Just Between Us: MMF Bisexual Romance Page 4

  But then I tell myself that I still have Keith, too. He’s been a part of my life for a long time, and he’s been the only father I’ve ever known. He might not be blood, but that doesn’t matter.

  “Did you?” I ask.

  “Did I what?”

  “Grieve your own way?”

  His eyes darken and his frown deepens. “No,” he confesses, “I kept shit in. The only one who saw any of that from me was Trevor.”

  “He’s a good friend,” I say absently, “It was nice of him to come to the funeral.”

  “He was there for you, too,” Jackson says quietly, “Not just me.”

  There’s something almost wistful to his tone, and I can’t make any sense of it. “Does it bother you?” I ask him.

  He gives me a puzzled look.

  “Me and Trevor. I know that when we all talked, I was kind of a bitch about it. I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “You were right, though. I don’t have any kind of authority over who you date. Or who he dates. And I mean, if I want to pull the “protective sibling” shit, I don’t really have a leg to stand on, because he’s a damn good guy,” he laughs.

  I smile. “Yeah, he is.”

  “So I mean, I guess it’s a little weird, but I can’t complain as long as you two are good to each other,” he says, leaning against the wall,

  There are a dozen emotions on his face that I can’t decipher, and I want to understand, but I don’t know what questions to ask. It almost sounds like he’s…jealous?

  The thought brings reality crashing back down around me again. It feels wrong, to be smiling and talking about my dating life. Jackson sees the change in my expression. “You ok?”

  “Um. Yeah, I’m just-“ suddenly the walls of the house that felt so huge and empty before feel too confining, like they’re closing in, “I need some air.”

  I push past him out the front door, and before I even know what I’m doing, I’m running.

  “Veronica!” Jackson calls after me, but I just keep going.

  I’m grateful that I opted for the flats I’m wearing and not a pair of heels, but even so, it’s hard to manage, so I pause and slip them off so I can keep going.

  Gravel digs into the soles of my feet, protected only by black pantyhose that shred in moments, but I can’t stop. Some weird, unseen force is driving me forward, propelling me as far from the house as I can get.

  I don’t know how long I run, but I finally start to slow when the burning in my lungs is more than I can bare. The feet of my stockings are completely destroyed, the tatters around my ankles, and the bottoms of my feet are filthy, with a small cut bleeding on my left heel.

  There’s a bench nearby and I plunk down, chest heaving. My dark hair clings to my sweaty skin and my heartbeat pounds in my ears, but I’m so focused on the way my body feels that I can’t think about anything else, and it’s a relief.

  I’ve never been a physical person like this, preferring to pour my heart out into art, but for the first time, it feels good just to give in. But I could use a fucking drink.

  I look around, trying to figure out where the hell I am, and I don’t recognize it. It’s kind of a seedy little area, but down the street a little ways is the neon sign of a nightclub glowing dully in the late afternoon light.

  I slip my shoes back on and trudge down the street, telling myself that I’m just going to grab some water and then head home.

  I duck into the bathroom and peel off my tattered hose and after wiping some of the dirt and blood from my feet with a damp paper towel, I slip my flats back on over my bare feet and make my way out to the bar.

  My calves are burning from the run, and by the time I reach the bar, the endorphins are fading away, leaving me definitely feeling the effects of my crazy sprint on my body.

  But after I plunk my credit card down on the bar, the bartender, a brunette named Summer, is happy to replace those endorphins with something that’ll numb me up just as well.

  Shot after shot of vodka goes down all too easy. I sit at the bar and I don’t feel a thing, and I’m wondering if I should order another, when I turn my head and the whole room spins. Just like that, it’s like my body suddenly becomes aware of all the liquor in my system, like I’ve cracked a glow stick and now it’s spreading through my body.

  Can’t feel pain when you can’t cobble together a coherent thought, right?

  When I slide off my barstool to go to the restroom, I nearly lose my feet out from under me. My muscles are shaky from the unexpected run, but with the liquor numbing me up, I can’t feel the ache, just the wobbliness.

