Badd Mojo, Page 2

  Tate knocked her mother's hand away. "You don't get to call me that." She backed away. "Bye, Mom."

  And then Tate turned her back on her mother. She had tears in her eyes, but her shoulders were back and her head was high, and she gratefully returned to the shelter of Corin's side.

  Rachel paused in the doorway, holding the door open with one hand, glancing back at Aerie. "And you, Aerie?"

  Aerie, standing next to me, leaning against my side with one hand on my chest, head leaning on my bicep, just shook her head. "She spoke for both of us regarding your behavior and how you treat us," Aerie said. "And I have nothing else to say to you right now."

  "Fine." Rachel sighed. "I'll be leaving Ketchikan on Saturday morning. I'm staying with Grandma and Grandpa until then. I'll see you there?"

  "Probably not," Aerie said. "Not after this."

  "I just--"

  "Bye, Mom," Aerie said, with a sarcastic wave.

  Yet another angry huff, and then Rachel Kingsley was finally gone.

  As the door closed behind her, a long, tense silence filled the bar.

  "Wow, she's kind of like the Great Dragon of the East or something, isn't she?" Xavier said, from the doorway to the kitchen.

  Tate laughed. "She means well, but her delivery lacks...tact, you could say."

  Corin snorted. "Babe, I'm sorry, but...your mom's a cunt."

  Aerie whacked him. "Nobody calls our mom a cunt except us," she said. "But she was acting like a cunt--and speaking as woman, I don't use that term lightly, especially about my mother."

  Tate rubbed Corin's chest where Aerie had slapped him. "Like I said, she really does mean well."

  Brock, who hadn't said a word the entire time, nor moved from his place behind the bar, yanked a bottle of whiskey from a shelf behind the bar. "That was fucking intense, and I need a drink."

  The door leading to the apartment stairs opened, and Zane appeared with Jax in his arm, the little guy staring backward over his dad's shoulder as Zane approached the bar. "Is the crazy lady gone?" he asked in a whisper-shout. "Ooh, whiskey. Yes please."

  As if his words had summoned them, the rest of the gang all reappeared from wherever they'd gone.

  "Do it up for everyone," Bast said to Brock, lining up a row of shot glasses. "Except for Tate, since she's apparently carrying the newest member of the Badd family." He said this with a wink at Tate. "Luce, Xavier, you can have one too, just this once, but keep it on the DL, yeah?"

  "Of all the times to not be able to drink," Tate moaned. "Because I seriously need one right now."

  Aerie laughed. "I'll do yours for you, sis."

  Tate glanced from person to person as Brock poured shots. "I'm sorry about that, everyone. She's always been a little fired up about everything, but that was excessive even for her."

  Lucian and Xavier joined the crew at the bar, and Xavier sat on a stool while Lucian stood beside him.

  Corin took his shot glass as Brock passed them out, and when everyone had theirs, except Tate, who had a shot glass filled with soda water, he lifted his into the air. "So, this wasn't how I thought the announcement would go, but..." He laughed, gesturing with his shot glass. "Tate's pregnant, ya'll!"

  There was a chorus of congratulations from everyone, and we all did our shots. Tate slammed her glass onto the bar with an irritated huff. "Soda water. It's bullshit."

  "You have to think of the baby," Zane said. "Gotta take care of little baby Badd."

  Tate glared at him. "I literally just found out, Zane. Like, literally not even five minutes before my mom showed up. I haven't exactly had time to process this."

  "Oh." Zane glanced at Corin. "So, Corin, buddy. Need to borrow my copy of The Expectant Father?"

  "A little soon for jokes, Zane," Corin said.

  "Who's joking? I read that shit three times while Mara was pregnant."

  "Watch your language around the baby, Zane," Mara chided.

  Everyone seemed totally cool with this whole thing. They were all like, hey, Tate's pregnant. Cool! The more the merrier.

  But I wasn't so copacetic with the whole thing. At all.

  And nobody seemed to notice, or care.

  Finally, I couldn't handle the whole scene anymore. "Fuck this," I snarled. "This is bullshit."

  I stormed out of the bar, ignoring everyone's stares and murmurs.

  2

  Aerie

  * * *

  Everyone stared after Canaan as he stomped out through the kitchen, and then the door to the alley squealed open and slammed closed.

