Honey Red (2 page)

“Hey!” He startled when she stuck her hand not currently holding a lit cigarette under the covers to grip his morning erection. “Cut that out…um…yeah.” He leaned back, giving into the pure physical pleasure of her palm on his flesh. “Shit.” He moaned and let it happen. Why not? His life was over anyway. Thirty-three years old, no college degree, thanks to an injury early in his career as forward for a Division 1 basketball school. Not a fucking thing to show for it but a string of useless jobs and a shitty apartment over a tourist shop on the main street of Beaufort. He had never felt more miles from his home. The chasm between him and anything resembling his original life plan or his twin brother—one of the two people in the universe whose opinion he valued, and who must by now figure him for a useless waste of time and space – was gaping at his feet.

“Come on girl, better climb up here,” he growled as he yanked her slight form across his hips. He ached for a connection, any connection, even one with this slightly bizarre sylph of a girl, covered in tattoos and attitude, whose jet-black hair draped down around his face as she took him inside her with a shift of her hips. They sighed in unison and moved as one. The tight glove of her body held him, different from the man whose company and body he’d so recently enjoyed, but no less pleasing. She grinned, bit his lower lip and ground against his pubic bone drawing his body close to the edge and fogging his brain with lust.

He gripped her hips, shoved his tongue between her lips, tasted booze, tobacco, and pot. He let himself be drowned out by the need to fuck, to be connected to something more than his own self-loathing.

“Ooohh, baby, yeah,” she squirmed, reaching over and giving him unimpeded access to one small, rock hard nipple. He lapped at it, loving the way her body reacted to him then sucked in a full breath of the joint she held to his lips. “Fuck me like you mean it,” she whispered, before lowering her lips to his.

The next few months were even more of a blur, if that were possible. Ian barely remembered the breaks between them. Carrie kept him in a whirlwind of alcohol, drugs and kinky sex. And he worked behind the bar as his life disintegrated even as he watched, seemingly from the sidelines. A call from his twin brother Gavin surprised him at one point, making him pause and take a look around at the wreck of his apartment as if seeing it through the other man’s disapproving eyes.

“Thanksgiving, Ian. Remember? The holiday? Family?”

Ian ran a hand down his face, grabbed a cigarette, lit it, then put it out, remembering he only really liked the taste of tobacco on Carrie’s lips. He tried very hard not to groan aloud. He was sinking deep, doing nothing more than serving beer and barely paying the bills, hardly making a dent in society. He loved and hated his brother at the same time for calling.

“Whatever, Gavin. We might make it up, but, you know, Friday is a work day for some of us.” He hated the shitty tone of his voice and wished his twin would read between his lines, reach down from his lofty successful perch and beat some sanity into him.

“Ian.” Gavin’s voice was low, muted. Ian winced. He should be careful what he wished for. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“If I make it up there, Carrie is coming with me.” While part of him wanted nothing more than to ditch her, run as far and as fast as he could, the other part was flat out terrified at the thought of facing his successful brother, model-gorgeous sister-in-law and their twin boys all in the soul-destroying Detroit suburbs without Carrie as a barrier. God, he was pathetic. “Take it or leave it,” he spit out, needing to end the conversation.

“You are both welcome and you know it.” Gavin’s voice ran its usual superior chalkboard fingernail down his spine—fucking asshole. The two of them were fraternal twins, as close as brothers could ever be, but Gavin was somehow just that much better at whatever they did—sports, school, girls, life. “Please come up, Ian. I…I need to see you.”

Ian gulped, fiddled with the Marlboro unfiltered Carrie preferred. Gavin’s tone of voice made him nervous. He leaned back ignoring the complete chaos of dirty clothes, filthy dishes, full ashtrays, and empty booze bottles. He could practically smell the cleanliness of his brother’s ordered, flawless life. It made his throat close up with fury. “What do you need me for, Gavin? I’m the loser twin, remember? Somebody’s got to do it.”

“Quit whining,” Gavin said. “And don’t be so fucking judgmental. Just…come up here. I need to talk to you.”

“Whatever. I’ll let you know after I talk to Carrie.” He insisted, as if it mattered. Carrie was like a wind sprite. She would go wherever she pleased and whenever. Nothing he said or did or told her mattered. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. “Gotta go.” He touched the end call button before he said something stupid like “help me” or “can I come live with you and get out of his hell?”

“Ian,” Carrie’s voice grated on every nerve he possessed. “Ian, come on. Let’s go….”

He plucked her irritating palm off his thigh and stood up from his place at the large table, smiled at his nephews who watched him with blank expressions, and waved at his bitch of a sister-in-law. He stared down into Carrie’s dark, wide, pot-addled stare. Trying very hard to focus, he gritted his teeth and suppressed the loud yell of frustration.

