Hooked On Her - Stacey Lynn Page 0,1

tug on the handle to the suitcase and blow out a breath. My thoughts are scattered. I should call the police. Report Will. But maybe it’s not him? Does renter’s insurance cover this?

My mind swirls as I release the handle of my suitcase. Regardless of my next move, I can’t stay here. There’s nothing but salad and floors that need to be vacuumed, and no vacuum.

Figures. Will hasn’t cleaned the apartment in three years, but he steals the vacuum? To what, pawn it?

I can’t wrap my head around this.

As if he knows my struggle, because Sawyer and I have always been able to read each other’s moods better than a dollar store mood ring, my phone starts belting out the lyrics to “Whatta Man” circa 1993 Salt-N-Pepa. He despises it when I sing it to him every time he does something nice for me.

And as his little sister, my job is to drive Sawyer to certifiable insane levels.

I rush to the muted lyrics coming from my phone where I dropped my purse and grab it, hitting the talk button before I miss his call.

“Sawyer,” I say, breathless.

“What’s wrong?” He has somehow honed his mind-reading capabilities from twelve hundred plus kilometers.

His voice is a boom. I can picture his scowl. Black brows, thicker than mine mostly because he’d rather have his balls chopped off than step into a salon, are most likely yanked together.

“I…” The shock of what I’ve stepped into hits me like a two by four to the stomach. And that hurts. Sawyer did it to me once when I was twelve. He still claims it was an accident. I still remember him doubled over in laughter. “I…”

“Tessa. Damn it. Talk to me.”

Patience isn’t his strength.

Tears well and fall down my cheeks, dribble off my chin before I can stop them. “Sawyer,” I cry. “Something happened. My place… I think Will took everything.”

He curses like I’m his opponent on the ice, smack-talking my ex, and then he does what he always does.

He takes control, looks after me and does his job as big brother—he protects me and helps me when everything goes sideways.

Hours later, I’m a grimy mess after shuffling through customs, waiting for the plane, and sitting crammed in the middle seat of a full flight.

But then I’m wrapped in my big brother’s rib-crushing hug, my face burrowing into his chest.

“Hey, sis.”

I sniff, probably leaving a snot stain across his T-shirt. I’ll point it out later when I’m in the mood to laugh.

“Sawyer,” I groan. It’s possible I’m trying to claw my way into my brother’s embrace. I stink. My hair is a greasy mess and I need a six-pack of beer and a huge plate of nachos to forget this day.

“Hey. I love you, but you fuckin’ reek.”

I slap his shoulder and pull back, wiping my finger under my nose and then swipe it beneath my other snot stain on his shirt.

“Gross.” He smacks my hand away and then grabs my chin. He cringes at it and I shove him again, laughing.

“You suck.”

“You smell like a dumpster.”

“It’s the plane. Should have bought me a better ticket.”

Laughter aside, I feel better, but the ugliness of the day is still there, weighing me down.

“You okay? Serious.”

“I don’t know. About ending things with Will, well, I was… until today. But everything is gone.”

My artwork. My books. Journals I wrote in when I was a teenager and saved in a box. What kind of jerk does that? He took every single thing from our apartment except for a few crumbs of lint fuzz. What’s the point he’s trying to make?

And why?

“Then it’s a good thing you’re here.” He throws his arm over my shoulders and pulls me to him. With the ease of a guy who travels weekly during the season, he grabs my suitcase and ushers me through the crowd of the Charlotte airport and out to the short-term parking lot.

“Where’s Debbie?” Usually she comes with, screeching and squealing and throwing her arms around me possibly tighter than Sawyer’s grip.

“She’s uh… she’s not feeling well.” His jaw tightens and his hand scrubs his shoulder-length brown hair. He’s in need of a haircut but his hockey team’s pre-season starts next week. Sawyer won’t cut his hair until the season’s over whether that’s in early April or well after if the Ice Kings make it to the playoffs.

“Not feeling well?”

“Just a bug. Or something. She’ll be fine. She’s excited to see you, though.”

“Anyone else?” I hate that I ask. I hate I