Eternal Brand (21 page)

Hadn't she?

“Maybe I shouldn't.”

Jet's tone had the ring of finality about it. Apparently he'd interpreted her suggestion as a permanent one. She had to apologize, to clarify, but the words got stuck in her throat.

If Jet was the one who'd pushed Brand into his recent freak-out, would Brand come back if Jet was here?

“There is no us without him. We both know that, Emily.”

Emily's chest felt hollowed out. How could this be happening? How could she be losing two people who meant so much to her in a matter of hours? Panic began to claw at her. “When Brand comes back…”

Her words trailed off when Jet looked at her sadly. He didn't think Brand was coming back, and for the first time Emily started to believe him. Had she lost Brand for good? And if so, what about her and Jet?

There's no us without him.
Did he genuinely believe that? If they'd met in other circumstances, both of them unencumbered by their devotion to Brand, would they have gotten together?

They'd never know.

“I'm going to go.” Jet put his hands in his pockets, and Emily heard the jingle of his keys as he fingered them.

“Jet…”

“I have to, Em. It's not me you want.”

It wasn't true, and yet it was. Brand was the one who held the key to her heart, and she had no idea if she could open herself to Jet alone. What if he was right, and their link to Brand was all that was keeping them together? What if she hurt him? She was angry and frustrated with him right now, but the last thing she wanted was to hurt him.

It didn't take long for Jet to throw his few possessions into his bag. Emily sat on the edge of the couch, George's head on her feet. Gus stared between her and the bedroom where Jet was, occasionally making plaintive whimpering noises.

Emily knew just how he felt.

Too soon, Jet was packed. Emily stood and watched despondently as he opened the door. Halfway out he stopped and turned back to her. Emily had no idea what kind of look was on her face but when Jet saw it his expression softened.

“Ah, Em.” He walked back to her, and she all but fell into his arms. He held her close for long moments while she trembled against him, tears seeping out of her eyes and onto his leather jacket.

Eventually he used two fingers to tilt her chin until she was looking at him. His image blurred in her vision, but his lopsided smile was clear and sad, and it pierced Emily's heart. “I'll never forget what you did for me and Brand, Em. What you tried to do for all of us. There's no one else in the world like you, hon. I'm sorry I messed things up.”

He put his lips on hers, smothering any objection she might have made. She wanted to scream that he was wrong, that he hadn't wrecked anything. All he'd done was try to tell her the truth.

But the truth had shattered her bubble of paradise. The truth was something she still didn't want to face. So she closed her eyes and let him kiss her one last time.

And then she let him leave.

Sometime after midnight, Emily woke calling Jet's name.

That it was Jet's name on her lips, and not Brand's, surprised her. A fresh wave of pain engulfed her as she remembered the look on Jet's face as he'd left. He'd said they were nothing together without Brand, but the regret in his eyes, the weight of loss that had been etched on his face, told a different story. Over the past month her relationship with Brand had expanded to include Jet. But somehow in that time she'd also developed a connection with Jet that had nothing to do with Brand.

She'd fallen in love with him for himself, and not just for how he'd forced Brand to open up. She loved him, and she'd let him walk away.

Feeling sick to her stomach and enormously foolish, Emily sat up on the couch. The dogs stirred at her feet, and she bent down to stroke their heads reassuringly. “I screwed up bad, George,” she said. “And I'm not sure how to fix it.”

She could call Jet. But what could she say? The reasons he'd left were still between them. Brand hadn't come back, and Emily wasn't ready to move on as though this disappearance was permanent. He'd have to at least return for his things at some point. Maybe then she could talk some sense into him. Together they could work out what to do about Jet.

A cold sense of dread came over her as a thought occurred.
No.
At first she rejected the possibility, but her brain turned it over stubbornly. It had taken her and Jet a good ten minutes to leave Briscoe's. They'd had to reassure her family that everyone would be all right, to ask them to deflect the police. Jet had told them that the thugs had attacked him and that Brand was acting in his defense.

Then they'd come straight home. Emily hadn't considered the possibility Brand would have had time to return to Mulholland and leave again before she and Jet got here. Her pulse hammered. What if she'd been wrong?

Rising from the couch, Emily bolted into the bedroom. She switched on the light and ran to the cupboard.

