The Wrong Kind of Love

“Jude beat the shit out of the guy for making me cry,” Caleb slurs. “He’s always had a temper.”

It isn’t hard to imagine a sixteen-year-old Jude raining hell on someone for making his six-year-old brother cry.

“He was protecting his little brother,” I say. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah. Just like he’s protecting you…” That makes my chest squeeze. Caleb shoves out of his chair and staggers toward the woods, snatching a pinecone from the ground.

He places it on a moss-covered tree stump, takes several steps back, then pulls the gun from the waist of his jeans and shoots. I jump when the little pinecone explodes. God, they’re so redneck. I shouldn’t like it so much.

I take a sip of the whiskey in my coffee mug, watching as he grabs another cone and sets it on the trunk. “You know,” I say. “The American obsession with guns confounds me.”

“I learned to shoot a gun when I was five.” Who the hell gives a five-year-old a gun? He pulls the trigger and misses this time, the bullet lodging in a tree and spraying bark everywhere.

“When I was five, I learned how to braid a Barbie’s hair. We had very different childhoods.”

Caleb stumbles sideways with the loaded gun, and I hunch down in my chair like I can hide from a stray bullet.

“Wanna shoot it?” he asks, shoving it in my face.

I nearly topple out of my chair trying to get away from it. “Hell no!”

“Fine. Be like that.” He spins around and fires off several more rounds at the trees, stopping only to reload.

In the midst of the abrupt silence, a door slams.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Jude storms across the yard, and in my drunken state, I can’t help but appreciate the way the setting sun plays over the tattoos winding up his muscled arms. Damn him for being all hot and bad. And damn me for being just like every other predictable girl and being into it.

When he reaches us, his gaze drops to the empty whiskey bottle on the ground. He shoots a disapproving-father-glare at Caleb. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.” He snatches the weapon from his brother’s hand, and pops him on the back of the head. “Don’t be stupid. Get in the house.”

“I was just shooting pinecones….”

“You’re drunk!”

On a groan, Caleb staggers toward the house, mumbling about Jude being a dick.

The permanently annoyed expression on Jude’s face deepens when I stand and stumble to the side. “And of course, you’re shitfaced, too. I’m gonna kill Caleb...”

Without warning, he hoists me over his shoulder. The sudden movement makes me feel sick.

“I can walk,” I mumble as he starts toward the house.

“No, you can’t.”

I open my mouth to argue but fall silent when my gaze lands on his ass.Jesus, I need to rein it in. But I don’t. I keep staring as he carts me through the house and upstairs to his room.

“How often do you drink?” he ask, kicking the door closed behind us.

“Sometimes.” Never. Until I met him. He’s driving me to it.

He changes direction, sending the room spinning in a blur of colors. “Fucking great. So you’re gonna throw up.”

“Only if you keep throwing me around like a sack of rice.”

The door to the bathroom creaks open. He places me on the cold tile beside the toilet, then sinks to the floor beside me and puts his back to the wall.

The seemingly permanent scowl on his face deepens and I’m tempted to smooth it away with my fingers, but don’t. “You’re always so grumpy.”

“Focus on puking. Not talking.”

“I’m not sick.”

He pats my arm. “Give it time, doll.”

Stupid butterflies erupt in my stomach. I’ve always hated him calling me that. It felt condescending, but somewhere along the way it’s become endearing I guess. The way he says it is all southern and rough—and he’s all southern and rough.

He rubs a hand over his chest, drawing my attention to the muscle stretching his shirt. Curling into that firm chest seems like a really good idea.

I scoot across the tile and wedge myself between his legs. The second my cheek hits the soft material of his shirt, I agree it is a good idea. Just like sniffing his shirt is.

“Jesus Christ…” he says, sounding annoyed, but stroking a hand over my head.

This feels safe, and so I embrace it, enjoying how the soothing sweep of his fingers through my hair.

“If you throw up on me, Tor. I swear to God…”

“I’m not going to vomit.” I tilt my head on his chest until his full lips come into my line of sight. The thought of kissing him tiptoes through my mind. I want to fall into him like he’s the cure for all the wrong in my life, because whenever Jude’s lips are on mine, nothing else exists. I fist his shirt, pulling his scent deep into my lungs.