Addicted: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance (21 page)

I took a swig, and nodded. "It's pretty good. How much are you guys going to charge for it?"

"Up front? Four bucks a can. They have a pre-workout mix too, but I don't like the flavor on that one too much. Listen man, I didn't haul you back here just to let you try a new drink. I wanted to ask, what's been up with you the past month?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, draining half the can. Randy was right about the flavor, but like most protein drinks, it was thicker, and left a bit of a residue in my mouth. I figured I'd need at least the same amount of water to get the feeling of my tongue being coated in berry flavored milk out.

"For the past month, you've been in here more than ever. You're hitting the weights hard, but I've been watching you man. You're on the edge of overtraining, and I've never seen you there before. If you were one of the power lifters or bodybuilders or Cross fitters we have coming in I'd understand it, they put themselves there on purpose right before competition. But you man, you're a socialite I guess. And most of your type doesn't try to get swole and jacked prior to Oscar season, or even the MTV Movie Awards. So what's up?"

"Dunno man," I said, closing my eyes and finishing the drink. "Just . . . things feel different."

Randy nodded and set his half drunk can aside. "All right Julian, let's cut the alpha macho bullshit, okay? Something happened when you went up to your father's wedding. Now, I'm not going to ask what, that's your own damn business. But whatever it is, it wasn't good for you."

"What do you mean? I mean, I haven't gotten in trouble with the cops once since coming back." It was true, with my dramatically reduced social life, me and the LAPD were on decent terms for the past month. It was kind of refreshing, knowing I could walk down the street and not worry about being arrested.

"Man, that's just an outer sign. While it's positive, it's only because you've spent the past month brooding. I mean, you're practically going emo on us here. Like I said, I'm not going to ask what it is that has you this way. You've got your demons, we all do. But you need to handle this one, before this brooding period stops, and you get self-destructive on us."

"Like I haven't been the whole time you've known me?" I said, cocking my eyebrow. "You know, I'm not exactly a well adjusted individual."

"You're an asshole," Randy said bluntly, but he smiled as he said it, "but you're not a self-destructive asshole. I figured you were just one of those guys whose adolescence lasted longer than a lot of other people's. You're in Los Angeles, there are guys like you all over the fucking place. Most of you have more money than you know what to do with, or are just content living out your lives in your parents' basement playing GTA online or something. But this past month, you're on the edge of going from a self-absorbed asshole to a self-destructive asshole. If you do that to just yourself, I'm not overly worried. But you strike me as the type that's going to take a bunch of others with you."

"Gee, thanks," I said, crumpling the can. I sat forward to get up when Randy started talking again.

"I was only in college when it happened," he said slowly, in a contemplative voice. "I was living in Atlanta at the time, and working in a gym down there. I was young, but I struck up what I guess I could call a friendship with a guy there. We all knew who he was, I mean shit, most of us watched him on TV at least once a week. Off screen though, he seemed like the most quiet, normal guy you'd ever know. Then he got even more quiet, and he started brooding. Some of the older guys had seen him do this before, and dismissed it. They figure he'd snap out of it. Then when we found out he died, and how he took his wife and seven-year-old son with him, it stirred us up. Afterwards, we kept wondering why we'd overlooked the warning signs, and why we'd not done something beforehand. They said a lot of it was due to the drugs and the headshots he'd taken, but I knew regardless of the reason, he was in that cycle, and none of us did anything to stop it."

I sagged back into my chair, stunned. "Who was it?"

Randy looked at me sadly, and licked his lips. "His name was Chris Benoit."

S
o here I was
, sitting in a dirty taxi, on my way towards Canal Street. In my head, I kept telling myself over and over
just fuck her, get it out of your system. Just fuck her, get it out of your system.
But my heart wasn't in it. I honestly didn't know what I was doing in Chicago.

"Yo buddy, you know you could have just taken the El train just as close," my taxi driver, the stereotypical Chicago white guy with a Polish look to him said from up front. "Not that I mind the fare, of course."

"Of course," I replied. "First time in Chicago, didn't want to get lost, you know?"