Brand's shirts and jeans were gone. So was his duffle bag, the one piece of luggage he owned, the only thing he'd brought with him when he'd moved in with her. Her side of the wardrobe was full of her things, but the other side was empty. Cleaned out.

Brand truly was gone. No explanations, no goodbye. Just as he'd done to Jet more than once before.

Jet had tried to warn her, but she hadn't listened. Brand had vanished as though he'd never existed. She'd pushed Jet away when he'd tried to prepare her for this. Now she'd lost them both. And what's more, they'd lost each other again.

A sob rose out of her chest, slammed into her throat. She covered her mouth with her hand, sure whatever sound she emitted would be an agonized cry, something loud enough to alert the neighbors. Her heart shattered and cast shards of pain all through her body.

Emily sank onto the bed and cried until her throat was raw.

Chapter Twenty-Two

In the days that followed the shitstorm that was Penny's birthday party, the weather turned gray and wet. The pacific highway was a mess, with sections of the road close to flooding and vehicle pileups causing delays. Jet gave up trying to ride through it on the first day, pulling over in a sleepy fishing village to hole up in a cheap cabin with vague thoughts of getting drunk and forgetting his troubles.

He bought a bottle of vodka, but it sat untouched on the nightstand as he stared up at the ceiling throughout the long night, wondering where to go from here.

Home. Back to the orchard.
It was the only place he could imagine tolerating in the wake of how things had ended with Emily and Brand. He was thirty-one years old, and all he wanted to do was go home to his mother. He might have been embarrassed, if he hadn't learned from a young age how precious it was to have a family that loved you, how important it was to appreciate it. He wouldn't be ashamed of wanting to take comfort in the homey kitchen while his mother cooked a roast and told him everything would be fine.

He needed to hear the words even though he knew he wouldn't believe them. Nothing would be fine ever again, not now he had to live with what could have been. He hadn't merely lost Brand this time, he'd lost Emily too. The pain was so much worse, not only because he was missing two people, but because he sensed this had been his last chance with Brand, and he'd blown it.

No. Brand blew it.

That was the crux of the matter. Brand had blown it, as Jet had always known he would. As Brand had always intended to. He had never meant to stay with Emily, he'd simply found it too hard to leave her—until Jet forced his hand.

Emily was right. None of this would have happened if it weren't for me.
Maybe Brand would never have left, and he and Emily could have gone on in their state of blissful ignorance. Who was he to say it wasn't right? At least they'd been at peace. At least Emily had been happy.

With a muttered curse, Jet got out of bed and strode to the window. He looked out and saw the gray light of dawn trying to punch a hole in the miserable night. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. If he got on the road now, perhaps he'd avoid most of the day traffic. Traveling in these conditions wasn't an attractive prospect, but it beat the hell out of staying put and being haunted by the memory of Emily's distraught face as she'd struggled to deal with the fact of Brand's departure. It beat the inescapable guilt that her pain was his fault.

His decision made, Jet packed the few things he'd taken out of his bag. He'd paid cash for the room upfront, so within minutes he was back on the Harley and on the highway heading south. The cold seeped into his bones, penetrating the thick leather of his jacket, making him feel as rotten physically as he did emotionally. He kept riding, feeling his pain turn to anger with every mile he traveled. Anger at himself, anger at Brand—or at least at Brand's past and how it had damaged him. Brand couldn't go on like this, isolating himself from everyone who loved him. It would kill him.

Seven and a half hours later, Jet was turning into the long driveway that led to his parents' house. Somewhere over the long ride, a new resolve had planted in his head. He'd lost Brand before, twice, and he loved Emily too much to let her suffer through the pain of it. He loved Brand too much to let him go on hurting himself, go on believing the lesson his parents had taught him. That he wasn't worthy of love, that he didn't matter.

That he was nothing.

The afternoon sun slanted over the orchard, elongating the shadows cast by the orange trees. Nothing but sunshine down here, and Jet decided to take it as a good sign. He wasn't sure he believed in omens, but he was in the mood to believe in something. He had to. The alternative was rolling over and playing dead, something he'd never been very good at doing.

“Jet?”

Carla Durante had emerged from the house and was now tripping down the steps to greet him with a warm smile. At fifty-one, Jet's mother looked like a woman in her midforties and had the energy to back it up. There were flecks of gray in her black hair and crinkles around her eyes, but neither detracted from her beauty or indomitable vitality. A wave of love washed over Jet as he swung off his bike and enveloped her in a tight hug.

