Fragile Lives: A small-town, age-gap, brother’s best friend romance (Little Hope series Book 4)
Fragile Lives: Chapter 9

Tomorrow is the night I rid Alex of me. Meaning he’s getting married, and I will have to stop coming here to drag him down.

Today is his bachelor party. Justin wanted to go to Springfield to get strippers—I didn’t even know small towns had those—but Freya warned me before that if Alex quote “sees someone’s ass other than mine, I will hold you responsible.” By ‘you’ she meant me as she solely distinguished me as the most responsible of the bunch (a totally false assumption, but I didn’t tell her that), and I don’t want to get on her bad side—it’s never a smart idea to aggravate the significant other of your friend. Even if you’re planning on disappearing from their lives. Leave a good impression, that’s all I’m saying. So, we’re going to go to a bar to get drunk. Maybe shoot some darts and play pool. No strippers or naked asses.

By the time we get everyone together and arrive at the bar by a taxi, it’s way past seven. Kenneth assured me that local bars don’t close at two like in Boston—they serve till the last client. I open a tab under my credit card, and we do rounds and rounds of drinks.

By eleven, Justin is sleeping on the table, his face resting on his crossed hands, his not-so-gentle snoring comes in waves. Kenneth is arguing with some bearded dude by the bar, clearly trying to prove something judging by his furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. Mark isn’t here since he told Alex he’s not coming until he makes amends with his girlfriend, Justin’s sister, and it’s scheduled for Christmas eve, which is just around the corner.

Aiden wanted to come too, but he’s not twenty-one yet, so he stayed home, stewing in anger. Poor guy. As for Alex, I never thought I’d see him looking so happy. With a silly smile on his very drunk face, he leans against his chair and looks ahead without seeing anyone. Well, I bet he’s seeing Freya. Lucky fucker.

We all drank about the same amount, but they’re all lightweights, and I’m the only one who can still comprehend our surroundings.

Kenneth’s gesticulation gets more articulate, and I feel like it’s a good time to get home. I get Alex and Justin into a taxi first. They’re both huge dudes who take up the whole backseat of the regular sedan. I could drive with them in the front, but I can’t leave Benson here since he’s evidently looking for trouble. So, I pay the driver and send them home.

I call Kayla and let her know that I just sent two drunk people her way. She laughs and tells me that she’s tipsy too but ready to receive the precious cargo, and she’ll figure out how to send Alex home. Then I call the same taxi service, and they tell me they are out of cars.

“What do you mean out of cars?” I ask, dumbfounded. How can a town run out of taxi cars?

“It’s not a big city here, mister,” the dispatcher tells me with an attitude that may as well translate to ‘you’re a piece of bear shit.’ Let me tell you, I tried ordering Uber or Lyft or anything online, but there were no cars available. None. It didn’t even show one. So, I had to ask the bartender for a local taxi service, and here I am, speaking to a local taxi over the phone, and the lady sure is not happy to talk to me. That rarely happens, and I feel bummed. Charm gets me everywhere, but it’s wasted on her.

“Okay,” I sigh, thinking we should have squeezed into the car with Alex and Justin. “How long is the wait?”

“Two hours.” Even more attitude.

“Okay. Thanks.”

And then she hangs up without even seeing if I want to wait two hours. Yeah, small-town hospitality is charming.

I go back to the bar and replace Kenneth trying to prove something to the bearded dude who brought three equally bearded friends. I mentally roll my eyes at this primitive flock culture and walk to them.

“Hey.” I place a calming hand on Kenneth’s shoulder. “Everything’s okay?” I’ll never turn down a fight, but Benson is a sheriff known by a lot of people—I don’t know how it will look for him, so I try to avoid figuring it out on my watch.

“Yeah.” He looks at me, swaying a little on his feet. “What’s up?”

“There are no taxis available. Do you have anything like that in Little Hope you can call?” I ask him quietly, ensuring his new friends don’t hear me through the bar noise.

“Yeah,” he slurs and pulls his phone out of his pants. He shoots someone a message and chuckles when he gets an answer, putting the phone back in his pocket. “Taxi will be here in about ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

“So, this is your girlfriend? I see he’s wearing eyeliner.” The bearded dude cackles and turns to his friend to wait for their reaction to his joke. “Is he gay?”

I roll my eyes because it’s so ‘hilarious’ I just can’t take it—a fucking homophobe with a groundbreaking sense of humor.

“He is not.” Kenneth puffs his chest. “But even if he was, what the fuck is wrong with that?”

The bearded guy stops laughing and steps closer to Kenneth. “We don’t need faggots in this bar.”

“Oh really?” he says as he inches closer to the dude without actually touching him—smart move, man. “How about stupid ass punks like yourself and your friends?”