  Tate glanced at Corin. "What crawled up his ass and died?"

  Corin shrugged and shook his head. "For once, I have no clue." He glanced over at me for help. "He's usually the more levelheaded one. I don't know if I've ever seen him have an outburst like that."

  "I'll go talk to him." I headed for the kitchen, and then paused, glancing at Brock, who was leaning against the service bar. "Can I have a couple beers? Might help break the ice a little."

  Brock reached into a refrigerator under the counter opposite the bar, pulled out two bottles of local pale ale, popped the tops, and handed them to me. "Just make sure you bring the bottles back in--they're technically not allowed outside."

  "I will."

  I took the bottles and stopped at the fryer station on the way to the back door--Xavier had a habit of always making more fries and chicken tenders than he needed, because someone was always popping in to steal some. I tossed some fries and tenders into a cup and nudged the alley door open with my hip. The brothers always parked the Silverado they shared in the mouth of the alley to prevent anyone from parking there, and so the alley was quiet. Canaan was in the bed of the truck, the tailgate open. He was lying down on the tailgate, legs hanging over the edge, kicking his feet, hands under his head, staring up at the stars. He lifted his head and glanced at me, and then rested his head in his hands again.

  "I don't wanna talk about it," he grumbled as I hopped up onto the tailgate beside him.

  "I haven't even said anything yet."

  I rested the cold, sweating bottom of beer bottle on his forehead, and he just glanced at me in amused irritation. "Really, Aerie?"

  I just shrugged, propped my own bottle between my thighs to free up my other hand, and touched a French fry to his lips. "Really, really," I said in a terrible Scottish accent, attempting to sound like Shrek.

  He snorted. "You suck at accents." He snapped his teeth around the fry and chomped the rest into his mouth, taking the beer bottle and sitting up.

  "Yeah, but it's fun."

  Together, in silence, we ate the food, sipped beer, and didn't say a word.

  Eventually, Canaan hissed in frustration. "You're really not going to ask?"

  "I followed you out here with food and beer, Canaan." I leaned into him and nudged his side with my elbow, playfully, affectionately. "Obviously your tantrum is why I'm out here. So...do I really need to ask you, 'Hey Canaan, what are you so pissy about all of a sudden?'"

  He huffed another laugh. "I think you did just actually ask, though."

  "No, I said what I wasn't going to say, which is different."

  "In literal terms, yes, it's different. In practical terms, not so much." He punctuated this by tipping his beer bottle up in a long swig.

  I tapped the underside of the bottle so it spilled down his shirt, making him sputter and laugh. "Don't be a dick."

  He wiped his mouth and smeared at his shirt with one hand, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

  I shrugged, tilting my head to one side with a coy, demure smile. "What can I say? It's a gift."

  Canaan just shoved a handful of fries into his mouth, finished them, and then cut his eyes at me. "Fine, I'll bite." He finished his beer, set it on the lip of the bed, and lay down. "Tate being pregnant fucks everything up for everyone, and I'm pissed off."

  "You're not pregnant, and you didn't get her pregnant," I said. "I know you guys are twins and all, but it's not really your problem, is it
?"

  He actually laughed at me as he sat back up. "Aerie. You're not serious, are you?"

  I stared at him. "I mean...yeah?"

  He shook his head. "How's Corin going to go back on tour when Tate is pregnant, or when the baby comes?"

  I frowned. "Back on tour?"

  Canaan's answering frown was puzzled. "Um, yeah, back on tour. This year in Ketchikan isn't permanent. Or, at least, it wasn't supposed to be. It was meant to be one year, which is almost up. The plan was we'd spend the year here, help the brothers with the business, build up our own record label and all that, and start over as a new band. Go back on tour. Come back here to record and all that, use Ketchikan as our home base, but..." He shrugged. "That was the plan."

  "And Tate being pregnant throws a big ol' monkey wrench into those plans."

  "Exactly."

  I lay back on the bed this time. "I hadn't thought about it that way."

  "Thought about what?" Canaan asked, lying beside me.

  "Everything, I guess." Now that I had a moment away from all the drama that had started the moment Tate announced her pregnancy, I began to process what had just happened. I started to freak out. "Shit, shit, shit, shit."

