FUSE (2 page)

"Brighton," Jax's voice is louder. "Ivy's worried about you. She said you sounded wasted on the phone last night."

Fuck it. This is real. He's here and unless I play dead, he's not leaving until I turn over and deal with him. Mornings like this, correction, days like this are when I wish we'd stayed estranged. I love my younger brother but since he's become a father, he's determined to get me to be as settled down as he is. That's not happening. I'm swearing off everything related to commitment.

"Go to hell, Jax," I murmur out of the corner of my mouth. "I'm sleeping."

"How much did you drink last night?" he asks as he pulls open the curtains.

"Jesus," I hiss back at him as I try to shield my eyes from the brilliant sunlight that pours into the room. "Get out."

"You need to get up now." The flash of navy trouser that I catch out of the corner of my eye precedes the shake of the bed and the ringing of his smartphone.

"Did you just fucking kick my bed?" I squint against the onslaught of sensations. "Who do you think you are?"

He ignores me in favor of answering his phone. I mutter under my breath as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, thankful that I kept my boxer briefs on last night. I already feel overexposed given the fact that he's dressed in a tailored suit, his hair neatly trimmed and his face freshly shaven. I don't need a mirror to tell me that I'm the exact opposite of that right at this moment.

"Watch yourself when you stand up, Brighton." He tucks the phone next to his lapel to shield our conversation from whoever is on the other end of that call. "You look like a truck ran over you. You're hung over."

It's that fatherly thing kicking in again. I know I'm hung over. I didn't need him to march uptown to my place to clue me into that. "Thanks," I say with as much blatant sarcasm as I can muster.

He turns his back to me to rattle off some meaningless numbers into the phone. I have to admit, I'm glad to see him back in a suit and in a boardroom. He'd given up the corporate world when he found the love of his life. He opted to take an active role in building her jewelry brand. Once that was established, they dove into their happily-ever-after at warp speed. Now, they're raising a family and living the life that I thought I wanted. It's been hard to swallow the painful reality that even though he's four years younger than I am, Jax has his act together. I'm still flailing aimlessly. Christ, I'm thirty-three-years-old. I'm too old to be this hung over.

I push myself to my feet. The instant I'm upright I feel my stomach drop. I reach to grab hold of a leather chair a few feet from the bed. I need to find my footing. If I can shuffle my feet into the bathroom, I know a shower is going to wash away most of what I'm feeling. I've done this enough times since I got back from Europe to know the drill.

"I brought you some coffee," Jax calls after me as I walk onto the heated, tiled floor towards the large shower stall I had installed when the place was remodeled a few months ago.

"I need more than that," I mumble before I push the door closed with my foot.

***

"I
t's about Liz, isn't it?" Jax bites heartily into a sandwich he obviously brought with him as I round the corner into the kitchen. "You're still not over her, are you?"

Christ. Liz? Next to Alexa she's the one woman I never want to think about again. I fell head over heels for Liz the first moment I saw her. She was cultured, refined and in love with my work. She's an artist too so she understood the creative parts of me that no one woman had before her. When she was hurt in an accident, I rushed to take care of her and our relationship blossomed from there.  Then I met Alexa and my life unraveled at warp speed.

I'm the first to admit that my track record with beautiful women the past few years hasn't been stellar. I was crazy about both of them, and they both wanted someone else. At least in Alexa's case, the guy she's madly in love with is alive. Liz can't go over her ex-lover, Mark, even though he's been dead for more than two years.

"Why bring her up?" I ask as I sit across from him. "I haven't talked about her since I got back from Paris. That was more than a year ago."

I haven't. Jax has no idea about what happened in Paris. He doesn't know that while I was helping nurse Liz back to health after the car accident that killed her ex-lover, Mark, and left her with multiple injuries, that I was subjected to listening to her cry almost non-stop about losing him. He has no idea that more than once when I was fucking her, she was screaming out Mark's name. I haven't confided in my younger brother that I met a beautiful, young woman there named Alexa Jackson who took me into her bed. I couldn't see it then, but she was offering me her heart. I was too blinded by my need to help Liz. Now that I've finally forgotten about her, I've also lost my chance with Alexa. My life is fucked. It's so fucked I can't see more than ten minutes in front of me at any given moment.