His mother stepped back to look at him. “I didn't know you were coming back today.”

“Sorry I didn't call.”

“You don't have to call. Our door is always open, you know that.”

Jet smiled. The Durantes' door was always open to anyone who needed love or a warm place to stay. Sometimes that person was their son, other times it was a lost and untrusting kid, like Brand.

“Come inside for coffee, it's cold out,” Carla said. “The kids are out in the paddock with your father.”

“Tom and Jaxon?”

Carla nodded. “And Shaylene. She's new. Such a sad girl. I made Rafe take her out too. She needs to spend time with a man who won't hurt her. I don't think she ever has.”

Jet couldn't help but hurt for the little girl. He'd never managed to grow hardened to the sad stories he'd heard so often over the course of his life, and neither had his mother. It was that empathy that made Carla Durante a terrific foster mother—and a terrific mother. Both he and Brand had been lucky to have her.

Once they were inside and the coffee was brewing, Jet took a seat at the breakfast bench and let the warmth of the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon rolls baking, give him strength and comfort. His mother added to both when she leaned across the counter and covered his hand with hers. “You found him, I take it?”

“Yeah.” Jet showed her a lopsided smile. “How did you know?”

“No one but Brand can put a look as sad as this on your face.”

Jet sighed. “But wait, there's a new contender.”

Jet found himself telling his mother everything, or at least a G-rated version of it. He'd admitted his bisexuality to his parents years ago, but he wasn't about to go into graphic detail about his sexual exploits. He told Carla about Emily, how Brand had found some peace with her and Jet had inadvertently destroyed it. Or at least he and Brand had both destroyed it as surely as two lit fuses heading toward a crate full of dynamite would have.

“You and Brand always sparked off each other,” Carla mused. “There's nothing wrong with that.”

“There is when someone else ends up getting hurt.” Jet thought of Emily crying on his shoulder before he'd left Mulholland and a fresh pang of regret gripped him. “She didn't deserve that, Mum.”

“Then what does she deserve?” Carla asked. “You?”

Jet shook his head. “It's Brand she wants. And I'm going to get him back for her—but I need your help.”

“You know I'll do anything to help you, Jet. But if Emily doesn't want you perhaps she's too much a fool to deserve your intervention here.”

Jet smiled at his mother's loyalty. “You don't have to get riled up on my account. I'm tough. I'll survive this. It's Brand who's in trouble. I'm doing this for him as much as Emily. Will you help me?”

“Of course I will, sweetie.” Carla sighed, giving up on her attempts to evaluate his love life. For now, anyway. Jet was pretty sure he'd hear more about it at a later date. “Just tell me what you need.”

So Jet laid down his plan for her, which involved some logistical maneuvering and a bit of fibbing. Lucky for him, his mother was capable of both when there was a cause at stake.

Brand woke with a jerk, his throat hoarse, his cheeks wet. His chest ached as he struggled to breathe. He reached out but his hands clawed at an empty mattress. The night was a heavy gray blanket trying to smother him.

He bolted upright. He got out of bed and staggered to the window. The ancient hinges creaked as he opened it. Brand breathed in great gulps of the crisp air. It didn't smell familiar. He wasn't even sure where he was. His brain scrambled to figure it out, to do anything other than dwell on the nightmare that had forced him awake.

He'd driven for two days, stopping to eat only when his stomach protested and sleeping for twenty-minute grabs in roadside rest areas along the way. Every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd seen Emily's face, the way she'd stared at him with such horror and disbelief. Or he'd seen Jet facing off with those thugs in Leyton's Headland, risking serious injury and scaring the shit out of Brand. He'd driven to escape the memories, only stopping finally, out of sheer exhaustion, in a middle of nowhere town called…

Kelly.
The town was called Kelly, and he was in a room above a pub called Ned's Rest.

There was a knock on the door. “You okay in there?”

The publican, Keith. A roughly spoken guy in his late sixties with thin salt and pepper hair and a pronounced limp. Brand swallowed over the dryness in his throat. How long had he been crying out in his sleep? He didn't think he'd ever been that loud before.

