It’s a step in the right direction, that’s for damn sure.
“Isaiah,” Mom says. “We have company!”
Placing the brown paper bag on her kitchen counter, I drop my keys beside it and turn to face her, only to find my brother, Ian, relaxing on her sofa.
“Corporal.” Ian rises, coming at me with his right hand extended, and I glance at my mother to find her all smiles, as if she expects that we’ve suddenly made up after all these years. I shake his hand with terse hesitation, but he pulls me into a hug. “Been a long time. You’re looking good. Glad you made it home safe.”
Bullshit.
All of it.
Ian’s the phoniest fucking bastard I’ve ever known, and I know him better than anyone.
“Come on. Have a seat. We should catch up,” Ian says, waving me toward the living room. “Was just telling Mom about this girl I’ve been talking to.”
Mom turns to me, her dark eyes lit. “She sounds perfect, Isaiah. Ian, tell your brother what you just told me.”
Ian wears a shit-eating grin to go with his shit-brown belt and his shit-brown shoes and takes a seat in the center of the sofa beside our mother, taking her hands in his.
“Well, she’s sweet and funny and kind,” he says. “And she’s got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“What did you say her name was again?” Ma asks.
“Maritza,” Ian says, directing his gaze to me as he answers. “Maritza Claiborne.”
I’m going to fucking murder him.
And now it makes sense … all those things she knew at the restaurant, she learned from him, and I’m two-hundred percent sure he painted me in the worst possible light because that’s what Ian does.
It’s what he’s always done.
We were never close.
We were never brothers.
We were always competitors—at least in his eyes.
Everything I ever had, everything I ever worked my ass off for, Ian wanted.
Everything.
My fists clench at my sides and my jaw tightens. Ian is rambling on and on about how wonderful she is and my mother is lapping it up like a kitten to milk, telling him how she can’t wait to meet her and how she’s so happy he’s finally met someone special.
“I’m going to introduce her to Benson soon,” he says, referring to his son—the son that was almost mine until my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—dropped the ultimate bombshell on me at the last minute.
“You know my birthday is in a couple of weeks,” Ma says, clapping her hands together. “Calista wants to throw a barbecue at some park by her house. You should bring her then!”
“That’s the plan, Ma,” Ian says, the smug bastard’s gaze careening into mine.
“Excuse me, boys. I’ll be right back.” Ma pushes herself up from her chair and makes her way to the bathroom down the hall.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” I say under my breath.
Ian stands, adjusting his tie. He looks like a goddamn buffoon. Or a kid playing dress up in his father’s clothes. He’s nothing more than a snake oil salesman trying to project an image of success, but I see through it.
I’ve always seen through everything he’s done over the years, like it’s some skill I’ve honed and practiced and fine-tuned.
“Okay, so if you killed me … how many would that be? What’s your running total?” he asks.
“Fuck you.”
“What does it feel like to kill people you don’t even know? I’ve always wanted to know,” he says. “Do you ever feel bad about it? Do you ever feel like, hey, maybe I shouldn’t fight this war I have no business fighting and maybe I shouldn’t kill people if I don’t have the decency to fucking look them in the eyes when I do it.”
“Go to hell.” My shoulders rise and fall with each hard breath and I clench my fist to keep from strangling the jackass. “You’re lucky Mom’s in the next room.”
I step closer to him, until our faces are mere inches apart.
“What exactly are you doing?” I ask. “With Maritza? What’s your plan here?”
“I like her.”
“Bullshit.” I shake my head, hands hooked on my hips.
“I’m being the better man. Being the man you could never be,” he says. “She had no idea what a piece of shit you were until I told her.”
“The fuck did you tell her?” I spit my words at him.
“Nothing that isn’t true.” Ian tosses his hands in the air and wears a sneer that every part of me is seconds from ripping off his face.
Pulling in a hard breath, I try to calm myself down before I do something stupid.
But it doesn’t work.
And within an instant, I’ve got his shirt collar and tie bunched in my right fist and his back is slammed against the living room wall. His face is turning red and he’s struggling to say something, his eyes wide and fearful.
I’ve done some things in my life that I’m not proud of, but I’m a fucking saint compared to Ian …