All Fixed Up (19 page)

“It has nothing to do with you.” Okay, maybe not totally straight. But only slightly bent, so almost as good. “It's me. And I'd really,
really
appreciate it if you'd give me some time to work things out with him before you dig into it any further. Please.”

He glanced at me (he never took his eyes off the road for long when he was driving). I could tell he was dying to ask more. “All right. As long as he's not in any kind of trouble. I hope you guys work it out soon, though, because I could sure use his help with Loughlin.”

An awful thought struck me, one my mind had been too tangled with other thoughts to contemplate. “You don't think Loughlin, or someone he's working with, might have … I mean, Loughlin knows Billy's face from the funeral, and after Billy chased him at the museum…” I couldn't finish. My mouth was too dry.

Mark reached over the stick shift and covered one of my hands (which were currently gripping my knees tightly enough to leave bruises) with his own. His felt so warm I knew mine must be freezing. “Billy can take care of himself. There is no scenario I can imagine where Alec Loughlin could get the jump on him.”

I nodded stiffly, needing to believe it.
Damn.
What I needed was to
do
something. “Yeah. You're right. Look, I'm available, even if Billy isn't. Let me help. I think I proved I'm capable in Houston.”

“You did great in Houston, Howdy. I'm proud of you. But your skill set isn't—yet—up to Billy's. Not nearly.”

I couldn't exactly deny that. “I might not be in his league, but I'm better than nothing,” I said.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but at this point you're not. If I'm worried about you in the field, that's a distraction for me. And distractions are dangerous.”

I might have argued more, but it occurred to me—once again—that, as much as I'd welcome a distraction of my own, it wasn't only about me anymore.

*   *   *

Brian was ready for me, having ordered two large pizzas, one pepperoni, one Hawaiian. Not an anchovy in sight. Perversely, that brought a lump to my throat. Which made me feel like such an idiot I hit a pillow when Brian wasn't looking. Remarkably cathartic, hitting things. Boxing might be worth continuing.

Mark had walked me into the Williamsburg apartment, leaving his car under the watchful eye of a member of the security team assigned to Brian. He hadn't stayed, only told me to tell Billy to call him if I heard from him.

“Hey, sis,” Brian called from his tiny kitchen, “what do you want to drink? I have PBR, a couple of craft IPAs, and some fancy imported crap Thomas left here last time he visited.”

“Water for me, thanks,” I said, ripping the tops off the pizza boxes so we could use them as plates. “Bring some napkins, too, okay?”

He joined me on his lumpy sofa (honestly, he could afford better, but it wouldn't jibe with his image of himself as a poor indie musician), bringing a PBR, a generic bottled water, and a handful of paper towels. “Hey, just like old times, huh?”

I used to crash on Brian's couch after going to his shows, mainly to save him the trouble of seeing me all the way back to Mom and Dad's. Not that
I
expected him to, but Mom and Dad would have killed him if he'd put me in a taxi on my own in the middle of the night back then.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling at his open and friendly face. “Fun. Thanks again for letting me stay over.”

“No problem. Hell, I sure wouldn't want to tell Mom my place had been lit up.” He looked at me thoughtfully, his pupils only slightly dilated. “You okay? Really? It can't be easy losing all your stuff.”

I sighed. “It sucks. Still, it
is
only stuff, right? Nothing that can't be replaced.”

“Good attitude, sis. Hey, you wanna stream a movie or something? I don't have a gig tonight.”

“Or a date?” I teased. There were very few non-show nights Brian didn't spend with a girl.

He grinned. “Nah. Kirby dumped my ass. Said I wasn't ‘evolved' enough for her.”

I'd never even met Kirby. Just as well. It was hard enough to keep their names straight without having to worry about attaching faces to them. “Don't you usually have one or two waiting in the wings?”

“Mark asked me to give it a break. And a few nights off won't kill me. Frankly, I could use the rest.”

If he were any other guy, I'd think he was kidding around, or maybe bragging. But not Brian—he was way too ingenuous.

I gave him a friendly shove. “Poor exhausted baby. Okay, what do you want to watch?”

