Tied by Emma Chase Page A

“That’s what friends are for, buddy.”

    Ten minutes later, Erin lies feet up in the recliner with heavy-lidded eyes. She raises one arm slowly, then the other. “This is great. I’m so relaxed.”
    Steven’s face is slack as he motions toward the shiny grand piano in the corner. “Hey, Billy, why don’t you play something?”
    Yes, asswipe can also play the piano. Just keep in mind—he may be a multifaceted tool, but he’s still a fucking tool.
    Dee pipes up, “Good idea. Nothing goes better with a quality high than some smooth tunes. Make it mellow, cuz.”
    Shit-for-brains gets up, settles himself on the piano bench, cracks his knuckles, and starts to play. After a few bars of instrumental, he starts to sing “Someone Like You” by Adele. It figures he’d choose a chick song.
    As he croons the last line before the chorus—the one about things not being over between him and his former love, my good mood sours like milk left out of the fridge too long. This is why I always have, do now, and will forever hate Warren’s guts. Because, despite Matthew’s story about my experience with marijuana, I’m not a paranoid guy. I’m observant. Intelligent. Goddamn smart enough to know why—out of all the motherfucking songs he could have played—he picked this one.
    And more important—I know whom he’s playing it for.
    There are no accidents. Body language and Freudian slips have meaning. They’re our subconscious’s way of showing how we really feel. What we really want. And somewhere, deep down in Warren’s puny brain and inadequate heart—I think he still wants Kate.
    Look at her face now. It’s the same look she always gets when she watches him sing. Her head’s tilted slightly, a small smile sits on her lips, and her eyes swim with a mixture of pride and wonderment. Admiration. And possibly, remembered affection. Even though I know she doesn’t have those feelings for him anymore, even though I know she chose me—she loves me more—it pisses me off. Badly.
    Because the only person I’ve ever looked at like that—in my entire life—is her.
    As he plays the final note, I swallow my resentment down. Matthew, Steven, Erin, Dee-Dee, and Kate clap. Alexandra actually wipes a tear from her eye.
    Jack says, “Damn you’re good. That music shit must make you a righteous pussy hound. Tonight, Billy, you’re my wingman.”
    Warren nods shyly. “Sure, man.”
    Then I stand up. “Now that I’ve gotten my dose of estrogen for the day, how about we head to the pool and check out that barbecue? I don’t know about you guys, but I’m more than ready for the first of many rounds.”
    Everyone agrees.
    I keep Kate close to me as we all head to our respective rooms for a quick clothing change. And prepare to go our separate ways.

Chapter 7
    T he barbecue at the adults-only pool is in full swing. There’s music, sunshine, bikinis as far as the eye can see—and some I wish I didn’t have to. Remember, ladies, two-piece bathing suits are a privilege, not a right.
    We rent an enclosed cabana near the bar and settle down at the circular, umbrella-covered table in front of it. Our round of beers arrives and we hang out waiting for our turn in the volleyball tournament. For men, team sports have the power to inspire a warlike, us-against-them mentality. It’s like spending the night in a foxhole—an instant bonding experience. Even if you don’t like each other—hell, even if you can’t stand each other—you close ranks, pick up the slack where you have to. Because you’re in the same platoon¸ and anyone who’s not with you is against you. They’re the enemy.
    Why am I telling you this? You’ll understand shortly.
    For now, I take a sip of my beer and focus on my sullen-facedbrother-in-law. I get right to the point: “What’s going on with you and my sister?”
    He’s not surprised by the question. But he’s reluctant. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “ You don’t want to talk about