Filed To Story: Craving The Wrong Brother Book PDF Free by Elysian Sparrow
He doesn’t budge. “You want obsession? I broke my arm with a hammer for you. How about that?”
“Great,” I deadpan. “You’re a psychopath.”
I lean in, grab his leg, and yank. He tries to resist, gripping the edge of the seat with his good hand, but he doesn’t have enough strength or balance. The moment I get good leverage, I tug again, and he slips out of the car, landing awkwardly on the pavement.
People nearby glance over. Some pause. Some mutter. I ignore all of them.
“Get up,” I say.
He scowls. “You pulled me down. Bring me up yourself.”
I mutter a curse and bend down, careful not to jostle his injured arm, and hoist him up by his uninjured side. He’s heavier than I expect, but adrenaline is a powerful thing. I manage to get him to his feet.
Then, just as I’m about to step back, he grabs me by the waist and pulls me into him. I struggle, but he’s stronger than he looks.
He leans in. I see it coming. The way his mouth inches closer, the wildness in his eyes, and-
I slap him. Hard.
The sound cracks through the air.
He flinches back, holding his cheek, looking stunned but somehow amused. “Aww. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Take your hands off me.”
“Fine.”
He lets go.
I step away from him. “Goodbye, Finn.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just watches me like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me. Then he says, voice low and broken, “Don’t do this. My brother… he’s not capable of caring for someone for long. He’ll leave you. He always leaves.”
The Barbecue
I don’t dignify it with a response. I walk back around the car, climb in, and start the engine.
As I shift into gear, he shouts over the sound, “He’ll break your heart, Sloane. I’m just trying to help you.”
“You broke my heart first,” I say, not looking at him. “Keep your help.”
I reach into the center console and pull out the business card Knox gave me. Without hesitation, I roll down the window and fling it out.
“By the way,” I call out, “that’s the contact for a shrink. I couldn’t find one for a psychiatrist. But hey, you’ve got to start somewhere.”
“Sloane-“
I pull away before he can say anything else.
It’s Saturday, and I have unfortunately committed myself to two events. My half-brother’s birthday and my mom’s matchmaking barbecue.
The birthday party is everything I expected it to be: loud, chaotic, and entirely too sugar-fueled for my nerves.
I’m standing under the shade of a thin patio umbrella in my father’s backyard, watching a swarm of kids run screaming across the grass with party horns and sticky faces. Balloons are tied to lawn chairs. There’s a bounce castle in one corner and a bubble machine in the other. A man in a superhero costume is taking photos with the kids while a woman with paint- smeared cheeks decorates tiny faces with butterflies and dragons.
It’s too much.
The only saving grace is the small cup of store-bought wine someone handed me near the entrance. I’ve already finished it.
My phone vibrates again in my bag. I don’t even need to check to know it’s a message from my mom. She’s sent me seven in the past hour. ‘Where are you? We’re starting. Don’t make me come and drag you here myself.’
I haven’t opened any of them. The notifications alone are enough to give me PTSD from Finn’s texts-one number after another after I blocked the first five. When he’s desperate, he gets creative. I half expect a homing pigeon next.
“Hey, kiddo,” my dad says as he walks up to me, brushing cracker crumbs off the front of his jeans. “Enjoying the party?” “If you’re asking whether I enjoy watching children scream and smear cake on each other’s faces, then hell no.”
He chuckles. “Does that mean I’m not getting a grandchild soon?”
“What do you need one for? You’ve got a four-year-old tearing around like a caffeinated raccoon.”
“He does keep me busy. You were a quiet child.”
I stare at him, trying hard not to pick apart that comment, because if I do, I’ll have to admit what it really means. That he doesn’t know me as much as he should. He never threw me birthday parties, never even liked parties until he married Daphne-the-lifestyle-blogger-with-the-perfect-legs-and-a-Pinterest-obsession and suddenly transformed into Dad of the Year. I wasn’t a quiet child. I just didn’t have anyone to talk to.
“I have to go,” I say, checking the time. “Mom’s having a barbecue, and she thinks I stood her up.”
“Typical of your mother to host an event the same day my son turns four.”
“Don’t make it sound like a competition.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I came, didn’t I?” I nudge the gift box beside me with the tip of my foot. “I even bought him a present. That should earn me points. Besides, you should be happy. She’s practically arranged a few bachelors to woo me at this event.”
His face twists. “You don’t sound excited.”
“What’s there to be excited about? What am I supposed to do with an artist? Discuss Van Gogh? Let him sketch me in charcoal while I hold a pear?”
“An artist?” His eyebrows rise. “She’s setting you up with Jude’s friends?”
“Jade, Dad.”
“Jude. Jade. Whatever.”
“Yep.” I pick up the gift and start walking toward Daphne, who’s currently crouched with the birthday boy near the cake table. He’s stabbing a balloon with a plastic fork.
“That’s crazy,” my dad mutters behind me.
“It is what it is, Dad.”
I bend to hug Daphne and ruffle the boy’s hair. He grins and snatches the gift, already tearing into it like it owes him money. I don’t wait to be thanked.. The Barbecue
“See you in a month, huh?” Daphne calls after me.
“Yeah. See ya.”
I make it almost to the driveway before my father catches up again.
“Although it sounds odd,” he says, “it’s not necessarily a bad thing. You’ve always had a habit of liking things only when they’re forced on you. Maybe this could be the start of your love story.”
I glance at him sideways. “Seriously?”
“Artists tend to get obsessed with things. That could work in your favor.”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
He grins. “Maybe the problem is you don’t like men. Are you a lesbian?”
I stop beside my car and turn to him with a smirk. “Who knows, Dad? Spaghetti is straight until it gets wet, right?”
“Sloane!”
“Come on,” I say, laughing. “It was a joke, not a… Don’t take it so hard.”
“I sense another sex joke in there.”
I lean in and hug him. “See you later, Dad.”
Then I slide into the driver’s seat and pull out.
It takes me thirty minutes to get to my mom’s neighborhood-an upper-class bubble of manicured lawns and pastel shutters, where even the garden gnomes look expensive. Their house is the one with the ridiculous stone fountain shaped like a swan and a ridiculous number of parked cars lining the curb.
The moment I step out of the car, I can hear the party in full swing. Music plays from a speaker somewhere. Laughter rises over the sound of sizzling meat. The smell of grilled chicken and cedar planks hits me.
The backyard is dotted with guests. A few are seated under canvas canopies, sipping wine and chatting. Others play lawn games-cornhole, horseshoes, a weird ring toss game with a leaderboard and chalk. Tables are stacked with plates, finger foods, salad bowls, jugs of iced tea. There’s even a station for make-your-own sundaes. Of course.
My mom is standing near the cornhole area, a bright blue sundress fluttering in the breeze, long dark hair perfectly styled. Her husband, Jade, is beside her, wearing one of those golf shirts that only people with yachts get away with.
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