  Canaan eyed me sideways. "Now you're having a meltdown?"

  "I haven't had time to process it, yet. Tate is pregnant. Tate has no plans of ever being a model again." I rubbed my face with both hands. "I--that throws a monkey wrench into my plans."

  "Tate is pregnant."

  "Tate is pregnant," I echoed him, as if repeating the phrase could force a deeper understanding of the reality upon me. "My twin sister is going to have a baby."

  "My twin brother is going to be a father."

  "Tate is going to be a mommy." I sat up, my heart palpitating. "Canaan, what the fuck are we going to do? If Tate doesn't want to be a model, if she wants to stay here and just be a mother, or if she has some other plans, what do I do? We made our name in the fashion industry as a single entity, as Tate and Aerie, Aerie and Tate, the twin models. The next Mary-Kate and Ashley. If Tate is out, where does that leave me?"

  "That's what I'm saying!" Canaan yelled. "Cor and I have been in a band our whole lives--ever since we first discovered music when we were four years old. I had an old, out-of-tune, missing-strings guitar of Dad's and Corin had a bucket and some sticks. We even wrote our own songs. We've been doing this as a unit since...since before I could even piss into the adult-height urinals. Without Corin, I don't know what I'm going to do. I mean, can a pregnant woman go on tour? What if she doesn't want to? What if...what if he doesn't want to tour with me anymore? This fucks up everything. That's what I'm pissed about, Aerie."

  I laughed bitterly. "Yeah, well, now I am too."

  A long silence stretched between us, then.

  "Canaan?"

  "Yeah."

  "What about us?" I asked this in a quiet voice.

  We both sat up at the same time.

  "What do you mean, what about us?" He sounded wary.

  "Us, hanging out together." That wasn't the only way I'd meant that, but it was obvious from his wary reaction that he wasn't ready for the other conversation.

  "I mean, I don't know." He sighed. "I don't know. These past few weeks have been...different, and fun, and challenging, and I love it. I just..."

  "It was never meant to take the place of you and Corin?" I suggested.

  He nodded. "Yeah, I guess." He shot a quick glance at me. "Which doesn't mean I think any less of the music and you and I make together, Aerie. I mean that."

  "I know."

  "It's just...Bishop's Pawn was...we were good. Corin and I can do some incredible stuff together. And me, as a musician--I don't know how to put it...but in some ways it feels like my identity as a musician is sort tied in with Corin. Which becomes a problem, now that he and Tate are...like, super serious or whatever."

  I laughed. "They're gonna have a baby together...I sure as fuck hope they're serious or whatever."

  I left it at that, my eyes on his, and I was intentionally leaving a giant gaping opening for Canaan to talk about us, as a couple. But he didn't. He was the first to look away, and I know he caught the intent behind the silence that followed, but he ignored it.

  Yeah, he wasn't ready.

  Which...I understood. It's not like I was sitting here expecting a ring or a declaration of love. But I'd like to know where we stand. What we are. What he wants from me besides the obvious. I mean, not that I'm in any way complaining about him wanting me for the obvious, since I want him for the obvious just as much.

  But...I want more than that.

  I want him to want more than that. I want him to pursue the more with me. I don't want to be the aggressor, the pursuer. I'm not super hung up on traditional gender roles in a relationship--not at all. I'll ask a guy out, I'll pay for meals, I'll be the first to make a move to bring things into the bedroom, and I won't think twice about any of that. The issue is, I've gotten used to doing that stuff. It's become habit, to the point that I've started hating letting guys do things for me.

  Don't ask me out. Don't pay for me. Don't make the first move. It's safer if I do it. I'm less likely to get shot down that way. I mean, I doubt there are many men who would turn me down for a date, and even fewer who would turn me down if I made it clear I wanted things to move to the bedroom--that's not arrogance, it's just reality. And yeah, a lot of guys are pretty happy to let me pay for my own shit on dates. I don't think less of men for any of that, either.

  But all those men...

  They're not Canaan.

  They were never serious.

  It's never been...real, I guess.

  But this is Canaan.

