Misconduct(9)

He rolled his eyes and stepped off my toes, dropping to the ground himself. We both turned to get on our hands and toes, immediately dropping and rising for push-ups.

We worked out together at least once a week, although it was usually more than that. Between finishing my degree and graduating last May and Jack’s demanding schedule, we had no set days or times, but we made it a point to keep each other motivated.

My brother had never really been an athlete, but he’d grown up helping me train, so exercise was as much a part of his life as it was mine.

“I love you, you know?” He stared at the ground beneath him as he dropped down and pushed back up. “I should say it more.”

I stopped and turned, sitting on my ass as I peered over at him.

He did the same, resting his forearms on his knees and looking solemn.

“It was hard growing up with you, Easton,” he told me, staring off in front of him, looking somber. “All the attention, the way our parents prioritized our lives around you…” He trailed off, stopping short, and I knew what he wasn’t saying.

Our parents had loved all three of their children – him, me, and our younger sister, Avery – but he knew and I knew, even though it was never talked about at the time, that I came first. My rising tennis career took precedence over everything.

Jack and Avery couldn’t take any extracurricular activities if it interfered with my training schedule, and they’d had to sit through countless matches, invisible because our parents’ eyes were always on me. Only me.

My brother shouldn’t have been my best friend. He should’ve resented me.

He popped up off the ground and reached out, offering me a hand. I took it and let him pull me up, my body vibrating with fatigue.

“You never let it go to your head, though,” he allowed. “You always acted like Avery and I were just as important.”

“Of course you were,” I stated without hesitation as I dusted off my shorts.

“Yeah, well, our parents didn’t always think so.” He sighed. “Thanks for letting me have this,” he said, referring to our choice to move to New Orleans five years ago, so he could attend Tulane, “and thanks for letting me feel like a big brother for a change.”

I laughed, raising my fists and jabbing at him. “Yeah, you’re capable of it sometimes,” I teased in a light voice.

“Sometimes?” He held up his palms so I could slap at them. “I’m three years older than you, Pork Chop.”

“Only physically.” I shrugged. “According to studies, men trail women in maturity by eleven years.”

He jabbed back, and I blocked, pushing his thick arm off to the side and seeing him stumble.

“You and your statistics,” he complained. “Where did you read that?”

“The Internet.”

“Ah, the infinite abyss of reliable information.” He threw a few more slow punches, and I bobbed and ducked as we danced in a circle.

“Why don’t you try getting out of your apartment and testing those theories out on your own?” he challenged.

I hooded my eyes, annoyed. “I get out of my apartment.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “For work. Or with me. Or when you’re on the prowl.”

I inhaled an angry breath, jabbing him harder and finally catching him in the chest.

He grunted. “Ouch.”

And then shit got real.

He straightened, steeling his body and moving in, punching faster and making me duck, swerve, and sweat.

On the prowl? He knew he shouldn’t have made a dig at me.

Everything else could be Jack’s business. We didn’t make decisions without the other’s input, and when our world had fallen apart five years ago, I’d let him hold my hand from time to time to make him feel useful, but my sex life was the one thing I kept private.

Most of the time I stayed so busy that I didn’t miss men. And I certainly had no interest in inviting one into my life for anything long-term.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried, but I didn’t like messy and unpredictable, and relationships made me feel caged.

But once in a while I started to miss being touched. I missed being close to someone and being wanted. Even if just for a night.

So I’d go out and get it out of my system and then come home, my feathers smooth again. Sometimes it was a “friend” who didn’t have any more of an interest in a relationship than I did, but occasionally, when I wanted to push the envelope for extra excitement, it was someone new.

Someone unknown.

“I mean, at the very least,” my brother complained, “try taking an actual self-defense class instead of testing out moves on me that you learned from YouTube.”

I grabbed his hand and bent his arm at the wrist, making him hunch over with the pain. His face twisted, and I stepped up to him, gloating.

“You don’t like being my tackling dummy?” I taunted, adding pressure to his wrist.

He twisted his lips in annoyance, and before I knew what had happened, he’d grabbed my leg out from under me and pushed me down onto the ground. I crashed to my ass, pain spreading up to my hips and down my thighs.

He shot down, coming to bend over me and pin my neck to the ground with his hand.

I squirmed and tried to pry out of his grip, but it wasn’t working. I could feel my face tighten and rush with blood. I probably looked like a tomato.