PROLOGUE
THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, MANY YEARS AGO…
Max
Most people think money buys happiness.
I wasn’t so sure.
My parents had plenty of money, but they were the most miserable people I’d ever met. I would know better than anyone since it was me they took their endless misery out on.
Though, if you saw my parents anywhere outside the walls of the place I wouldn’t call a home, you’d likely call me a liar. The most wicked are always the most skilled at hiding who they really are.
Brenda and Zane Navarro used their wealth to skillfully buff away the grime their personalities caked them with, transforming them into the shiny, fake douchebags the rich always seemed to appreciate.
And me?
They kept me under lock and key because no matter how much they polished me up, I would never sparkle the way they wanted me to. Bruises and blood weren’t pretty.
It was late when I found the key under the mat, the darkness unable to hide something I always knew was there. The lock clicked free, and the door soundlessly swung in. The scent of vanilla and cookies whirled around me, making my stomach growl. Ignoring it, I shut and relocked the door, simply laying the key on the counter so it could be returned under the mat in the morning.
When they saw it sitting there, they would know I was here.
They wouldn’t say anything. They’d just add another plate to the breakfast table and more into whatever it was they cooked for breakfast.
The house was dim and quiet, the only light from a small pendant hanging over the large island. My feet were soft on the stairs as I climbed the two flights, stopping for a second at the top. A small nightlight glowed at the end of the hall, something I suspected they left on for me even if they did say it was because Wes was scared of the dark.
The carpet runner muffled my footsteps as I walked to the end, turning toward my best friend’s bedroom door. But I didn’t enter. In an odd turn of events, I didn’t even contemplate. I moved across the hall to another.
It opened easily, the air shifting as I slipped inside, closing it behind me. The walls in here were deep navy blue. Stars lit up the ceiling but were not as bright as I knew they would have been when he went to bed. We’d spent a lot of time sticking those things up there, which I thought was lame, but Wes sure liked them. Most little kids probably would.
The bed sat in the center of the room, plaid blankets covering the entire surface and white pillows at the top like a beacon in the dark. I crept closer, finding his sleeping form in the center of the mattress. I studied him as he slept peacefully, wondering why I came in here instead of going into Win’s room where I would already be under the covers, slipping into sleep.
The second I turned away, a small, warm hand caught my arm. “Max?”
I shifted back, watching as Wes sat up, blankets falling around his waist. “What are you doing here?” he asked, fist rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
I didn’t say anything, just stared at him until his fist lowered and his eyes widened.
“Did you see Win?” he whispered.
I shook my head.
Tossing the covers back, he slid out of bed, feet meeting the floor beside mine. He only came to my shoulder when he straightened, and the loopy curls around his ears made him look even younger than he was.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, hurrying out of the room but making no sound.
I stood there in complete silence, side aching, stomach grumbling, and face stinging. I was still in the same spot when he came back with a white kit, laying it on the side of the bed and flipping it open.
When he looked up, I sat on the mattress and kicked off my shoes.
We said not one word as he got to work in the dark, acting as though I were just as easy for him to see as the key under the mat had been for me.
Breath hissed between my teeth when he dabbed my cheek. Pausing, he whispered, “Does it hurt?”
I shrugged.
He moved to my split lip and then dropped the cotton onto the bed to grab a tube of something. I stared at him solemnly as he tapped it on my busted face. He concentrated so hard on what he was doing that little lines formed on his forehead.
When he was done, he closed the kit and put it on the table beside his bed. I stood up so he could climb back into his nest of blankets.
“Want to stay in here tonight?” he asked, holding the blanket back to make room for me.
I slid into the bed beside him, another hiss leaking from my lips when the blankets fell against my aching side. Wes rolled, body facing me while I lay on my back to stare up at the fading stars.
I didn’t look but felt him tug the weight of the covers away from the tender spot.
“I hate him,” Wes whispered.
“Me too,” I whispered back.
When he reached for my hand to lace our fingers together, I didn’t pull away. Wes was an affectionate kid, but affection wasn’t something I was used to. Hands clasped, he laid them on my stomach, scooting a little closer across his pillow.
He fell asleep first, and I lay there listening to his even breathing while feeling the warmth of our clasped hands soaking through my shirt and into my stomach.
Eventually, I slept too.
1
Life is a matter of choice,
and every choice you make makes you.
—Author Unknown—
Wes
Really, though? Is life really a matter of choice?
For me, choice might as well be a wish.
My parents died from a fiery car crash when I was barely sixteen.
I’m gay.
I’m also totally in love with my brother.
I didn’t choose any of that. In fact, I tried like hell to deny most of it. But there I was in all my gay, brother-loving, no-parentals glory.
So if you ask me, what really makes a man is the way he reacts to the hand he was dealt, to the choices he didn’t get to make but has to live with. Would those actions be choices? I couldn’t tell because most of the time I was ruled entirely by emotion.
Hence the in-love-with-the-brother thing.
Okay, fine. Technically, Max was not my brother. Not by blood anyway. That should make it less ick, right?
Nope.
And technically, he wasn’t adopted by my parents either, at least in an official capacity. However, he did move in with us when I was thirteen. And before that, he was at our house more than his. We don’t share the same last name, but when my parents died, their estate was split three ways—between me, my older (biological) brother, and Max.
Pretty sure that was actual proof my parents thought of him as their son. There was also the fact he called them mom and dad.
Go ahead. You can judge me. I judged myself every day. Even my own harsh judgment didn’t stop my heart from flipping over when Max’s eyebrow ring glinted in the sun or he leveled his opaque eyes on me with an intensity matched by nothing else.
I always knew I was gay. Liking girls never even occurred to me, so it was more of a shock to realize people expected me to like them and not boys. It also never really occurred to me to hide who I was until I realized people thought my “choice” was wrong.
Notice the quotations? Yeah, it’s because being gay isn’t a choice—it just is, despite what some would like us to believe.