  By some miracle, I manage to keep my feet as I stagger to the bathroom. My head spins, but it’s pleasant. I haven’t hit the tipping point where the spinning makes my stomach lurch, just that giddy lightheadedness.

  I’ve never been in a bar alone like this, and even in my inebriated state, some warning alarm is going off in the back of my mind, so I rummage around for my phone, gleefully tugging it out of the pocket of my dress.

  “There is nothing better than a dress with a pocket,” I say aloud to no one as I try and swipe the little password pattern onto my screen.

  I ignore the missed call notifications and flip through my contacts, not even sure who I’m thinking of calling. But my mother’s name pops up on the screen and it’s like an ice-cold shock to my system, an unwelcome feeling that suddenly sharpens my fuzzy mind in a way I don’t want. I scroll past hurriedly, but before I can decide who to call, the screen changes and it buzzes in my hand.

  Jackson’s name flashes on my caller ID and I giggle. It’s fate intervening, right? I couldn’t figure out who to call and he calls me?

  It’s stupid, but in the moment, it seems so serendipitous that I’m giggling hysterically. I swipe the phone to answer. “Hello?”

  “Veronica, where are you?”

  “Has anyone ever told you you have a sexy phone voice?” I giggle.

  Jackson pauses for a moment, caught off guard, but ignores me. “Where the hell did you go? I tried to go after you, but you had already turned a corner or something and I lost track of you.”

  “I dunno,” I mumble, trying to think of which way I had gone, “I think I went South. For the winter. Like a bird,” another giggle erupts out of me.

  “You’re fucking plastered,” he sighs.

  “Kind of a whole lot,” I agree, “My legs are all noodly.”

  “Do you know where you are now?” he asks.

  He sounds angry, and for some reason, that sends me spiraling and tears fill my eyes. “Don’t be mad,” I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not mad at you, Veronica,” he says, his voice softening, “I’m worried about you. Can you please figure out where you are so I can come get you?”

  “There was an alley, and now I’m in this bar,” I mumble.

  “What bar?”

  “I don’t know,” I push my way out of the bathroom and look around for a sign or anything.

  There’s a napkin on the floor and I carefully crouch to retrieve it. I have to squint to get my eyes to focus, but I find the name printed on the napkin. “I’m at “Club Ecst-Est. Fuck, I can’t pronounce it. Hang on.” I make my way back to the bar and lean over. “Excuse me!” I call.

  Summer turns. “What’s up, hon?” she asks, offering me a friendly smile.

  “Can you help me? I cannot pronounce the name of this place,” I tell her, offering her my phone, “And my ride needs to know where I am.”

  Summer smiles warmly and takes the phone from my hand. “Not to worry, I’ve got you, ok?” she puts the phone to her ear. “Hello? Hi, my name is Summer, Veronica is here with me at Club Ecstasia. Yes. No, she’s ok, don’t worry. Yes, I will,” she rattles off an address, then passes the phone back to me.

  “Hello?”

  “Ok, V, I’m on my way. Just hang tight, get yourself a glass of water, and I’ll be right there, ok?”

  “Ok.”

  He hangs up and I ret
urn to my barstool. I know I should take his advice and just get some water, but water isn’t making me feel better, so I request another shot. Summer hesitates, even when I remind her that my ride is coming anyway. Finally, she agrees to make me a drink, but insists that I let her surprise me with something.

  She returns with a small glass of something. A sip reveals it to be an incredibly weak rum and coke. So weak, in fact, that I’m convinced she didn’t actually put any liquor in the drink itself, but just dribbled some in the straw to trick me with the taste. But I don’t complain.

  When Jackson arrives, I’m back in my happy place, and the vodka shots from earlier are taking me to a place where I’m even less coherent than before. He sees the dregs in the glass sitting in front of me and frowns. “I thought I told you to have some water,” he growls.