He grinned. “I'm cool with chick flicks, if you want. See? I can be evolved.”

Gah. Anything romantic would make me weepy for sure. “Yuck. No chick shit,” I said.

“Well … I
was
going to watch a Three Stooges marathon…”

Slapstick wasn't really my thing, but if that's what he'd been planning, I wasn't going to spoil his evening. Besides, random wacky violence actually sounded pretty good. “Perfect,” I said.

*   *   *

A few hours later I was convinced I'd been totally wrong in my earlier assessments of the Stooges. They were obviously comedic geniuses. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed so hard.

“This is brilliant!” I said, for probably the fifth time. “Curly's the sweetest, of course. Moe's grumpy, but he's
smart.
In his own way. And Larry is underrated—he's a lot deeper than he first appears.”

“What about Curly Joe?” Brian asked seriously, like my opinion on the matter was the most important thing in the world.

“Let's pretend he never happened,” I said, and giggled. “Maybe we can start an online petition. Get him removed from all things Stoogie.”

“Dude! Fantastic idea. Let me get my laptop. We can start with a web page, and then see if we can get it linked to Reddit. We'll need the exposure.”

I sat up straight. “Yes! Whoa. Bri. You know what we should do? Call Sinead and Siobhan—they could design us an awesome website!” Lurking beneath Billy's sisters' excessive Doyle gorgeousness were the hearts and brains of dedicated Internet geeks.

“Great idea, sis!” He reached for his phone.

“Wait. Let's get something to eat first. I'm starving.” And, boy, was I. Must be because I hadn't been eating much for the past few days, what with one worry and another. Funny, but it all seemed kind of fuzzy and far away now.

Brian looked at me kind of funny. “You ate three-quarters of a pizza.”

“I know. I had some cookies, too, while you were in the bathroom. They tasted
sooo
good—did one of your girlfriends make them? If so, you should totally keep her.”

Now he looked really strange. “Um, sis … which cookies did you eat?”

“The chocolate chip ones. Oh, no! Should I not have done that? Were you saving them for something special? Tell me they weren't your Christmas gift for Mom!”

He grinned. “Nope, definitely not a gift for Mom.”

“What, then?”

“Ciel, those were my, um,
special
cookies.”

I giggled. “Special? So, like, did you give them names? Did I eat little Sammy or Harry? Stephanie or Gloria?”

“You don't understand. They're the cookies I eat before I write a new song. The ones that
free my muse.
”

“Oh,” I said. “OH! Oh, my God! Bri, are you telling me I ate
pot
cookies? That I'm
high
?”

He shrugged. “You are if you ate those cookies. Don't worry—it'll wear off by morning. And you'll probably sleep really well tonight.”

Shit!
I ran to the bathroom. Hung my head over the toilet and stuck two fingers down my throat. I had to get it out of me. I mean, my God, if alcohol was bad for the baby, I didn't even want to contemplate what pot would do to it.

Brian pulled my hand away from my face. “Stop. It won't do any good at this point. It's already in your system. Relax, sis. Honestly, it's no worse than the martinis and Manhattans you like—better, probably. It's organic.”

“You don't understand!”

He nodded. “I think I might. Is this your first time? Man, I knew Mom and Dad were more protective of you than the rest of us—being a girl and the youngest, and all—but you went to college. How can anyone get through college without—”

“What? Of
course
it isn't my first time.” Technically, it was my second. I hadn't cared for it much at the one party in college where I'd tried it, and I hadn't ever been inclined to indulge again. But I'd been smoking it that time. And honestly? I hadn't inhaled. (Yeah, I know. Me and Bill Clinton.) “This feels … different.”

“You ever had an edible before?”

“Well … no. But it doesn't matter. I
can't
be high right now.” I was pacing the apartment, shifting direction like a pinball every time I came up against a wall or large piece of furniture.

“Calm down. Like I said, it's no worse than a few drinks.”

“But I'm not drinking anymore!”

“Whoa. Dude. That's extreme. Why not?”

