Page 60 of Van Cort
CHAPTER TWENTY
WEST
They’re cooking dinner now, as if they’re some couple on the road to happiness. I say they are, and Rhett isn’t doing a damn thing other than watching her ass move around the kitchen and drinking wine. Which is exactly what I was doing as she ran through the forest. I chuckle and keep watching, remembering her panicked face and that ass pumping her legs forward. I could’ve tripped her up, smothered her, fucked her. Didn’t, though. I’m nice like that.
My gaze drifts up to my brother again. At least he’s drinking again now. He’ll fuck up that way - make a mistake. Or purposely screw the whole situation just to make sure she feels his screwed-up idea of care.
Wait – I move to the side window, keeping to the darkest sections of the shadows out here – she’s got him up to do something. Cutting vegetables? And he’s smiling? Jesus Christ, this is like a family retreat, where one’s wearing an apron and the other’s in a smoking jacket.
I spin away to stare into the dark rather than feel as nauseated as I do. He’s fucking serious, isn’t he? This woman really does mean something to him. Or that damn marriage contract does, because he sure as hell wouldn’t be cutting vegetables otherwise.
Despite my original purpose back in Seattle, I’m now unsure what to do about any of the situation in front of me.
I frown and stare out into the darkness, part remembering footsteps and laughter, the water, the island. Of all the places he could have brought her, this was the worst for me. It shouldn’t be. I should be able to manage it - be more Rhett about the whole damn place and ignore the pain. But it hurts. It all fucking hurts.
Well, maybe making him share her will fucking hurt, too.
Looking back again, I watch as she reaches for the remote to the stereo. She turns it up loud enough that I can see Rhett flinch. He hates loud. Always has. And now she’s sashaying her way over to him, for what? Dancing? He reciprocates – hand on her waist, grip tightening, lips meeting lips. She’s loving it. Him? Not so much. Need always overruled heart for my brother. Fascination, protectiveness, fits of covetous rage? Yes, they’re all there, but enjoyment of touch? Of passion? I’m not sure he’s experienced it, or even wants it. That must be what this bullshit is now – an attempt to show something he doesn’t understand, even if he is good at acting. Unless he’s changed. Could have, it has been twenty years after all. Unlikely, though.
He should just get on with fucking her. So I can watch.
He’ll know I’m here if she told him what she thought she saw in the woods. I could have scared her more; a little game of chase never hurt anyone. She was panicked enough to race back. Shemight not have been able to see me properly, but I saw the fear in her eyes. Maybe I scared her just enough so she did run to him. Desperation for help? That would suit him. Even test his stranglehold of the mask he’s got on.
I walked for a while after I played with her. I wandered the land I should own and trailed the footsteps we walked long ago. All the while picturing her breath in the air from her hassled sprint towards the boathouse, and that’s where I ended up. Just thinking and staring at the island in the distance.
Leaving my hidden position, I cut around the side of the house and use the old cellar doors to access the main house. Two secret doors and a passageway later, I enter the music room. Dust plumes from the door as I close it quietly behind me. It’s a sad fucking room to look at considering its past use. The old, dark wood panelling looks lacklustre and dirty, and sheets lie dormant over the piano and array of musical instruments.
I pull one gently off the guitars and smile. We spent hours here as kids. We played and we learned. He was the technician, classical and precise. I broke all the rules and made a lot of fucking noise just to piss on his sense of serenity. And yet we wound each other to the same place eventually, with one of us conceding, or finally matching the other, whether we liked it or not. It’s annoying how that happens with twins. We fought, and argued occasionally, but somehow we always ended up back at the most natural state we could be. Compatibility, I guess. We’d be a good couple if incest was of any interest to us. Or dick was.
I wonder if he’s fucking her yet?
Picking up the guitar, I strum a few chords and pick at the notes. Old songs come quickly, lightly, so I ramp up the strength of the sound to make sure either he or she hears it. The music out there switches off abruptly. Two more chords, just to make sure they hear something, and I stop and put the guitar back on itsstand. I walk backwards as the sound of footsteps grows closer, heading for this room, and I slip behind the secret door again.
As the main door into the room creaks, I pull my own door closed, and my brothers’ feet sound heavy. “See? Nothing,” he says.
I smile. He knows damn well I’m not nothing.
“I’m sure I heard something,” she says. “Music. Look. Why is that guitar uncovered?” Silence for a second or two.
“It’s mine. I must have left it uncovered last time I was here.” Liar.
“You play?” she asks, surprised.
“Yes.”
“Piano and guitar?”
“Rich kids get to do all kinds of crap that doesn’t mean much to them.” I frown at his dismissal, almost hurt by it. This room meant a damn sight more than nothing. It was our sanctuary from that asshole we called a father.
His footsteps move again.
“Play something for me,” she says.
“No.”
“Please.”
Silence.