If I got a cent for each time I was called gay, I could build a fucking house by now. Everyone thinks I wear eyeliner—I don’t. My eyes have naturally thick lashes, and it looks like I might have eyeliner on. But even if I did wear eyeliner, what the fuck would be wrong with that? The coolest dudes who can rock like no one’s business have always worn eyeliner.

Wear whatever you want. But these guys either think differently or are just looking for a fight, because the one I assume is the leader pushes Kenneth’s chest. Benson’s gaze drops to where the man’s hands are before slowly returning to his face. A maniacal smile spreads across his lips, and I see a kindred soul. He was waiting for the guy to make the first move.

He pushes the dude in his chest and tilts his head, inviting him to make another move. The dude’s nose flares, and he charges at Ken. Three of his friends follow his lead.

I catch the first one with a fist to his solar plexus, and he doubles over, attempting to catch his breath. The second one swings at me at the same time, and I duck down, avoiding his fist to my temple. Instead, I introduce my fist to the painful spot under the ribs on his side, and he doubles over too. Yeah, graceful they are not.

The third guy tries to attack Kenneth, and I want to go and stop him because the sheriff is undeniably more intoxicated than I am, but even in his drunk state, he makes me proud by grabbing the man’s hand and bending it behind his back. He presses him into the bar as the first bearded guy rises from the floor—I missed how he ended up there—and swings at Kenneth.

And the scariest moment of my life happens. It takes two seconds, but to me, it feels like it lasts for hours.

A little figure with flaming hair jumps out of nowhere and starts hitting the bearded guy with her purse.

“Get off my brother!”

The man turns around and blindly swings at her. I make a jump to stop his hand, but before I reach them, his hand connects with her shoulder.

“Oh shit!” he yells as she stumbles back.

I don’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

She gets herself together. Her face is a mask of anger, and before she attacks him again, I lose my shit.

Before, I was collected and controlled, but now, all bets are off. I see red. Quite literally—I have tunnel vision with him as my target. He’s not leaving this place alive.

I launch at him. Shifting my body halfway through, I duck and meet his stomach with my shoulder, tackling him to the ground. He’s easily fifty pounds heavier, but he doesn’t stand a chance.

The first hit to his face results in a broken nose. I feel it shifting under my knuckles. The second hit covers my fist in blood.

I rear back to deliver a third one, but someone pulls me back. Large arms wrap around my shoulders and squeeze tight.

“Stop,” the voice says, but I see red and black only. I don’t acknowledge the person and try to break free so I can finish my task. “I said stop, Archie!”

I don’t give a shit. None. I’m on a mission.

“Stephan, stop.”

I freeze.

Her voice is like a cold bucket. My name on her lips is a soothing balm over the internal wounds I’m hiding from everyone.

I stop struggling to break free and let Kenneth pull me back. When I’m standing, I let him know with a subtle nod of my head that I’m in control again.

“You fucker! You broke my nose!” the guy on the floor yells, clutching his face in his hands. “I’m pressing charges! You all saw that, right?” He looks around, and when a few patrons hesitantly nod, he points his finger at me and adds quieter, only for me to hear, “You’re fucking done, faggot.”

“O-o-oh!” Leila suddenly yells and drops to Kenneth for support.

My heart freezes.

“My shoulder. What have you done?” She starts rubbing her awkwardly positioned shoulder.

“I—” the guy on the floor mumbles. “I—”

“My shoulder!” she cries out and hides her face in Kenneth’s chest.

My blood rushes through my body, getting ready for a fight.

She’s hurt.

She’s in pain.

He must pay. I go to lunge at him, but I’m stopped by a sudden grip on my shoulder. Kenneth’s fingers squeeze into my flesh while he gives a small shake of his head.

“It hurts so bad!” she cries into his chest, and I attempt to take deep breaths and calm myself down. I don’t know why he doesn’t let me go after him.

“So bad!” Another loud cry as her face stays hidden in his chest.

Her shoulders are shaking. She’s crying.

I go to lunge again.

“For fuck’s sake. Stop,” Kenneth mumbles, stopping me.

I give him a quizzical look but stop, keeping an eye on her the whole time.

Everyone around watches the situation unfold. The guy’s friends look lost, not knowing how to behave as he’s sitting on the floor with a bloody, broken nose.

“I’m pressing charges. You broke my nose, fucker, and you will pay for it,” he finally throws at me.

I give him a death stare, daring him to bring it on.

“Oh, it hu-u-urts!” Leila cries out again, and I tilt my head at her perfect timing.

I look at Kenneth and replace his face red, his lips pressed tight. He doesn’t look as murderous as I’d be if someone touched my sister, and she was in so much pain. Instead, he looks like he can barely hold back a laugh as his arm is wrapped around her back.

