MARIE MALO

Had Tuxedo Rose mentioned they’d censor his ink, James would never have taken this modeling gig.

He squirmed as the makeup artist spread another layer of concealer over the letters FTW, scrolled across his left forearm. She worked downward, toward his wrist where his favorite tat, a depiction of Van Gogh’s skull smoking a joint, camouflaged a fair amount of scar tissue.

His wrist was the last place he wanted to be groped.

With a slow inhale, he planted his feet flat on the floor, pressed his spine against the hard cushion of the cosmetology chair, and focused on the hum of the industrial fan. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale…

Shite.

After seven years of therapy, he should be able to calm himself down—without dissociating. But he couldn’t. His heart thudded, and despite the circulating air, the room grew warmer by the minute.

He needed help.

With a slight twist, he attempted to make urgent eye contact with his bro, Caleb, who sat dressed, one chair over, ready for the photo shoot. But Caleb stared downward, toward a magazine spread open across his knees. He flipped a page.

“Stay still, por favor.” The woman frowned as her fingers skimmed Van Gogh. “Almost done.”

A shiver trickled down James’ spine. A warning. One he’d been taught to notice. He needed out of the chair. Now. Before she asked what happened to his wrist—or didn’t ask—and assumed the worst.

Slouching forward, hand on his groin, he scanned her lanyard, and flashed his most persuasive smile. “Skip that one… Francesca. I’ve gotta piss.”

She glanced at his pants but shook her head. “You’re not moving ‘til I finish your arm.”

Trapped.

The air around James thinned. His body teetered weightless as his mind fought for distance. In a last-ditch attempt at staying corporeal, he traced circles on the smooth surface of the table with the index finger of his free hand. A grounding technique straight from his shrink.

The exercise helped until Francesca thumbed the patch of skin still sensitive from nerve damage. She leaned closer, her eyes narrowing.

Screw grounding himself. Dr. Madison didn’t know shit. If he didn’t disconnect, he’d knock Francesca on her ass. Once he spaced out, she could do what she wanted with his body.

“James. Stay with us.” With a loud sigh, Caleb let the magazine slide from his knees. He thumped over it as he rolled closer. “Stop messing with him. I heard your instructions. Cover everything R-rated, the rest can stay.”

Francesca straightened. She shifted her gaze. “What does Nár laga Dia do lámh, mean?” Her Spanish tongue slaughtered the Irish verse looped around a Celtic cross, inked above Van Gogh.

“Leave it.” Caleb’s voice was flat.

“May God not weaken your hand,” James answered, the conversation a means to keep him in his body, on planet Earth. Where—according to everyone—he needed to be.

Francesca selected a brush from the adjacent table. “All these tattoos must limit your work opportunities.”

“Bloody hell, Cal.” James closed his eyes as the brush assaulted his skin, but he was no longer on high alert. He’d passed that torch to Caleb. “I’ll never be gainfully employed. Whatever will I do?”

Caleb chuckled.

Francesca didn’t.

She tightened her long, dark ponytail, then tapped the serpent on the inside of his right forearm with the pointy end of the makeup brush. “I do like the snake, though.”

Twisted into a knot and dangling a clover from its mouth, the serpent was James’ biggest tattoo. It hid a long, straight scar—newer than the rest—but like most of his others, he was clueless how he got it.

He turned toward Francesca’s voice. “All the girls like my snake… Frannie.” He waited for Caleb’s rebuke, reining him in, telling him he’d gone too far, but got nothing.

“Keep your eyes—and mouth—closed, chaval.” Francesca shielded James’ nose and blasted his arm with setting spray.

He knocked her hand away. “I’m not a child. I’m eighteen. Legal. In case you were…curious.” He wasn’t eighteen yet, but she didn't know that.

“All done.” Her voice came from his right. “Give your arm a minute to set before putting your shirt on.”

James kept his eyes closed but smiled. He’d managed his stress without dissociating. Sure, he had some help, but only a wee bit. Now that it was over, he felt certain he could have handled it on his own.