Gavin’s dark blue eyes flickered from Ian to Carrie and back again. Ian realized how psycho she must appear. He narrowed his gaze and grabbed his rocks glass. “Leave me alone,” he stated to everyone and no one in particular. The woman he’d driven eighteen hours with in order to attend this utter joke of a fake family-bonding dinner just sat, unmoving. His sister-in-law’s made-up face and six-days-a-week workout body made his palms itch to smack the smug look off her fucking face. His mother was there, too, completing the circle of mortification. She merely kept eating, ignoring the potential scene unfolding between her sons.

How in the hell had he gotten here? An adult man working for tips and hourly wages with zero to show for it but a doped-up, sex-fiend girlfriend whom he didn’t even really like. He sucked back Gavin’s expensive bourbon and stalked out to the deck, letting the ice-cold familiar Michigan November air wash across his boiling hot face. The chest clenching, head pounding fury at his brother dissipated leaving behind an aching black hole of remorse and regret. He leaned on the deck rail, pulling on an illicit cigarette, blowing the smoke out onto the coiffed lawn. Fuck Gavin and his fucking suburban life—he had to get out of here.

When he turned, he came face to face with his brother. The other man’s face was grim. “Give me that thing,” Gavin held out a hand.

Ian passed the unfiltered smoke to him. Gavin sucked on it as if it contained the last oxygen on earth. Ian watched, fascinated, sensing a meltdown of epic proportions and one he didn’t own for a change. He leaned on his elbows and let Gavin work the cig down to a nub before staring at it, then tossing it down to the grass. They both watched it go.

“Well,” Ian said, turning to his twin. “Grow our balls back did we, my brother?”

“Getting a divorce,” Gavin said, his voice hoarse.

Ian took a step back, truly shocked. Sadness flooded his few remaining sober molecules. He put a hand on Gavin’s shoulder, but the other man shrugged it off. “Thought I might be able to salvage it, but…” he shrugged. “Got any more of those?” he nodded towards Ian’s pockets. “Trade ya,” he held up the bourbon bottle.

Together they smoked the pack, drank the bottle and wobbled into the house after midnight to find it dark and quiet. Ian brushed his teeth, washed his face, and slid between the zillion thread count sheets of the guest room, still shocked to his core by the news Gavin had laid on him. Carrie rolled and draped an arm over his bare torso, then snaked her hand down his body. He shoved her away, needing to process the whole thing alone. She’d been a drunken idiot the whole time as usual. He closed his eyes and vowed to cut her loose. She was no good for him. He needed a different set of priorities that did not include fucking her silly and getting high every night.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, her boozy breath making him wince and sit up, staring at her. She let the sheet slip, revealing a small, taut nipple. He bit his lip against the hurricane of emotion that overtook him. “But don’t worry, lover,” she ran her hand under the sheet once more, grabbing his limp cock. He leapt out of her reach, chest heaving in panic.

“What do you mean don’t worry,” he demanded, unsure what he was asking and why he even cared, but aware of his scalp prickling and his face flushing with something like anger. “You…you’re…shit.” He ran a hand down his face.

“Yeah, well I’m gonna take care of it,” she reached for her cigarettes. He knocked them out of her hand. Her glare spoke volumes. “You have no say, sperm donor,” she spit out, grabbing the box and lighter and climbing out of bed. “Trust me.”

“Fine.” It was all just too much. His booze-addled brain could not process it. “But when we get back and you…do whatever the hell it is you’re gonna do about this…we are done.”

“Yeah, that works,” she muttered, before stumbling out to the balcony to smoke, or jump. He no longer cared, and he barely remembered falling asleep.

Chapter Two

It only took a few months for Ian to regain what passed for equilibrium. The trip to his brother’s house, crazy Carrie’s announcement, and the ensuing weeks of fielding Gavin’s latest bad news on the divorce front left him hollowed out. He filled the gap with the hot bartender who had re-appeared in Ian’s bed once it was clear Carrie had disappeared. While part of him wondered, worried about the child she claimed he’d been the “sperm donor” for, he knew Carrie was nothing if not a survivor. If she did not want him around or part of her life, that worked for him—or so he kept repeating in his head.

The responsible boy his Irish Catholic mother raised would not let him sleep very well, however. Wild dreams filled with Carrie, her thin body over, beneath, and alongside his, her angry final words when they pulled up to his apartment building back in Beaufort, it all haunted him nightly. He had found solace, without a doubt, and relished the simplicity of fucking a man, but even that felt fake, false, like he was acting, covering up his true self. Hell—he didn’t even recognize himself anymore and that hurt more than any words any person might toss his way in frustrated anger.

Within the next six months, he’d convinced the small brew pub to let him work in the back and really get his head and hands around the craft of brewing beer. Gavin’s soon-to-be ex-wife had moved back to her home on the west coast, taking their sons with her, declaring that Gavin’s “obsession” with his “new project” was not something she’d signed on for.