"You told Ivy on the phone last night that you were bummed about a woman." He picks up the paper cup of steaming coffee and brings it to his lips. "The last time I heard you talk about a woman it was Liz."

I follow his lead and pull the lid off the cup of coffee he brought for me. It's strong. The aroma hits me instantly and I'm grateful for it. I need a jolt of something to help get my mind back into focus. "It was someone else," I offer only because I don't want to spend the rest of the afternoon working my way through a maze of questions about Liz. She's a part of my past I'll never revisit. I need to start seeing Alexa that way too.

"Who then?" He tips his chin towards me. "What's her name?"

It's sitting there on the edge of my tongue but sharing it with him now is useless. Alexa married a man who used to be one of my closest friends. She walked down the aisle towards a future with Noah Foster. On top of that, I read online that they'd adopted twins. They have an instant family. I have absolutely no right to want her, or to even talk about her at this point. She's my past. Noah is her future. That's the end of that story.

"It doesn't matter." I feel my jaw tighten. "It's over, Jax."

He rests his elbows on the table. "I have to go home and explain to my wife why you needed to talk to me so badly last night that you called and woke her up."

I knew she sounded sleepy. I was in the middle of a self-imposed pity party so I hadn't bothered with consideration. When I called Ivy looking for Jax it had to have been after two this morning. No wonder she was worried. "I lost track of time."

He cocks a brow before he crosses his legs and leans back in the white leather chair. "You're a mess, Brighton. You haven't worked in months. You need to pull yourself together."

I look to the left, taking in the expansive chef's kitchen I had insisted on when the contractor came over to meet with me right after I returned from Europe. I don't know how to cook. The only thing in the refrigerator is a bottle of water. I've never turned on the stove. The entire apartment is immaculate because it's just the place I live. It's not a home. I don't have one of those. I can't honestly say that I've had one since I was a child.

"You think I don't know that?" I ask without turning my head towards him. "You think I like who I am right now?"

Silence is the only response. I can't blame him. It's the first flash of honesty that I've shown in years. I hide behind the veil of being one of the most successful artists of our time. People hand me things because of the art I create. It's fucked up. It's always been fucked up but the difference now is that I take advantage of it. I know it. I use women who want me for my name. I get invited to events because people think a spark of some unseen genius I possess is going to land on them if we're in the same room. They don't get it. No one does. I'm a pathetic guy who happens to know how to apply paint to a canvas. That's it.

"Have you given any more thought to that show at the new museum they're opening in London?"

The question comes out of left field. My assistant brought it up months ago and I relegated it to the back burner. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to care about my career. "I haven't," I confess. "I need to consider it."

"Consider it?" Jax pulls himself to his feet. "You need to do it. If you don't, people are going to stop caring about who Brighton Beck is."

Z
oe

"Do you have any idea who Brighton Beck is?" I push my hair behind my ears before picking up a box filled with file folders.

"Brighton Beck?" Norman, my volunteer partner for the day, taps his foot against the carpeted floor. "I think I've heard of him. He's in a boy band, right?"

I giggle so hard that the box that I'm trying to balance in my arms almost topples to the floor. After my very lucrative shift at the pub last night I'd searched the browser on my phone for all things Brighton Beck related on the subway ride home. Bridget hadn't noticed because she'd been too busy dozing off on my shoulder. The man who gave me the five hundred dollar tip is a celebrated artist. His paintings have hung in some of the most prestigious galleries and museums in the world. He's a big deal even if I don't understand art. I can appreciate talent and from the accolades written about him online, he's brilliant.

"He's an artist," I offer before tipping my chin towards an open office door down the hallway.

"What kind of an artist?" Norman calls from behind me. "Does he do street art?"