One of the man’s friends steps closer and leans over to whisper something into his ear. Beard’s eyes dart around the bar before landing on Leila, who shakes against Kenneth, crying. The same people who nodded in support of him don’t look so sure anymore.

The man clears his throat. “I mean, I guess my nose is alright.”

“Are you sure, man?” Kenneth asks. “Because I’d be happy to call the cops. My sister got hurt pretty badly.”

He looks around tensely before nodding. “Yeah, I’m ’lright.”

He takes a second to get himself together, and they scatter away from the bar. My eyes are trained on Kenneth and Leila. I want to be the one to comfort her, but I can’t, so instead of doing something stupid like going to them, pushing Benson away, and enveloping her in a hug that’ll hide her from the rest of the world, I walk to the bar and tell the bartender to close my tab.

I leave more than a generous tip—because bartenders and waiters don’t get paid enough to deal with all this bullshit—for the troubles we brought and follow Kenneth and Leila. He’s still hiding her face in his underarm as they walk.

Outside, we silently walk to her car and get inside. Kenneth goes to the back seat and plants his ass behind Leila, stretching his legs out on the seat, leaving me to take the passenger side.

When the doors are shut behind us, I demand answers.

“What the fuck was that, Benson?” I look back at him. “Why didn’t you let me go at him?”

“Because you were ready to kill him, idiot.”

“And?” I still don’t get why he stopped me.

“Wanna spend the rest of your life in jail for the murder of a homophobic asshole who doesn’t deserve the time of the day?”

“He hurt her.” I nod toward Leila as she silently watches me with wide eyes. “He deserved that. She was in pain.” I hiss the last words, and her eyes widen even more.

“He accidentally swung at her, but the hit was tiny. He didn’t do any damage.”

“She was in pain. She is in pain.” I shift my attention to her. “How is your shoulder? We need to go to the hospital.”

“I’m fine.” Her voice comes out as a squeak. I’ve never heard this tone before.

“You’re not. You were crying.” I gesture back to the bar.

“I wasn’t crying.” Her big gray eyes do two slow, adorable blinks.

“What was that, then?” I narrow my eyes.

“A performance for your benefit,” Kenneth explains with a raised brow. “And if you weren’t so engrossed in your,” he clears his throat, “feelings, you’d have seen it too.”

“What do you mean?” I look between them. I don’t think Leila’s blinked once since those two times—she just watches me, her mouth slightly ajar—as her brother stares me down.

“You attacked a man in a bar, full of patrons, and broke his nose, and it all happened in a span of a second. Not everyone saw him hitting Leila. I don’t know if anyone even did because we were standing pretty close together. So, to everyone else, you went off the rails and attacked a regular back there. Do you catch my drift?”

I shake my head.

“She pretended to be in pain, so the man would direct his attention to what he did instead of calling the cops and pressing charges.” He raises his eyebrows. “Get it now?”

“Oh.” It finally clicks.

“Yeah, oh.” He stretches his hand out and grabs a water bottle from between Leila and me. “Can we go home now? I’m too old for that shit.” With that, he leans back.

Leila snorts loudly and starts the engine. “I bet you were the one starting the fight.”

“I was not!” he exclaims, trying to hide his smile.

“Sure you weren’t.” Her light laugh tickles my chest from the inside, making me all warm and fuzzy. I write it off on the adrenaline surge. “I told you, you need to replace a woman already—you’re getting too restless,” Leila continues, unaware of the weird feeling I’m having.

“Not you too,” he groans and looks at the ceiling. “Mom has been on my ass for years now.”

“That’s because you’re clearly not getting laid enough.” She switches gears and takes off. “The whole county is terrified.”

“Stop!” he cries out, hiding his face in his hands. “I don’t need sex advice from my twelve-year-old sister.”

Leila lets out a loud snort but doesn’t respond. The atmosphere in the car is light, even though the situation a few minutes ago was anything but. Their sibling bickering worked its magic as usual.

When Kenneth leans his head back on the seat and closes his eyes, I turn to Leila.

“I saw him hitting you. It wasn’t light. Are you really okay?” I ask quietly.

She sends me a brief glance before returning her attention back to the road.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” comes her quiet reply.

I stare ahead, hoping she’s telling the truth. I can still see the moment when he swung at her, and his fist connected with her shoulder. I’m so happy it wasn’t her head because he was nearly three times her size. A hit to her head would be damaging.

When I feel hot eyes on the back of my head, I turn back expecting to meet a judgmental, warning glare, but instead, I see a sad look of understanding.

Everyone in this damn town is too understanding. Or is it just the Benson family?

The drive to Little Hope is uneventful—thank fuck. I occasionally throw looks at Leila as she tries to subtly rotate her shoulder. She’s hurt. I know she is. When we’re back, I’ll check on it.