I stopped pacing. Tried to gather my thoughts. “I, uh, I've been working out with Laura. Trying to get in shape, you know, learn to defend myself. I need to take care of my body.”

There. At least I hadn't spilled the beans to another brother. That showed presence of mind, right? Maybe I was only a teensy bit high.

Brian cocked his head, considering my revelation. “Cool. I get it. Your body's a temple. Well, you can start over tomorrow.”

I swayed, overcome with a wave of dizziness.

Brian caught me, held me steady. “How many cookies did you eat?”

“I don't know … two, I think. Maybe three. They were really good.” I gulped in air. “Oh, God, did I overdose? Don't tell Mom and Dad how I died! Make something up. Tell them … tell them I developed a sudden allergy to pineapple. Say it was anaphylactic shock from the Hawaiian pizza!”

Brian smiled, guiding me back over to the couch. He sat next to me and took both my hands in his. “Sis, listen to me. Sis! Are you listening?”

I slowed my breathing and stared at his face. “You have pretty eyes. They're like Mom's, only boy-ier … -ish … I mean,
man
-ier. Um, manlier.”

His smile got bigger. “Thank you. Now listen. First of all, you didn't OD. It's practically impossible to eat—or smoke—enough pot to kill you. So you're safe. Understand?
Safe.
”

I nodded.

“Second, I'm right here with you, and I'm not going anyplace. You are not alone. Remember that if you start to feel paranoid.”

I nodded again, comforted in spite of my swirling thoughts. “You're a good brother. You're my favorite, did I ever tell you that?”

“Why wouldn't I be? Thomas and James are workaholics. I'm the fun one.” He winked.

“Bri? I don't think I'm having fun.”

“I promise you will get through this. We'll watch more TV—it'll keep you focused. Your choice. More Stooges? Oh, hey look—it's
A Christmas Story
.”

He'd stopped flipping through the channels at the Santa scene, which normally cracked me up, even if it was a little mean. Only this time all I could think of was sitting on Billy's lap at the mall, and how now he'd never tease me like that again. I laid my head on my brother's shoulder and closed my eyes, wishing I could shut out my thoughts as easily as I could the picture on the screen.

 

Chapter 16

I bummed a ride to my parents' house with one of the security guys (young, dark, hunky-homely, and, I was sure, very well armed). When I apologized for putting him out, he told me he was the one assigned to follow me anyway, and giving me a ride actually made his job easier.

As Brian had promised, I'd made it through my incredible-edible trip. A sneak check of the Internet on my phone while Brian was absorbed in Ralphie shooting his eye out with the Red Ryder BB gun had assured me I probably hadn't irreparably damaged the bun in my oven. Somewhere in the middle of the
Home Alone
marathon that followed
A Christmas Story
, I was finally able to sleep.

Brian woke me at noon, handed me a jug of orange juice (which, following his instructions, I guzzled, feeling better almost at once), and told me Mom had called, and wanted to know when I was coming over. I wasn't sure who told her I was in town. I suspected Thomas. He must not have told Mom about my condo, though, or she would have been pounding on Brian's door instead of calling him.

Now I'd have to tell my parents myself, without freaking Mom out. I took a deep breath and reached out to knock on the door, adding “new key” to the shopping list I had going in my head. Before I could lay knuckle to wood, the door swung open and I was pulled inside, into my mother's arms. Dad's arms followed, encircling us both, pulling us into the house and shutting the door behind us without letting go. Apparently they
did
know about my condo.

I held on tight, inhaling security along with the familiar scents of Mom's light floral cologne and Dad's spicy aftershave, flashing back to all the times I used to insert myself into one of their hugs when I was a kid.

“Ciel sandwich,” I said, same as I always had. They squeezed tighter, same as they always had. Aurora and Patrick Halligan, the best parents on Earth. Or, as Billy used to tease when he saw this maneuver, the bread to my bologna.

I finally pulled myself away when a congregation of cats started slaloming between our legs. Mom shooed them away. “Sweetie, are you okay?” she said.

Dad waited expectantly for my answer. Seeing the love overshadowed by concern on both their faces squashed me harder than the group hug. “Guess you heard, huh?”