Don't Date Your Brother's Best Friend

“Why? So you could take the metaphorical bullet for me? He’s my brother. And he’s been a good brother most of my life—a little selfish, but never mean until recently. So it’s got to be the drinking and the breakdown over the divorce. This isn’t him. He isn’t himself.”

“I hope you’re right. Because if he was always this nasty, then I feel like an idiot being his friend so long. And I feel disloyal for doubting him. But really, I’m sorry you had to deal with it. It’s on account of me because if you were with some other guy, he wouldn’t be losing his shit.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure he’s gone off the rails here regardless of you. He thinks I’m making a fool of him somehow, and that I also stole his life by moving back in and taking care of Dad.”

“Was he living there and taking care of your dad? Did I miss that? Had he even so much as hired a home health aid?”

“Nope. But I’m interfering. And—”

“I’m gonna stop you there. Because I want to hear about what happened and how you felt, but I’m going to need to, you know, clean something while you talk. Is that okay?”

“I guess so.”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“It’s making you so mad that you have to clean stuff?”

“Yes. Sarah Jo, the minute you tell me he started badmouthing you, I’m going to want to put my fist through a wall. Cleaning is cheaper and healthier,” he said.

“I don’t want to upset you,” I faltered.

“No,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “You can tell me anything you want to tell me, and I can feel any way I want about it. One of the big things I learned in my class was you can’t control how people feel. If I get upset about something you tell me, that’s on me. It isn’t your fault. It’s up to me to handle it without going out and whupping somebody’s ass,” he said.

Part of me wanted to hug him. The rest of me wanted to laugh because it was so weird to see this incredibly masculine, strong firefighter talk about how he was gonna deal with his feelings constructively. It was a good thing, and I was proud of him for it. I just couldn’t help but wish my brother had the same good sense and coping mechanisms.

I finished telling him about Ryan and asked what happened when he went to see my brother.

“I knew I was taking a risk, that I was probably going to damage our friendship beyond repair. But I love the guy enough to say something to him when he needs help. I gave him the name of a counselor, and I told him I was sorry for keeping our relationship a secret from him. Because it was me trying to keep him from getting mad, and like I said, if I learned one thing, editing somebody else’s feelings or trying to control them is shitty and doesn’t work.”

“I bet he didn’t take that well,” I said with a sigh. “I wish you had gotten through to him. I wish he’d talk to somebody. But the way we grew up, with the drinking and the whole, well, Dad just doing whatever he pleased and Mama making it okay for us—he probably thinks what he’s doing is just fine and normal. I don’t know how I can even reach out and help him. I’ve spent so much time fighting him, bickering with him. I wish I’d done better by him, Luke,” I said.

“You’d have to be a saint not to get pissed off at that guy lately. Come here,” he said.

Luke pulled me closer, not into a comforting hug, but for a blazing kiss. Breathtaking and intense, it took me by surprise. My lips parted on a gasp and his tongue filled my mouth, searching, questing, making me clutch his beefy arms to hold on for dear life. Every worry swept from my mind on a wave of fiery desire. Something sweet and sharp and molten started inside my body as his hand swept down my back and curved around my bottom. He nipped at my lower lip. I felt myself go liquid and parted my legs so he could rest his thigh between them. Kissing me all the while, he moved to the doors and dead-bolted them, switched off the lights. Then he reached for my thighs and lifted me by them, wrapping my legs around his hips. I arched against him from the sheer primitive pleasure of being picked up and seated against him, his strong arms bearing me behind the bar.

“Right here,” he whispered roughly, his calloused hands perfect on my body. He backed me up against the wall with shelves of liquor on either side of us. Lowering me to my feet, he unbuttoned my jeans and stripped them from me quickly. My fingers fumbled with his zipper, freed his heavy erection into my eager, trembling hands. It jutted out of his jeans, smooth and hot. I stroked it, feeling a spurt of hot wetness on my fingers as he gave proof of his arousal.