  “What makes you the boss of me?” I retort.

  I know it’s about the most childish rebuttal in the world, but I don’t care. It’s none of his fucking business.

  But to my surprise, rather than backing down, he simply turns to the bartender and asks for a glass of water and to close out my tab.

  “Who said I was done?” I ask him, annoyed.

  “I did,” he snarls, shocking me into silence, “I know I said to grieve your own way, but I didn’t mean for you to go off and do something stupid.”

  The words are like a slap in the face. I know it was a stupid choice, but to hear it from Jackson’s mouth just makes it sting, and I feel like a scolded child, which I know I probably deserve.

  So I fall silent, and when Summer slides the glass across to me, I meekly take a drink. Jackson sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It just scared the hell out of me to see you just take off and disappear like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him quietly.

  “It’s ok,” he says, resting a hand on my shoulder, “I get it. But you don’t have to deal with all of this alone.”

  I can feel the heat of his skin even through my sleeve, and that warmth feels even better than the warmth the liquor had filled me with.

  When I finish my water, Jackson helps me to my feet. “Come on.”

  He slips an extra $20 across the bar to Summer. “Thanks for taking care of her,” he tells her.

  Summer frowns. “If I were really taking care of her, I would have noticed before she got this bad.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not your fault,” I insist.

  Jackson nods. “She’s right. It’s not.”

  “Well, thanks. You guys take care, ok?” the look on her face tells me that she really does care, and that she’s worried and feels bad for serving me so many.

  “We will. Thank you,” Jackson says again.

  He leads me out to the car, and while I’m still stumbling, his presence steadies me in more ways than one.

  Chapter 8

  Jackson

  “Wait,” Veronica asks, sitting up in her seat and looking around. “I know where we are now, but we’re going the wrong way.”

  “No we aren’t. We’re not going home.”

  “Wait, why not?”

  I don’t want to admit to her that I don’t want Dad to see her like this. For the most part, she’s been trying her fucking hardest to keep her shit together in front of him, and I’m worried that seeing Veronica melt down like this is only going to stress him out further.

  But before I can answer, she looks at me, as if taking in my appearance for the first time since I’d scraped her off that barstool. “You know, you look pretty hot when you’re all dishelv-disheev-“

  “Disheveled?” I ask, stifling a laugh.

  “Yes!” she crows triumphantly, “That!”

  “Thanks, I think?” I laugh.

  “You’re always hot, though. Is that fucked up to say?” the question sounds more directed at herself than me, so I don’t respond.

  “It probably is,” she says after a pause, “But I don’t know. Are we even still related anymore? I don’t know how that works, maybe you’re just free of me now.”

  Sadness laces through her voice and I glance at her. “Hey, what makes you think that’s what I want?”

  She doesn’t answer, and I reach over and rest my hand on her knee. “Look, you may not exactly feel like a little sister to me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

  “What do I feel like to you?” she asks.

  I glance over at her again, and to my surprise, her gaze remains steadily on my face, and she seems a little more lucid than she has since I got her.

  “I…I don’t know,” I admit with a sigh.

  We finally reach our destination and we park. “Wait, where are we?” she asks, looking around again.

  “Just come with me,” I instruct, then get out of the car.

  I make my way around to her side and help her out, but fortunately she seems to be coming around a little and she’s a little steadier on her feet. “Whose house is this?” she asks as I lead her up the walkway.

  I don’t answer her and instead just press the doorbell. I’m not even sure he’s home, but it’s this or a hotel.

  Footsteps approach and I hear the scrape of the lock turning before the door swings open. “Jackson? Veronica? What are you guys doing here? Is everything ok?”

  “Trevor?” Veronica looks at me, confused, “You brought me here?”

  “Hey, Trev, you mind if we hang out for a bit?” I ask him, shooting glances at her and trying to signal that I’ll need to talk to him out of her hearing range.

  “Um, yeah, sure, come on in,” Trevor replies, looking baffled and concerned.