"Yeah, I heard that. Listen, if you got time, check out a Cubs game. I know the Cubbies are terrible, they always are, but Wrigley . . . ah now that's a beauty for all time. There's nothing quite like sitting in the bleachers at Wrigley and munching on some hot dogs, especially when you've got your girl with you. You got a girl, my man?"

"Eh? No . . . no girl," I replied. I looked out the window and watched as the downtown area moved closer. "No girl at all. I don't like to tie myself down."

"Shame. Well, I'd say find yourself a good Chicago girl, but there aren't too many in this town. But still, if you find one, hang onto her. Trust me on that one."

I didn't reply, and the cab driver soon let go of the conversation. About ten minutes later, he pulled up in front of a high rise and flipped his switch. "Here you go, my friend. Left Bank at K Station. Whoever you're visiting that lives here has some good money, let me tell you. I'd love to have lived here when I was younger. But I got a wife and kids now, this area's too crowded for me. The commute sucks, but I like living in the suburbs more."

"Yeah . . ." I said, not really listening. "Uh, how much?"

"Forty-eight dollars," the cabbie said. "Pretty light traffic today."

I pulled three twenties out of my wallet and handed it over to him. "Keep the change. Thanks for the tip on the Cubs game."

"No problem. Enjoy Chicago."

I grabbed my duffel bag, an old style military model that I had used for years, and looked up at the building. Part of me wanted to just turn around and go. If I was going into a self-destructive spiral, who the fuck cared other than me? But a deeper voice, I wasn't sure if it was selfish or noble, instead said to call Krystal. I reached into my hip pocket and pulled out my phone.

"Yeah, Krystal? I'm downstairs."

"Oh, really? Okay. See you in a second."

I hung up my phone and went inside the lobby. About thirty seconds later, Krystal came out of the elevator, along with a cute little blonde that I didn't know. "Hi Julian," she greeted me, with only a hint of uncomfortable formality. "I'd like you to meet my best friend Kimberly. Kim, this is my stepbrother, Julian Castelbon."

"It's nice to meet you," Kim said, holding out her hand. I shook, and was surprised at how strong her grip was. Taking a closer look, I could see the short nails and hints of callus on the edges of her fingers that told me she wasn't the dainty type. Interesting. "I was just stopping by to drop off some books I'd borrowed from Krystal, and she said you were coming to visit. I figured I just had to wait a few minutes to meet you."

"Thanks," I said, feeling more at ease. I'm used to people going out of their way to meet me, it's been rather routine since I graduated high school. "So you and Krys know each other well?"

Kim rolled her eyes and glanced over at Krystal, which shook my confidence. "You could say that. We've known each other since her first day of college."

"So you're in the culinary field too?" I asked, somewhat surprised with myself. Normally I wouldn't have given a damn. I'm the epitome of the Internet meme
and not a single fuck was given that day.

"No, we actually met at a martial arts class. We were two of the very few women there so we kind of became friends. I'm . . . into computers," Kimberly replied, giving me a knowing smile. I didn't know what the smile meant, but it rattled me again. What was going on? "I'd love to hang out with you two sometime, but I've got to get going. Client meeting at four I need to get to. Krystal, we'll talk later?"

"For sure," Krystal replied, giving Kimberly a hug. "Thanks."

"No problem. Julian, another time I hope." With that, Kimberly was gone, out the front door of the building and into the Chicago afternoon sun like a little blonde ball of energy.

I watched her go, then turned to Krystal, slightly confused. "She is . . ."

"Different," Krystal replied with a grin. "And as real as you can find. Come on, I'll show you my place. I'm warning you though, it's a lot different than what you're probably used to."

I nodded, and followed her into the elevator. As the doors closed, she pushed the button for one of the top floors, and we started up. "Krys . . ." I started, before she cut me off.

"Julian, do you like it if someone calls you Jules? Or J?"

I thought about the fact that the guys at the gym called me JC, but other than that ... "No, not really."

"Okay. Well, if you don't want me to call you Jules or maybe Julie, don't call me Krys. Now, I don't mind if you stay, but I do have some rules."

Oh boy, here we go. "Yeah?" I asked, already wondering if I'd made the right decision.