It's an obvious question given that we both had to walk past several street performers on our way from the subway stop to this office in mid-town this morning. It's Tuesday and that means I spend my morning volunteering for a non-profit that helps women who've been living in the city's shelters get back on their feet by providing training on how to re-enter the job market. I'd like to think I'm selfless but it looks good on my application for law school. Getting into one of the law schools in the city won't be easy, but I'm determined. I have a scholarship and an almost flawless undergraduate transcript in my back pocket. This is the place I want to settle down and start the next chapter in my academic life.

"He does watercolor paintings."

"You don't strike me as the watercolor painting type, Zoe." He can't contain the muted chuckle that seeps into the words. "I mean, you may be a closet art expert, but I haven't pegged you that way."

I should be offended but I've pigeonholed Norman just as much as he's secretly labeled me. I'd bet money on the fact that Norman is a virgin even though he's two years old than I am. I can't say that I've ever met a twenty-six-year old virgin before but then again, I don't randomly ask the people I cross paths with what their sexual history is. I'm not worth a second look to most men, but Norman generally can't keep his eyes off of me. It's flattering and creepy, and if I didn't see the blush that flashes over his cheeks every time I catch him checking me out, I may feel objectified. He's harmless and talking to him makes the mornings that I am here pass by that much faster.

"I met him at the pub I work at." I turn around after placing the box on a rectangular wooden table near a wall of filing cabinets. "He gave me a huge tip."

"Is he rich?" Norman's goal in life is to be a real estate investor. He works part time at a bank as a mortgage advisor and volunteers here the rest of the time. "He has to be rich if his paintings are being sold in galleries."

"I guess." I shrug. "I don't know anything about how much art costs."

He brushes his arm against mine as he lowers the two cardboard boxes he carried into the room onto the table. "I'm going to check it out."

I turn just as he pulls his smartphone out of the pocket of his black pants. I stare at all of the manila folders poking out from the top of the cardboard boxes.  Each one represents an archived file that has been transferred to an electronic format. We have to file the hard copies for future reference if needed. It's our job for the next three hours so I might as well get started.

"Zoe." Norman shifts his stance and leans towards me. "Look at this."

My eyes float over the screen of his smartphone. I can't distinguish anything mainly because Norman's hand is shaking nervously. "What is it?"

"It's one of his paintings." He shoves the phone closer to my face as if the added proximity is going to help me focus. "It just sold at an auction."

"That's good," I offer meekly in return. I'm curious. I'm damn curious about the price but I'm not about to jump all over Norman to give me the details. I should have paid more attention to the information online about Brighton Beck's actual career as opposed to the dozens of images of him captured by the paparazzi. I spent ten minutes staring at one of him walking down Broadway a few months ago in a white t-shirt, his toned, tattooed arm on full display.

"They don't say exactly how much it sold for." He leans so close to me that his breath rushes across my cheek. "All they say is that it was in the mid six figures."

"What?" I take a step back as much to absorb the number as to gain distance from Norman. I doubt he'd try to kiss me, but my lips aren't about to take any chances.

"That's not the only one that he's sold for a small fortune." His eyes and fingers are focused back on his phone's screen. "This guy is making bank with his paintings. It's no wonder he left you a huge tip."

My gaze darts briefly down to his phone before I turn back towards the cardboard boxes. "It's no wonder..." I repeat under my breath as I feel a welcome sense of relief overtake me. I'd felt so hesitant about the amount of the tip that I'd hid it in my dresser drawer back in the apartment. Now that I know that he can afford it, I'm going to deposit it in my education account the first chance I get.

***

"Y
ou do know that even though Elliott insists that we wear those ugly t-shirts that we don't have to, right? You'd get better tips if you wore a push up bra and a tank top."

It sounds like a subtle insult, but it's Bridget and she's just looking out for my breasts and me. Apparently, they are the secret golden ticket to more tips. I glance down at my chest that is hidden beneath the same black t-shirt I wear to the pub for every shift. "I don't own a push up bra."