  Sex with Canaan has been better than I'd even fantasized, better than I expected, and better, honestly, than any sex I've ever had. It's just superior in every way. His body fits with mine perfectly. His cock fills me just right, not so big it hurts, but just big enough to stretch and burn and ache and throb when he's inside me. He kisses me like it's the first time, every time. He has a wicked talented tongue, and is not only willing but eager to use it on me. He's mostly dominant in the bedroom, but totally willing to let me take the lead when the mood strikes and, being a musician, he's got great rhythm.

  I want a deeper emotional component to our relationship.

  There, I said it.

  I'm terrified of going after that, though, because if I make the first move and he shoots me down, I'll be wrecked. I tried that once, and the result is my deepest, darkest secret.

  And fuck no, I'm not going into that. Not with Canaan, not with anyone, not ever. Not even Tate knows.

  "Aerie?" Canaan's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

  "Hmmm?"

  "I lost you there for a minute," he said.

  "Oh...just thinking."

  "About what?"

  I shrugged. "A lot of stuff."

  He eyed me. "That sounds like a blow-off."

  I sighed. "Yeah, a little bit of one."

  He chuckled. "That's a first--never heard anyone admit to blowing me off before."

  "It's not that I don't want to tell you what I'm thinking, it's just that...a lot of it is stuff I'm not ready to talk about at all. A lot of stuff I'm still working through, I guess."

  He nodded. "I get that."

  We both glanced up as Corin came out through the kitchen.

  "Cane, I think we should--"

  Canaan cut in. "Nope. Not ready to talk about it with you, bro."

  Corin stopped short. "Dude, what's your--"

  Canaan hopped off the truck's tailgate and rounded the back end, walking away. "Don't push it, Cor. I'm not ready, okay? I just...I need a bit of time."

  Canaan rounded the corner and vanished, and I hopped off to follow him.

  Corin grabbed my arm, stopping me. "Hey, what the hell is going on with him?"

  I sighed. "I feel like if I get into it with you, I'll be betraying Canaan's trust. He's your brother, Corin--he'll talk when he's r
eady to talk, okay?"

  "He talked to you about whatever he's pissed about though?"

  "Well...yeah. A little."

  Corin paced away, hands laced on the top of his head. "I--we've had fights before, obviously, I mean--we're twins, we quarrel. But this just...it feels different."

  "That's because it is different, Corin." I tried to smile at him, but I knew it was coming off sad and pitying.

  "I don't get it."

  I frowned at him. "Come on, Cor--you really don't have any idea why your twin brother could possibly be pissed off right now?"

  He turned back to me. "I mean, I know this is unexpected, but--"

  I backed away from him. "I have to go, Corin."

  "But--"

  "He's your twin, he'll come around. Just...give him time."

  "Yeah...yeah. You're right." He turned away, tossing a wave as he reentered the kitchen. "Go."

  I followed Canaan and found him in their studio, his electric guitar plugged in, headphones on his ears, his fingers flying, eyes closed. He was standing with one foot propped up on the amp, glossy brown hair loose around his shoulders, head down and bobbing rhythmically. I closed the door quietly and snuck into the studio to sit on a stool, watching him, wishing I could hear what he was playing.

  He played a minute or two more, and then his hands went still on the strings, head still bowed as the last note faded in his headphones. He opened his eyes, saw me, and smiled. He tugged the headphones off his ears and let them hang on his neck.

  "Hey."

  I tossed my hair. "Hey. Long time no see."

  He snorted. "Funny." He gestured at the rack of instruments. "There's a ukulele over there. Wanna jam?"

  I slid off the stool and eased the uke out of the rack, pulled the stool closer to Canaan's. I played a few chords, testing the tuning, adjusted the pegs a touch, and then glanced at Canaan, waiting for him to lead us off. He hooked a toe around another stool and tugged it over to himself and perched on it, settling his guitar on his knee. A moment or two of fiddling with the tuning, twisting knobs, reaching out a toe to tap one of the pedals on the floor near the amp, and then he shifted and wiggled, let out a breath--I recognized these movements as his giveaways for preparing to play.

  He plucked a single string with his pick, and a long low note filled the studio; he held the note, sliding his finger up and down on the fretboard to make the note quaver. Another moment, and then he tilted the guitar toward the amp to create feedback, sliding his finger down the fretboard so the note howled up the register before he switched to a different string, a different note, which he then drew out once more.