Page 9 of Second Draft

The parking lot is packed with people, but none of them are Layla.

Damn it. I comb my fingers over my face and curse.

She’s gone. And I have no idea if I’ll ever see her again.

Chapter 3

Carter

One year…

A line of cars outside my house is my first indication that my brother is throwing a party. The second is the thumping music that vibrates through the bay windows.

Fuck.

I was hoping to get Travis alone.

He wouldn’t tell me over the phone, but I’m pretty sure he’s dug himself in another hole. One that I’m going to have to bail him out of – again.

This shit is getting old. And so am I. Too old to be cleaning up after him.

Sure, I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but there comes a time when you need to grow the hell up.

From the foyer, I can see a handful of people in the living room, and another half dozen in the kitchen. But no sign of my brother anywhere.

I drop my luggage at the front door, and a few heads turn to look in my direction, then continue on with whatever they’d been doing, which consists mostly of drinking and smoking up.

The house smells like a goddamn fraternity. Beer. Cigarettes. Pot. Sex.

There’s a group of three guys sharing a bong on the living room couch. A couch I just replaced six months ago because Travis’ buddies set fire to the old one, nearly burning down the damn house.

“Do you know where Travis is?” I growl out.

One of the guys looks up, eyes glazed. “He’s with some chick upstairs.”

I shake my head when he raises the bong for me to take.

This shit has got to stop.

I take the stairs, and pound on Travis’ door.

“Busy,” is the muffled reply, followed by a woman’s moan.

“Travis, open the fucking door.”

There’s a few curses, followed by a couple thumps, before the door opens, and my brother stands half naked in front of me.

“Nice party,” I say sarcastically, getting a full glimpse of the red head’s breasts, before she pulls her top over her head.

Her eyes rake over me and she gives me an appreciative smile.

Ignoring her, I glance back at Travis who takes the t-shirt the woman hands him and shrugs it on.

He motions for the girl to leave with a dismissive tilt of his head.

“I didn’t expect you until next week,” he says, dragging his fingers through his shaggy, brown hair.

“Obviously.”

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