Well shit. I guess there’s another instrument I can add to our band—unfortunately this one didn’t bring me pleasure.

Colton scrubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw, so out of his element right now, uncomfortable at having to give advice to a female.

“Dude, you’re not George Clooney or Jason Statham so that look went out last year. Time to shave,” I tease, trying to ease his uneasiness, and at least I get a chuckle from him.

“You know you’re kind of being a bitch when I just stopped by because I’m worried about you.”

And that comment right there knocks the snarky wind from my sails because he’s right, I’m being an ass because I’m hurt. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I blow out a breath and watch my fingers tracing the pattern on the couch. “This is just …”

“What happened?” he asks, scooting to the edge of his chair.

“I was the stake in a bet.”

“Excuse me?” The pitch of his voice escalates and his posture changes instantly, going into full-force protective brother mode. I cringe; I didn’t want to go there with him, but I want to confide in him at the same time. “His name.” It’s not a question.

“Hawkin Play,” I say ever so quietly but Colton does a double take when he hears the name.

“As in lead singer of Bent, Hawkin Play?” I just nod. “Shit, I liked their music too. Dare I ask what the bet was?” He’s feeling me out and I just sigh.

“No, you don’t want to know.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he growls, the muscle in his jaw pulsing as he tries to rein in the rage for my sake. “I don’t need to ask…. I’m a guy. I can imagine….” His voice trails off as I watch him struggle with the dueling emotions, to sympathize with me through anger or through comfort. I just nod when his gaze meets mine, saying yes to all of the above. “You know I’m going to kick his ass now, right?”

That first day I drove Hawke home flashes through my mind, when he commented that my brother must have gotten in a lot of fights protecting my virtue. The irony.

I don’t say anything, just keep watching my fingers trace the fabric aimlessly. “You really like him, don’t you?” The solemnity and compassion in his voice make my heart swell. My lack of an answer is one in itself. “Shit, Q, if Rylee were here she’d say some shit like ‘Never give up on someone that you can’t go a day without thinking about.’”

I groan, as that’s the last thing I want to hear. “And you’d say?” I lift my eyes to meet his.

“Fuck, I suck at this shit.”

“Yes you do, but other than ‘what’s his address’ so you can go knock his teeth out”—Colton’s face lights up at that comment—“I want to know what advice you’d give me. Please.”

He rolls his eyes and it looks so out of place on the badboy thing he has going. He leans forward and places his elbows on his knees as he twists his lips in thought. And I have to admit it’s pretty damn cute that he’s actually being serious and thinking of some big-brotherly advice.

“You really like the guy?” he asks.

“Yeah, I do,” I murmur without even having to think about it, sadness once again owning my heart.

“Even though he fucked with you?” He stares deep within me, and even though I’m ashamed about the situation, I can’t turn off my feelings.

“Mm-hmm.” I want to avert my eyes, feeling ashamed, but I know Colton won’t pass judgment on me since he’s done a whole helluva lot worse than still care for someone who’s wronged him.

“Look, the way I see it, trust is kind of like a piece of paper. Once you wad it up, tear it, mark it … sure you can fix it, flatten it out, tape it together, do what-the-fuck-ever to it, but it will never be perfect again…. So the question you need to ask yourself is can you live with the marks on the paper? Can you move forward knowing it’s imperfect from here on out?”

I stare at my brother, so dumbfounded by him right now that if I didn’t love him madly already, I would in this moment. His words are so poignant and hit home in places so deep inside me that my mind starts to whirl with thoughts I’d shoved away.

“But fuck, what do I know? I’m just a guy,” he says, suddenly uncomfortable. “Just”—his voice fades off as he tries to figure out what to say—“whatever you decide, just make sure it’s right for you, you know? Look at me—I’ve been crumpled up, thrown away, and taped back together more times than I care to count, but Ry’s okay with that. She says it makes me imperfectly perfect, whatever the fuck that means, so I guess it must be good,” he says with a smirk. I knew his arrogance wouldn’t be held at bay for too long.

“Perfect belongs nowhere near your name,” I deadpan, having to knock him down off his pedestal some.

“You’re just jealous,” he says before he falls silent again as he studies me. “You okay?”

“Better now, yeah. Thank you, Colton.”