  I get Veronica situated on the couch and tell her I’ll be right back with more water for her, gesturing for Trevor to follow me into the kitchen. Once we’re out of range, I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to take her. She’s completely hammered and she’s kind of spiraling, and I don’t know if Dad should see her like this right now, he’s having a tough time with everything.”

  “That’s totally fine, you guys are both more than welcome to crash here,” Trevor says immediately, “I mean, if you want.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her,” I say, raking a hand through my hair, “Thanks.”

  He reaches out and touches my arm. “Of course. What about you? Are you all right?”

  I shrug. “I’m doing ok. I didn’t know her all that well.”

  “I know that, but I also know that you’re still trying to deal with losing everything back home, and now on top of trying to get your own shit back in order, you’re trying to help your dad and your stepsister keep it together. It’s a lot to handle.”

  I hadn’t really thought about it, honestly. Yeah, I was still in the process of house-hunting online and replacing documents, furniture, everything I could possibly imagine, but somehow that had fallen by the wayside. I had been half-assing it for a while, though. Even before Linda’s death, because the truth is, that wasn’t the main thing distracting me.

  It was these confusing fucking feelings not only for Trevor, but now for Veronica, too. The more time I spent with my “stepsister”-if that’s even what she was now-the more time I wanted to.

  That’s what’s been getting to me the most. It’s so draining to see everything you want, every day, right in front of you, and know that you can’t have it. It’s like I’ve been starving, and now suddenly someone is offering me the two most delectable meals my mind can conjure, but telling me that they’re poisoned.

  No matter what I choose, some part of me is losing.

  “You in there?”

  Trevor’s voice stirs me from my stupor and I look up. “Yeah, sorry,” I say, then let out a sigh and scrub my hands over my face, “You’re right, there’s just a lot…”

  Trevor pats my shoulder and I meet his gaze. His touch stirs something in me and I desperately want to make a move, to taste his lips again, but I can’t do that. I’m comfortable with who I am, and I don’t give a
fuck about my sexuality, but Trevor clearly isn’t there yet, and I can’t cross that line and push him.

  His gaze lingers on mine for a long moment, and for just a second, I swear he starts to lean in, but suddenly he clears his throat and looks away. “We should get back in there, make sure she’s ok.”

  “Right,” I nod, “Um, where are your glasses?”

  “Cabinet to the left of the sink.”

  I reach in and pull out a glass. He’s got one of those refrigerators with the ice machine and water dispenser built in, so I fill the glass on the door before following him back out to check on Veronica.

  She’s pulled some sort of stylus for her phone out, and she’s got some sort of program open that she’s doodling in. The sketch on the tiny screen is surprisingly detailed; I can immediately see that it’s a man’s face.

  Or, rather, two men’s faces. The left half features Trevor’s fuller lips and wider eyes, whereas the right half is like looking into a black-and-white mirror, with my own sharp jaw and cheekbones prominently featured.

  Even in its rudimentary state, the sketch is impressive. It’s like she’s managed to bring some of our essence even into the simplest lines.

  “How are you this talented even when you’re hammered?” I ask her in awe.

  She looks up, not realizing that we were both looking over her shoulder, and she quickly tucks her phone away. “I was just doodling. Scribbles.” She insists.

  “Bullshit,” Trevor replies, but there’s no malice in it.

  He reaches over her shoulder and plucks the phone out of her hands, turning it over. She hadn’t locked the screen, and the sketch is still brightly displayed. “This is really incredible,” he marvels.

  “You should see her bedroom,” I tell him.

  He glances at me, and I realize that that probably sounded funny. “The walls, I mean,” I add quickly, “They’re all done up in this incredible mural.”

  I hand Veronica the glass of water and she downs it thirstily. I’m glad to see it, and I’m hoping if I keep pumping enough water in her, she’ll avoid at least the worst of any hangover. But then again, she’s only 21, she probably bounces back quickly.