“The fuck I am!”

“Hey!” she yells again. “I ain’t debatin’, Ads. I’m tellin’. Both of you are fuckin’ wrong and that’s the end of that. You’re both dicks and you need your heads banged together. I couldn’t give a monkey’s ass if you don’t like it. I don’t know how you two are living this way!”

“Easy,” I reply. “Because it ain’t real.”

“Until it is,” Kye shoots back.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you don’t give a fuck when you have what you don’t want. You only care when it’s taken away from you!”

“Oh my God!” Sofie groans. “Y’all are twenty-four! Twenty. Four!”

“Sof, I appreciate the concern, but there are some things we need to deal with, and this is one of them.” I step past her, closing the distance between me and Kye to barely touching distance, and adrenaline pounds through me as it mixes with my anger. “And what,” I say quietly, angrily, “the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you couldn’t give a fuck about Jessie until the possibility of her being yours is taken away,” he replies, calmly, but his fists clench at his sides.

“You have no fuckin’ idea how I feel about her, so don’t stand in front of me like a righteous prick and pretend you do.”

“Really? You think you know? Because I think you have no idea. Just like she has no idea how she feels. You’re a pair of blind fools who deserve each other.”

“What’s up, Kye? Is being the last single one of us a sore spot?”

“Last single one?” He laughs. “You’re single, you dick. She’s your fake girlfriend, remember? All for that pretty stamp of publicity and acceptance from our manager and the rest of our world.”

“What’s it to you?”

“What’s it to me?” He cocks his head. “A whole lot, because it was one thing when she was your one-night stand. Another when she’s your fake girlfriend and getting death threats from our fans because they’re so fucking obsessed with us they can’t stand us being picked off one by one by these darlin’ girls. But you know the difference between me and you, bro? Difference is, I’d break the heart of any girl I loved if it meant she didn’t have to deal with that shit, even if that meant I’d be alone for the rest of my life. Ain’t no way I’m puttin’ a girl through the shit Jessie is dealin’ with right now, and with good humor. But that’s the other difference between me and you. You’re a heartless bastard, aren’t you? You couldn’t give a flying fuck about Jessie as long as you’re seen as a loving, caring guy by the rest of the world. Who gives a shit, huh?”

“You have no idea,” I grind out, facing up to him, towering above him by the whole inch I have on him, one of our very few differences. “Until you’re inside my fuckin’ head, feeling my fuckin’ feelings, I suggest you shut your damn mouth before I really do flip my shit and shut it for you. And here’s a hint—I’m real fuckin’ close to doing it and tying your tongue in knots.”

“Enough!” Dad hollers, he and Tate shoving themselves between us. “That. Is. Enough. Boys, you’re not teenagers.”

“There’s a damn two-year-old in that house crying her heart out. She’s sobbin’ like nothin’ I’ve ever heard,” Tate interrupts. “I don’t care what the fuck kinda panties y’all got twisted up your asses. Shut the fuck up and let that little girl calm down before she gets herself into such a scared state the only stop is the ER.”

Sofie is gone, I notice, as I glance around, and he’s right. There’s the sound of baby screams piercing the air, each one followed by a heartbreaking sob, the kind of cry I never wanna hear again in my life.

“Y’all were warned,” Dad continues. “Kye, get your ass upstairs and away from Ads.”

Kye opens his mouth, but Dad interrupts him with a “Now,” and he turns away, storming over to the door, where he stops. Then Kye turns, looking at me, his eyes cold and cutting. “If you ain’t prepared for more, stop. Now. Don’t drag this on just because Marc wants you to. You have no idea what you’re doin’, Ads. You think you do, but you don’t. Take my advice and quit while you’re ahead, man.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from replying, because, really, what does he know?

What the hell does he know? Who the hell does he think he is standing in front of me and telling me what to do? Acting like he knows how I feel or what I should do? Telling me that I should, essentially, stop this?

I think it escaped his notice, but I’m not the only person with the power to end this. I’m not the only person who can say that it’s done, over, finito. Jessie can do it, too, but fuck, as long as she’s willing to do this, then I am, too. And if that makes me selfish and an asshole then I’m gonna embrace it, because there’s nothing on God’s green earth like kissing that woman.

There ain’t anything like having her in my arms, angry, but still yielding to me as I kiss her. There ain’t anything like having her shoving me away from her just to climb on top of me and kiss me like I’m her fucking oxygen, and there sure as hell ain’t anything like seeing her eyes brighten and her cheeks flush as she comes whispering my name.

There’s nothing else, nothing, like Jessie Law being in my life and this close to me.

And the anger—it makes sense. The black edge to my frustration, the bitter snaking feeling that’s been worming its way through my body for the last several hours, I get it.

It feels an awful lot like jealousy. And I hate it. I fucking hate it.

I don’t do jealous. I simply don’t do it, because that’s not the person I am. I’m not the kind of person who cares a great deal about anything other than what already matters—music and my family. That’s it.

Shit.

So much fucking shit.

“Shit!” I run my hands through my hair and turn away from Dad, stalking back onto the beach. My bare feet welcome the change from the prickly, freshly cut grass to the soft, warm sand, and I walk out until the sea crawls up and covers my toes.

Jealous.

Me.

How fucking ridiculous. Jealous over a girl I don’t even fucking like—there isn’t a single bone in her goddamn body I like, except possibly her pubic one. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, but at the same time it makes so much sense that it hurts to think it.

Jessie. And Kye.

That.

That’s what fucking pisses me off. Her and my brother.

Her.

Who is she to me?

What is she?

Is she just Jessie? Or is she Jessie? Or maybe she’s Jessie.

In the middle.

The girl I can’t work out. Fuck, I can’t. She could be the equivalent of two plus two and I’d still come up with nine. Jessie Law could be the simplest fucking equation man has ever known and my answer would still be goddamn banana or something equally as stupid.

She’s just . . . Jessie.

And she’s that—to me. Jessie. Just Jessie. Just Jessie with her red hair and her gorgeously inked arm and her sweet smile and her mischievous eyes and her pink-tinted cheeks. She’s just . . . Jessie.

Jessie. Jessie. Jessie.

Just. Fucking. Jessie.

And there’s nothing worse than Just Jessie. Before she was Jessie, my fake girlfriend. That’s how she was supposed to stay. But now the thought of her with my brother makes me feel sick to my fucking stomach.

My Jessie, if I dare to say it.

Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. I don’t damn well know. But she’s Jessie—and she’s closer to mine than she is anything else, even if she’d debate it until she resembles the newest member of the Smurfs. She’d fight me even if it killed her, but maybe . . . Maybe there’s a part of her that’s mine. And I don’t care whether it’s her eyes or her lips or her pussy or her fucking baby toe. Something, somewhere, has to be mine.

Because, fuck. Fuck. Fuck me. There’s a part of me that’s hers. End of story.

Just that damned simple.

If she’s Sudoku, then I’m tic-tac-toe.

She’s complicated and I’m simple, but between us, there’s a whole subject we can only hope to understand one day.