“Sure, whatever,” he says, shrugging off the compliment and rising from the couch. He walks a few feet forward and stops in front of me. “If you decide to give this guy another chance … I plan on having a little chat with him. You need to know that ahead of time, okay? Because I don’t want you giving me any shit when I show him the long walk off a short pier I’ll be giving him if he fucks with you again.”

I nod my head in agreement with a soft smile on my face. God, I love my brother. He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “Thank you.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I will be.”

“Okay, I’ve got to get into the office,” he says, starting toward the door. “Ry said to call her so you guys can do the girlie shit together. That it’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay, sure.”

“And lock the door behind me,” he reminds me since I always forget.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I tell him as I sink back into the couch when the door slams shut.

I want to pull the blanket over my head and hide, want to grab my keys and drive to see him, but know I need to flat iron the damn piece of paper and see if I can live with the creases I can’t get out first.



Chapter 32


QUINLAN

I’ve showered.

At least I can add that to my list of accomplishments for the day. My head hurts from the significant quantity of wine and ice cream consumed last night. The problem is Hawkin’s ruined ice cream for me. Sitting there eating it straight from the container with Layla made me more depressed, which led to more wine, which led to more ice cream.

Thank God it’s the one day I don’t have to be on campus for class or TA sessions. I’ve made a resolution to throw myself into my thesis and not come up for air until I have the first draft completely finished to turn in on Friday.

I’m burying my head in the sand by getting up late, blaming it on the wine headache that’s no longer present, but I’m also pretending that I don’t remember that today is Hawke’s hearing and possible sentencing. I hate that I want to be there for him, hate that I’m still mad at him, hate that I am still falling deeper in love with him.

I guess it’s true when they say instead of overlooking faults, love sees through them and to the hidden parts inside. Whoever they are need to consider that it still sucks trying to figure your way around them.

Colton’s brotherly advice won’t stop running an endless loop through my mind. Thoughts about trust and crumpled paper, being perfectly imperfect, and whether the risk to lay my heart on the line is worth it, consume my thoughts even as I pull out my research papers.

Focus, Westin. Focus.

The knock on my door pulls me from my scattered thoughts, and I immediately get my hopes up that it’s Hawkin while at the same time groaning because I don’t want it to be him. But wait, it can’t be him because he has a court hearing shortly. I don’t want to care, want to shut my mind off but know it’s no use. With my papers still perfectly neat and untouched, I head to the door wondering who is there.

Before I even look through the peephole, I’m mad at myself for wanting it to be Hawke and then I’m confused because even if it was, I wouldn’t respond anyway. Or maybe I would give in once I saw him face-to-face. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m surprised at who stands on my porch.

Through the lens of the peephole I take in his buttoned-up shirt and clean-shaven face before unlocking the door and opening it. “Hi?”

“Hey, Quin,” Vince says cautiously, eyes studying my reaction to his unexpected appearance. “Sorry for just showing up, but … I got your address from Hawke’s phone….” His voice fades off midexplanation, and I can see him trying to figure out how to say whatever he’s come to say. He’s obviously uncomfortable, and I’m unsure whether it’s because he’s here clearly butting into Hawke’s and my business or because he saw me naked and coming the other night.

I definitely know the reason why I’m shifting my feet back and forth in unease.

“You clean up nice. Hot date?” I ask to try to break up the awkwardness, and no sooner than the words are out of my mouth does it dawn on me why he’s dressed so nicely. “I … Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. This was a knee-jerk thing to do on the way to the courthouse … but I had to say some things to you.” The gravity in his tone is unexpected and has me immediately curious.

“Come in.”

“Just for a minute,” he says as he walks past me. I lead him into the family room, watching him check everything out. “Nice place you got here.”

“Thanks. Is there anything I can get you?” I ask, manners prevailing despite suddenly being nervous.

“Nah,” he says, but remains standing when I motion for him to sit. We stand, staring at each other for a moment. “Look, I don’t even know where to start other than to say I’m really sorry.” He blows out a breath and goes to run his fingers through his hair but stops when he remembers it’s stiff with gel. “The whole bet thing … at first it was a joke … and then as I started seeing how Hawke was being with you … I kind of forced the issue to try to make him see shit about himself…. It was too convenient—you being there was too convenient and made it easier for me to force the issue. I … Shit, I’m sorry.” Despite his fast-paced ramble, his last words are barely audible, but the regret laced with shame in his voice tugs at parts of me. So many questions whirl and race through my mind, and there’s a tangled mix of emotions that I can’t put my finger on except for one: anger.