“Yeah,” he answered, but the word was barely a rasp. Brand sensed the old guy on the other side of the door, waiting. He walked over and opened it a crack. “I'm okay.”

There was a light on in the hall, presumably so guests could find their way to the shared bathroom in the middle of the night. Fortunately tonight he was the only occupant of the top floor besides the publican and his wife. Keith used the bulb's scant illumination to assess Brand with shrewd eyes. “You sure?”

No. I think I'm completely fucked, actually.
He nodded. “Yeah. Sorry I woke you.”

“Doesn't matter. I don't sleep so well myself.” Keith held up a mug. “Rum and milk helps sometimes. You want some?”

Brand's throat felt red raw, and he knew sleep wouldn't be returning anytime soon. He wasn't sure he wanted it to. He nodded again. “Thanks.”

He put on his old gray hoodie and followed Keith downstairs, where the old guy found him a mug and microwaved the milk before adding a nip of Captain Morgan's and setting it on the bar. Brand took a sip of the concoction. It was good.

They sat on adjacent barstools quietly drinking their rum for several minutes. Brand wanted to apologize again for the screaming, but he was too embarrassed to bring it up. In the past the screaming had remained trapped in his head, a dull echo. But this nightmare—a series of nightmares, one on top of the other—it was worse than the others.

He hadn't thought they could get any worse.

After a while Keith asked, his voice quiet, “How many tours did you do?”

Brand should have realized. The gruff mannerisms, the broken sleep. The limp. From his age Brand guessed Keith's bad dreams were often set in Vietnam. He didn't evade the truth. “Four.”

Keith let out a low whistle. “I did two in '69. Got my knee torn open in the second one. Took some shrapnel to the gut too.”

Brand was lucky in that way, that he hadn't been physically maimed while serving his country. The ever-present sense of guilt that he was able-bodied when so many others weren't made it impossible for Brand to say anything. Nothing you could say to make someone feel better about it, and any attempts would end up sounding hollow.

A few more minutes passed. The town of Kelly was dead silent beyond the pub walls, and Brand had the eerie sense that he and Keith could be the only people left in the world. Two weary soldiers sharing a last rum before the end of time.

Keith snapped him out of it pretty quick with his next question. “You talked to anyone about it? A professional?”

Brand glanced at Keith, before returning his stare to his drink. “Army psychologist a couple of times.”

“The compulsory stuff.” Keith shook his head. “Bullshit. Designed to make sure you're fit for active duty. If you're not, they send you home and forget about you.”

There was more support than that these days, but Brand wasn't going to argue about it. He'd been offered help. He'd refused it, instead opting to travel around the country doing odd jobs to sustain himself, making sure he didn't get attached to anyone. You don't get attached, you've got nothing to lose.

That had worked for a while. Until he'd done some odd jobs for Emily Irving and he'd found somewhere to stay. He'd broken his rule and it had ended badly.

He rubbed his hand, sure he could feel the salty sting of Emily's tears flowing onto it.

“You know, I wasted a lot of time after I got back,” Keith said. “Twenty years of being angry or drunk, usually both. Twenty years lost. Took me a long while and some group therapy to realize the drink doesn't kill the nightmares, only slows them down.”

“I don't drink.” Brand looked at his half-empty mug and pushed it aside.

“I can tell. But you're losing years, son, as surely as I did. I was lucky. I eventually found Doris.” Keith cast his eyes to the roof, where the woman who ran the pub with him slept. “She saved me. Too late for kids or anything like that, but we made a life here. You have to find a reason to keep going, or you'll die. Doris is my reason. Maybe Emily is yours.”

Prickling heat raced over Brand's skin. How many times had he called Emily's name before Keith had eventually gotten out of bed? The nightmare had gone on and on, a blur of images he couldn't escape. Emily's face in place of his mother's, her beautiful green eyes cold and unseeing. Emily with blood seeping out of a gaping chest wound, gasping her last breath as she told him she loved him.

And it was Emily's face he'd seen, not the bearded bikie's, beneath his fists. He'd hit her and hit her until she was bloodied and bruised. Jet had been standing by, his voice accusing.
This is going to break her heart.

Remembering it now was like sinking into an ice bath. Brand shivered and changed his mind about forgoing the warm rum drink. He picked up the mug and took a long swig. The chill stayed with him.