Page 64 of The Trade

The next morning,I’m up with the sun, despite the chaos swirling in my head. Shannon, being the absolute sweetheart she is, insisted on staying at a friend’s house to allow Mica the comfort of her bed.

“Why would he sleep on the couch?” she’d asked, oblivious to the situation. “There’s a perfectly good bed in my room.”

Mica’s petty antics are as predictable as they are irritating. Step One: Invite Shannon to dinner, knowing I’d feel cornered. Step Two: Dazzle her with his star-athlete charm, right in front of me. Step Three: God, I hope we never get to step three.

While I’m not particularly bothered by her joining us, it’s obvious he invited her as a provocation. He’s had a vendetta against every guy I’ve dated, stretching as far back as my first high school boyfriend, whom he had quite seriously threatened to castrate.

It’s juvenile. It’s chauvinistic. It’s downright infuriating. And yet, it’s also somewhat endearing. I know my brother cares for me, that he wants to protect me. But there’s absolutely no reason for him to do so with West.

“Ace,” I call, pounding on the door to Shannon’s bedroom. “Get your ass out of bed. We’re going to the farmer’s market.”

Predictably, he groans, “Shut up.”

I count to five in my head, putting on my best “mom” voice. “Get up, or I’m coming in there.”

Sure enough, Mica’s out the door and ready to go in less than five minutes. With just a pair of jeans, a simple T-shirt, and a quick run of a comb through his hair, he somehow looks like he’s walked straight out of a catalogue. It’s annoying as hell.

We make it through the day relatively unscathed, but as we prep for our dinner, I find myself issuing the same warning to him over and over again—not to fuck with Shannon. After the sixth repetition, I can only hope he’s taken it to heart.

“You know I’m serious,” I say, my voice a hushed whisper. “She’s, like, my best friend. I don’t want you screwing with her, even if you think it’s harmless.”

We’re in my room, with him buttoning up his shirt and me trying to wriggle into my two-inch Manolo heels. Shannon’s in the living room, ignorant of our conversation. And by my calculations, West should be at the restaurant already, waiting for us.

“I thought I was your best friend.”

“You both are,” I correct him, my voice firm. “Which is why your flirting doesn’t amuse me.”

“Okay, okay.” He rolls his eyes in playful resignation. “Just make sure your running back keeps his hands to himself.”

“Don’t you worry about West. He’s one of the good guys.”

His laughter fills the room, an easy sound that temporarily calms my nerves. “Yeah, we’re all good guys ... until we’re not.”

“Who’s the cynic now?”

“We both are,” he says, mischief dancing in his dark eyes. “I just happen to know how guys think, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well ... keep your guy-brain away from Shan, and we’re golden.”

He laughs again, though it doesn’t give me the reassurance I’m hoping for.

“Ace ...”

“Lil, I love you.” He turns away from the mirror to pull me into a hug. “I’ll be on my best behavior tonight.”

His promise hangs in the air long after his words fade. I hold on to it, hoping against hope that he’ll stick to it. For the sake of Shannon, West, and especially me.

* * *

For the past hour,Mica’s been trying to uphold his promise, keeping his interactions with Shannon civil and merely polite. He initiates rounds of drinks, orders a handful of appetizers, even extends the courtesy to ask for West’s preferences.

Yet the man in question is nowhere to be found. He’s nearly an hour late, with not so much as a text or call to offer a lifeline.

And Mica, bless his heart, is holding it together, but the clench of his jaw and the darkness flashing in his eyes betray his anger. He’s trying for my sake, and damn if that doesn’t twist my insides in guilt.

Escaping our table, I step outside, the third time tonight, desperate for fresh air and a break from my brother’s silent wrath. Phone pressed to my ear, I’m left again with the dial tone ringing in my ears, West’s voicemail message practically imprinted on my mind.

“Hey, I’m so sorry.” His voice, gruff and tinged with regret, startles me from my frustrated thoughts. Turning around, I’m met with an apologetic gaze.

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