He sucked in a breath and exhaled, rolling the remaining tension from his shoulders. “What do you think, Callie? You’re staring holes through me. Do I look as prom-worthy as you?”

Caleb’s seat squeaked. “How would you know what I’m looking at? Your eyes are shut.”

James opened his eyes. Sure enough, Francesca stood at the other table, cleaning her supplies, and as he guessed, Caleb stared at him from his chair, his happy pink shirt and white cummerbund at odds with the tightness in his jaw. “How’d you know my eyes were shut if you weren’t looking?”

It was unarguable logic, and he waited for a smart-ass reply.

But Caleb only scratched the back of his neck and turned toward the long wall of windows. On the twelfth floor, they were high enough to see bits of Lake Michigan, sandwiched between Chicago’s metal skyline. Scenic, sure, but it didn’t warrant more than a two-second glance.

James unstuck himself from the sweaty confines of the chair’s black vinyl, Cal’s silence a stone in his gut. He scooped up the magazine. Cosmopolitan. Are you an enabler the cover inquired.

Cosmo pushed the limits of weird reading material, even for Caleb, but something had been off with him since school let out for summer, and no amount of prying had loosened his tongue.

He dropped the magazine on Francesca’s table, then strolled toward a metal rack containing the required outfits. The first shirt tagged for him, Fitzpatrick, was short-sleeved, black with silver pinstripes. He slipped it on.

“Don’t mess up her work.” Caleb said, still facing the windows. “We need to go home—today.”

Francesca looked up. She raised an eyebrow. “You two act like a couple.”

“I like women.” James sat down. “Older ones.” He pushed his hips forward, letting the flat front pants illustrate his package.

“For fuck’s sake,” Caleb mumbled. He swiveled his chair to join the room. “We’re brothers.”

They weren’t brothers and looked nothing alike. But James smiled at the term of endearment he’d earned from living with Caleb’s family for three and a half years, courtesy of the Department of Children and Family Services.

“Twins,” James added, “identical.” He searched Francesca’s face, but her phone pinged before he could enjoy her reaction.

“They’re almost ready for you guys,” she said a moment later. “Someone will come and get you.” She dropped the bag of brushes into her tote. “And, James. I’ve heard about you. Including how old you are.”

“Great. She’s been warned about you.” Caleb faced him. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten fired yet.”

James dug his smokes out of his backpack. Francesca didn’t know shite about him, and Caleb, who knew everything about him, needed to chill. Cigarette between his lips, he spun the chair on its axis. After a couple of lazy rotations, he stopped and leveled his gaze at Francesca.

“So, what do you think? Me and you…” She wasn’t much older. Twenty-five tops.

Francesca lowered her tote to the floor and extended the handle. “You’re asking me out? On a date?”

“Dún do bheal.” Caleb had pulled his brows into a stern blond line. “Tell her you’re not serious.”

James chuckled. Caleb telling him to shut his mouth in Irish sounded as funny as Francesca’s use of the word date, but he said what Caleb wanted. He always did.

“Si. Mamar gallo. I’m kidding, of course.”

*

“Is there anyone at the agency you haven’t slept with?” Caleb said as soon as Francesca shut the door. “Or in the city limits?”

James shrugged. “I haven’t poked the blonde ride that moved in next door.”

He meant it as a joke. He’d caught Caleb spying on her as she unloaded boxes and hadn’t let him forget it.

“She’s not a ride,” Caleb said with more conviction than a girl he hadn’t met deserved. “Her name is Cassie, and I invited her over—to swim.”

“You’ve talked to her?” No shock there. Caleb moved fast. But he hadn’t mentioned it, and that was unusual. “When?”

“It doesn’t matter. But I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Caleb took a deep breath. “I plan on asking her out. Maybe do the girlfriend thing this summer. You know, put off sleeping with her until we’re been together for a while. Also…she’s not in the scene, and I don’t want her to find out about these shoots.” His gaze rested on James. “At least not at first. When girls find out I model, they treat me differently. You’re in the same boat. Think about it.”