Back at Kenneth’s place, Leila comes inside to use the bathroom. When she’s out of sight, Kenneth walks toward me. I expect another warning because he definitely saw too much, but he surprises me. Again.

“I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.” He glances at the bathroom door, looking troubled. “You should go to bed too. Today I saw something I’m not sure how I feel about. I’ll sleep on it before I decide to break your face. Night.” He slaps me on the shoulder and disappears into his bedroom.

I’m not sure how I feel about it either, but it’s not the time to stew in my feelings, so I go to the kitchen and get ice out of the fridge. Leila comes out a minute later and looks around.

“Where’s Ken?”

“Went to bed.”

“Really?” Her forehead wrinkles in surprise as she watches the bedroom door through the hallway.

“Yeah.” I chew the inside of my cheek. “Take off your sweater.”

Her brows shoot to the stratosphere, and she lets out a surprised laugh.

“Without foreplay?” Her teeth sink into her lower lip while her cheeks stretch into a smile.

“I need to take a look at your shoulder.” I try my best to hide the pinkening of my cheeks. I bet it went down to my neck. Good thing my tats cover everything.

“Oh.” Now her cheeks turn pink. “I’m fine.”

Smooth move, asshole. I could have played it off with a joke like I usually do, but for some reason, I can’t think straight knowing she’s hurt. Can’t joke. Can’t focus. But her slumped shoulders and worried lip make me reconsider, so I try something new and let the real me show.

“You are not.” I point at the chair. “Please, sit, Leila. I need to see that you’re okay.”

Her neck moves in a rough swallow at my plea, and she decides to obey. She pulls her sweater off, revealing a black cami, the straps of her lacy, red bra showing. I’m nervous, like she’s the first woman I’ve seen in her underwear, but the moment my eyes land on her shoulder, I curse.

“Yeah,” she winces, “he got me a little.”

“A little?” I grab the ice and put it into a bag before covering it with a towel and pressing it to her shoulder. “It’s a huge fuckin’ bruise, Leila.”

Her head whips to face me. “Are you British?”

Hell, I guess I let my accent slip a little. I got too emotional.

“My mother is.”

“Makes you British too. Genetics, you know.” She smiles but winces when I move the ice pack around.

“Sorry,” I murmur. She moves too much, and I grab her other shoulder to make her stand still. Her skin is warm under my touch, her breath fanning my neck—that’s how close we are. “Yes, I guess it makes me British.”

“You don’t sound too thrilled,” she notices quietly.

“It’s not something I’m exactly proud of.”

Somehow, she knows I’m not talking about my nationality, so she switches her attention to what she assumes might be a safer topic.

“Where is your dad?” Her tone is careful, probing, like with a cornered animal.

“Dead.”

“Oh.” An awkward silence. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.” I take the ice pack off and see that the bruise has settled. There’s nothing much I can do at this point.

But I press the ice back on and hold her shoulder with my other hand, unwilling to let her go just yet.

“You should have let me go at him,” I complain as I see the color it’s taking.

“It wouldn’t change the fact that my shoulder was already hurt. If you were let loose, you’d end up hurting yourself and me more.”

I rear back, shocked to my very core. “I would never hurt you.”

“Hurting yourself would hurt me.” She shrugs and pulls her shoulder away from the ice. “I’m cold; it should be good now.”

“Yeah.” I drop the ice on the table but don’t step away. She doesn’t either.

“I was scared for you when your face changed.”

“My face changed?” I repeat, confused.

“Yeah,” she nods and licks her lips, “your face went blank. You know, like you weren’t even there. I didn’t like it.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I make a move to back away, but she grabs my forearm and stops me.

“I wasn’t scared of you, I was scared for you,” she whispers, her eyes focused on mine.

I look at her—she’s so much smaller and so much younger. Her light is bright, and I’m too dark for her. No matter how much I want to bathe in the rays of her sunshine, I have to step away just so I won’t overshadow it with my darkness.

Alex was right; I have too much baggage for someone like her. The temptation is too strong, she is too desirable, and I just know that she easily can be that reason for me. The reason to live. But I can’t do that to her. I’m the definition of toxic at its worst. Eventually, I’ll dim that light in her eyes, and we’ll both hate me.

So, I take a step back and gently remove my hand from her arm.

“You shouldn’t have been. You don’t know me enough to worry.” Another step back. “You should go home, Leila. Keep icing your shoulder and go see a doctor if it still hurts tomorrow.”

Her face changes: her little nostrils flare, and her lips turn thin. She grabs her sweater and pulls it back on before grabbing her purse and marching away, sending me an evil look on the way out.

“Coward,” she says under her breath as she passes me.

I can’t even blame her. I am a coward, but sending her away was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.