"Rule one is, no arrests. You get picked up by the Chicago PD, and you're on your own. You're not getting back into my place. And yes, this is my place. Rule two, no parties or women up here. You want to get your freak on, go do it somewhere else. Finally, rule three. You use something in my kitchen, you clean it and you put it in the drying rack. That's kind of a general one for all culinary types. Don't screw with our equipment."

"What happens if I do?" I joked, smirking. Krystal turned to me with those dark eyes of hers and looked up directly into mine.

"You do, and you'll find I know how to debone more than just a chicken."

I held my free hand up in a fending off gesture, and smiled. "Okay, just joking. I can barely make spaghetti anyway. You ever come to my place in Los Angeles, and you'll find a lot of instant meals, peanut butter, and supplements. By the way, you don't mind if I use your blender for that, do you?"

"As long as you wash it out. I have a stick blender you can use if you want, I find it easier for that sort of stuff. Here we are." The elevator doors dinged, and I stepped out into a small hallway, with only two doors, one on each side. "This floor only has two units, I have the one on the west side of the building. Which is great for me, it lets me sleep a bit later in the morning. The east side units get the sunrise right in your eyes."

She opened the door, and I was at first struck at just how middle class the apartment looked. Then I noticed that besides the kitchen equipment, the furnishings were downright Spartan. I didn't even see a television. On the other hand, the kitchen stuff looked strong enough to liquefy a brick, and cut through the steel beams of the high rise itself.

Krystal looked over at me and smiled. "Welcome to my humble abode, Julian. Make yourself comfortable."

A
t first
, having Julian stay with me was about as weird as when we'd stayed in side by side bedrooms at Castelbon Manor. My apartment has three bedrooms and two baths, so I had Julian stay in the larger of my two guest bedrooms, on the opposite side of the apartment from me. After he set his bag on the simple bed that came with the place, he came into the living room and sat down on my sofa, stretching out. "So are you working today?"

I shook my head and headed into the kitchen. "If I was, you'd have gotten nothing but a voice message. I did have competition practice today, but I have the evening off."

I pulled together the ingredients for a quick berry smoothie and made myself my mid-afternoon snack, pouring a second glass for Julian. Coming over to the sofa, I handed him a glass, then sat down on my only other chair in the living room. When Kimberly or another friend comes over, we tend to relax at the kitchen island to eat, or just hang out on the floor. "So level with me Julian," I said, taking a drink from my smoothie and setting the glass down on my coffee table. "What brings you to Chicago?"

"I don't suppose you'd believe that I had a business deal that I'm negotiating with the guys at Forrester Hotels, do you?" he said, grinning.

I rolled my eyes. "Considering they relocated to Miami a year ago, no. Besides, I doubt you've ever done a regular business negotiation in your life."

"What do you mean?"

I decided it was time to put Julian on full blast mode. "Well, since graduating from high school, you dropped out of two universities, both times by your own choice. The first, Boston College, you said you didn't fit in at. The second, the University of Southern California, asked you to leave after what the newspapers called 'repeated violations of the student conduct policy.' I'll not go further on it. Since then, you've settled into the Los Angeles socialite scene, fueled by the fact John gives you enough money to basically allow you to do whatever you want. So I'll say it again Julian, what are you doing in Chicago?"

Julian looked down at his glass for a moment, then drained half of it in one long gulp. He looked down at his glass again, then at me. "You want the truth?"

"Yeah, the truth. Not saying I'm going to judge you, but I won't tolerate a liar. So make that rule four. You lie, and I'll be happy to find you a hotel room."

Julian nodded. "Okay. Truth is, I'm not sure why I'm here. A buddy of mine in Los Angeles said I needed to get my head straight, and I couldn't do that in LA. There was just this little voice in my head that said come to Chicago, you could help. So I went with it."

I thought about it for a moment, touched. "Why?"

Julian looked at me, and I swore it was the first time I'd ever seen the real him, other than glimpses as he had been lifting weights one time before our parents' wedding. "Because of all the people I know, you seem to have your head screwed on best. Your trust fund, it pays for this apartment, right?"