James glanced around the room, to the two tables and rack of clothes in the otherwise barren loft. He shrugged. The sporadic jobs they went on hardly made them models, and he didn’t care how girls treated him. He took what he wanted, then left.

“Thinkings pointless, Cal.” He grabbed his cigarette pack and exchanged the smoke for a blunt. One quick hit was all he needed. “I bet this girl’s already checked you out. She knows your name. I guarantee she’s scoped out your Instagram.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow. “I edited my bio and removed any incriminating pictures. Besides, she lived in the country. In Kansas. How much can she know about fashion?”

“You’re assuming she’s daft cause she’s not from the city? Great way to start a relationship.” Not that he cared how Cal maintained his girls, as long as they stayed out of the way.

He shook his cigarette pack until his matches tumbled out, the weight in his stomach lighter. He’d wasted two weeks of summer vacation stressed for nothing, if Cal’s entire issue was becoming friends with some girl—before he screwed her.

He shifted the blunt to the corner of his mouth. “When do I get to meet the girl who has you wanting to hide who you are—before you learn who she is?”

“You’re on a need-to-know basis,” Caleb said. “You have a big mouth. You’d spoil it for me.”

“I might.” James struck a match and inhaled deep. Smoke filled his lungs and would soon work its magic on his head. He offered Caleb a hit.

Caleb waved him off. “I’ll introduce you when she’s completely in love with me.”

“You mean when there’s no way she’d want me.”

“Whatever.” Caleb frowned. “So, we’re good? You understand, right? I want a few solid weeks of alone time with this girl. Just me and her. Besides, didn’t Dr. Madison say you need to practice dealing with stuff—solo? Here’s your opportunity. Think you can survive summer without me keeping you alive?”

James took another hit before licking his finger and extinguishing the heater. In a week, Cal will have forgotten about Cassie, and their friendship will be back on track. When it came to Caleb, solo was not a word in their shared vocabulary.

He smiled wide, all teeth, though his stomach tightened, just a little. “Not a problem. I don’t need you.”

Chapter Two

Cassie lifted the heavy drapery from the corner of her second-floor bedroom window. Her new neighbor Caleb swam every morning, and his backstroke was the best reason to wake up—ever.

Her father was right. A change of scenery might be good for her.

Caleb disappeared behind the tall wooden fence, concealing half the pool. He emerged seconds later, mid butterfly stroke. His arms sliced the water, powerful movements showcasing superb form. He had to be on the swim team. The sport she excelled in before she dropped out of senior year mid-winter—and out of existence.

Three weeks in her creepy new home and so far, the only friend she made was Allison, a girl she met in summer school. Not the successful starting over her father wished for.

Caleb seems nice, her dad said, the third time Caleb stopped by to invite her to swim. Not all boys are like Paul.

Then her dad’s new job started, and he left on a long-haul flight. The opportunity to fly an Airbus A380 was the official reason her father moved his family from Kansas—not just to get her out of the school district. Her mom, a flight attendant, would leave tomorrow.

Her mom’s absence was never a bad thing, but it meant being abandoned in the huge, old house—and being alone for days was, well, lonely.

Cassie let the curtain fall into place. So far, her journal entries read, Unpacking sucks… My new neighbor is cute… Yep, summer school… and… Help. I need a life. Outside of the skinny dipper she witnessed yesterday, a wild blur of dark hair and tattooed skin who sprang from Caleb’s guest house, her journal contained boring entries to reflect her empty world.

She couldn’t tell if Caleb was trustworthy, but according to Instagram, he was a party boy with a huge following. A perfect contact for meeting people before school began. People with actual lives.

Her dad didn’t know the entire story—what happened with Paul was her fault and she deserved the fallout—but he had something right. She needed to move past it and get a life.