had both managed to escape when we enlisted in the military. I thought we’d both have a better life. Him not worrying about Dad, me not having to worry about either of them. But when Kurt got hurt, I was all he had. I gave up my career in the military, the family I’d made there, so I could come home and take care of him. I went back to fighting because other than Delta Five, my covert ops team, it was all I knew. It’s what I had to do. Kind of like coming back to Texas to take care of my brother.

I had to put down roots for Kurt’s sake, and Texas is where he wanted to be, so Texas it was. I ended up going all the way around the world only to end up back in the same shitty memories I had just barely managed to escape. Between that and Kurt’s *ry and feeling trapped in a life not entirely of my making, I was sort of looking forward to this gig as a breather, even though I felt guilty as hell for looking at it that way. But that didn’t work out as I’d hoped. Now it’s just the same shit with different scenery. There’s just no avoiding obligation sometimes.

I would feel a lot more thwarted by the whole setup if it weren’t for the lovely and intriguing Katie. She is proving to be a very welcome, very effective distraction. She was the last thing I was expecting. I’m not complaining, though. Just the thought of her brings a smile to my face. In a world of one-dimensional (albeit gorgeous) robots, she’s a breath of fresh air. And it’s looking more and more like that’s just what I needed.

“Where the hell have you been? I thought you were done shooting at six, Keefie,” Kurt snaps from just inside the doorway, bringing my attention back to my current predicament—I’m late.

I take in his posture—spine straight, shoulders squared, arms crossed—and the fact that he called me Keefie—something my father used to do that he knows I hate—and I know he’s furious. Ready to fight. I don’t even need to look at the hard set of his jaw or the angry green eyes so like my own to see it. But I do. And I’m struck for about the millionth time by how sad it is to see such bitterness etched into such a handsome kid’s face. I know I’m responsible for at least part of it. He was angry with me long before he lost the ability to walk.

I keep my reply calm and level. “I left you a voice mail. Didn’t you check your messages when you got up?”

If anything, he gets even madder. “Why the hell would I? Is it too much to expect that my brother might keep his word and be home when he says he’ll be home? Jesus! It’s not enough that I lose my legs in Afghanistan, but now I have to hold your hand like a damn kid who can’t remember to wipe his ass.”

I scrub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. Not from activity. I can take a beating inside the ring and not feel this shitty. No, this is purely emotional. Spending very much time with Kurt just drains me.

“I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do about it. One of the producers wanted me to have drinks with some of the regular cast. Sort of an introduction. I couldn’t really leave without looking like a shitheel.”

“Boo hoo! What a pissy life you have, with your money and your fame and your legs. Tell that shit to somebody who gives a damn about your selfish ass.”

With that, my brother grips one wheel, spins around and speeds off down the long hall that leads to his bedroom. I gave him the big master suite, which is on the main level, while I took one of the smaller bedrooms upstairs. I’d sleep on the roof if it put some distance between us. When he gets like this, he’ll seek me out ten times before I go to bed just to fight. But only if he can get to me.

Another pang of guilt streaks through me. He’s had a tough life and I feel like a bastard for getting frustrated with his attitude. Kurt isn’t one of those guys who came back from Afghanistan wounded yet thankful to be alive. No, he came back with a chip on his shoulder the size of a Boeing 757. In the three years that he’s been living with me, I’ve heard at least a thousand times how he can never catch a break and, honestly, I can see why he thinks that. He first had to deal with the world’s biggest * for a father, who he escaped by enlisting, only to get wounded in a foreign land. I guess he has a few good reasons to be bitter. But damn! It sure is hard to listen to it day in and day out.

With a sigh, I make my way back to his bedroom. I can hear the sounds of Call of Duty peppering its gunfire through the crack in the not-quite-closed door.

I knock. No response. I knock louder. Still no response. I knock a third time, adding a very congenial, “Hey, man, can I come in?”

All noise ceases when he pauses the game. I know he heard me; he’s just making me sweat. Kurt is never one to let an opportunity to punish me pass by. He pouts until he gets what he wants, which is essentially a nonspecific assurance that the entire world does, in fact, revolve around him.

He barks his acknowledgment of me a good minute and a half later. “What?”

“Look, bro, I should’ve called again instead of leaving a message. And if I couldn’t get you, I should’ve just told them I had to get home to my brother.” Another pang of guilt as I push the one button I know will get him off my back for a few minutes—his pride. He hates that he needs help, that he needs someone to take care of him.