Misconduct(8)

I tightened my wrap around my body, seeing him give the crowd a playful look I was already familiar with.

And just then, I stilled, seeing his eyes catch mine, and heat rose in my cheeks at the slow, self-satisfied smirk spreading across his face.

He started to speak, but I no longer cared to listen.

If you leave, there will be nothing holding me back when we run into each other again.

I arched an eyebrow at him and then leaned over to the empty round table next to the exit and blew out the small candle sitting there. Smoke drifted up, filling the air with its pungent scent.

And without a backward glance, I left the ballroom, my brother following behind.





TWO


EASTON





Six months later


M

y brother was my best friend. Not many girls my age could say that, but it was true.

Most siblings fought at one time or another. Competition and grudges form, and you run the risk of treating each other like shit because you can. Family is family after all, and they’ll forgive and forget.

But Jack and I never had that problem.

When we were young, we trained together and played together, and as adults, nothing had changed. He had never not wanted to be around me, and I often joked that he liked me more than I did.

And he would agree, always hinting that I was too hard on myself, but he was the same way.

It was a learned behavior in our home, and we didn’t do anything half-assed. Although at the time I’d resented our parents pushing us as hard as they did, I supposed it nurtured qualities that would help us in any field we pursued in our futures.

“Come on.” My brother heaved at my side, pulling to a stop and shaking his head at me. “Enough,” he ordered.

I halted, sucking in air as sweat soaked my back and neck.

“Two more laps,” I pushed. “You could’ve made it two more laps.”

He gulped air and walked over to the edge of the path covered by the canopy of old oaks lining the trail in Audubon Park.

“It’s August, Easton,” he bit out as he put his hands on his hips and bowed his head, trying to catch his breath. “And we live in a semitropical climate. It’s too hot for this.”

Grabbing the T-shirt out of the back of his mesh shorts, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and face.

I followed, pushing the strands of hair that had fallen out of my ponytail back over the top of my head. “Well, now you don’t get your smoothie,” I grumbled, bringing up the bribe I’d offered to get him out here on a Sunday morning.

“Screw the smoothie,” he shot back. “I should’ve stayed in bed. School is already kicking my ass, and I need the rest.”

He dropped his T-shirt to the ground and gestured toward me.

“Go on,” he urged. “Lie down.”

I walked over in front of him, knowing better than to argue. He’d had enough and wanted to get the workout over with.

I dropped to my ass and lay down with my knees bent, while he stepped on top of my toes, safe inside my sneakers, to hold me in place.

Crossing my arms over my chest and clutching my shoulders, I tightened my stomach muscles and pulled up and then shot back down until my shoulder blades hit the grass. I pulled up again, repeating the crunches over and over as my brother stood above me texting.

He was always working – texting, e-mailing, organizing – and it always had to do with school or something related to his future.

He was driven, committed, and controlled, and we were exactly alike.

According to studies, firstborn children were reliable, conscientious, and cautious, and my brother was certainly all of those. As a middle child, I was supposed to be a peacemaker and a people-pleaser with lots of friends.

I wasn’t any of those things.

The only quality I shared with other middle children was a sense of rebelliousness. However, I hardly thought that had anything to do with my birth placement and, instead, had everything to do with my youth.

While many middle children often felt as if they didn’t have an identity or anything special about them that set them apart, I, on the other hand, had had more attention than I’d deserved and had gotten tired of being under a spotlight. Tired of being special, gifted, and prized.

I wanted more – or less. However you looked at it.

I pulled up and fell back, never releasing the muscles in my abs. “I’m proud of you, you know?” I breathed out, looking up at him. “This is your year.”

“Yeah.” He smirked, his eyes still on his phone as he joked, “What do you know?”

Jack had just started his final year at Tulane Law School. Not only was he busy with classes, moot court, and the pro bono requirement for his degree, but he was also looking for an internship to get a head start in the field. He’d worked hard and deserved every inch he’d gained, never expecting anything handed to him.

“I know you’re up at four a.m. every morning to study before class.” I winced as my abs started to burn. “You refuse to date, because it’ll interfere with your studies, and you take those insipid law journals everywhere with you: the streetcar, the coffee shop, and even to the bathroom —”

“Hey —”

“You’re the hardest worker.” I continued, ignoring his embarrassed protest. “And you’re in the ninety-eighth percentile. You didn’t get there by luck.” I smiled sweetly, getting cocky. “I may get a sunburn basking in the glow of your success.”