"AIDS!" I shouted before I could stop myself.

My best friend immediately spewed her mouthful of wine like a miniature, rose-tinted old faithful.

"Dammit, woman!" I screamed as I jumped off the couch, "Towels! We need towels! Paper ones! In the kitchen! Go get paper towels out of the kitchen! Hurry up before it sets in and stains anything!"

Looking back, I have no idea why I just stood there with my gla.s.s of wine in my hand, doing the Flash Dance, and flailing a limp wrist in the general direction of the volcanic wine spill, but it happened and I'm not ashamed. I blame the hormone overdose and too much wine.

Becks scrambled off to the kitchen giggling and returned with tears in her eyes, gasping for air, with an entire roll of paper towels. We quickly wiped down the leather and the hardwood, making sure we took care of anything porous before we went to work on the gla.s.s.

I can confidently accredit my friendship with Becks to one thing: her infectious laugh. It's what brought us together when we first met, and it's still one of my favorite sounds in the whole world. By the time we finished cleaning up the last drops of wine, even I had surrendered to its power and giggled alongside her.

We sat there surrounded by soggy paper towels stained blood-red with wine and laughed until we cried from the pain in our sides.

"This," I gasped, "This is why I call you in a crisis. Can you write it down so we don't forget next time? Your 'plug it with a p.e.n.i.s' line is getting on my nerves."

"Oh, I can write it down for sure, but I'm still going to give you the plug it with a p.e.n.i.s line. It's a solid plan, really."

I finally slid into a horizontal position and removed my stilettos before laying my head in her lap and pondering, "Why does it always have to be the a.s.sholes that do this to me? For once, just one time, can my v.a.g.i.n.a l.u.s.t after someone who isn't a douche yacht?"

She giggled again, "Douche yacht?"

"Yeah, you know," I rolled my hand in the air in front of me in explanation, "A douche canoe, but bigger."

"How the h.e.l.l do you come up with this stuff, Holly?" She beamed a smile down at me and grew an extra head. I was staring up at two Rebeccas when I finally formed my slurred response.

"Just wine."

I woke up the next morning still using her thigh as a pillow. Becks had slid down at some point in the night with one of my throw pillows and slept peacefully behind me.

I couldn't stop myself from groaning as I sat up and waited for the world around me to stop swimming. There was an obnoxious ringing in my ears and my eyeb.a.l.l.s felt dehydrated.

"You need to be quiet now," Becks groaned, "it's too early for all that noise."

"I didn't even-" she held up a hand to silence me.

"Shh."

I blinked a few times and squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the polished wood floors. I had never been so glad to have a day off in my life.

I climbed to my feet, using the couch as a crutch. The gentle squeak of the leather beneath my weight infuriated my slumbering best friend.

She lumbered grumpily to her feet and stomped across the room, "You'll find me in your bed. Unless the building is on fire, leave me there."

I considered following her for a moment. Spending an entire day horizontal with my eyes closed sounded like a fabulous plan. I gave in to the call of a gla.s.s of water instead. My body was begging to be rehydrated and I knew that if I laid down in my bed it would be another eight hours before I put any kind of non-alcoholic fluid inside me.

I downed the first gla.s.s in a single breath. When my stomach didn't recoil to the point of expulsion, I filled a second and sipped at it as I headed for the driveway to retrieve my newspaper.

I said a quick prayer that my neighbors would still be asleep at bright-o'clock on a Sunday morning and dashed out for my weekly dose of the L. A. Times.

I dug my dead cell phone out of my purse and plugged it in before starting the coffee and settling in to read the paper.

I knew I didn't have more than a couple hours of peace and quiet before Becks woke up and regaled me with every minute detail of my drunken wailings from the night before. I had every intention of savoring each silent moment of blissful peace I could squeeze out of it.

I also hoped that the quiet practice of reading the paper would chase away the lingering images of bare skin and hungry mouths that had haunted my wine-induced sleep.

Porter Hale was an infection and I needed to find a cure. Fast.

"What the f.u.c.k do I even say to her?" My head was pressed to my forearms and my eyes squeezed shut in an effort to keep out the glaring lights that seared like a laser beam into my brain, "Hey, Holly. It's Porter. Sorry I trampled you like an elephant?"

"You're really dramatic for a straight guy," Preston's voice was thick and groggy, but at least he was able to stand up and move around without dying, "Just call her and talk to her. It's not like she's going to climb through the phone and shank you with a sharpened toothbrush or something."

"She might," I griped, "I probably would if some d.i.c.khead plowed into me and spilled my drink then had the b.a.l.l.s to call me the next day with some lame excuse."

"First off," Preston set his bottle of water down on the bar next to my head, "you shouldn't be drinking while you're getting plowed. I've tried it and it doesn't end well. I almost chipped a tooth. Second, don't give her a lame excuse. Tell her the truth. It's not like Parker really deserves to have you make excuses for him. He's an adult, Porter. He can deal with the consequences of getting c.o.ked out in front of dozens of people. Not your problem."

Our mother's words from the night before echoed through my brain and spurred a tiny worm of guilt for even considering outing his problem to a virtual stranger.

"I'll figure something out," I mumbled to the counter, "In the mean time, have you invested in a coffee pot yet? I've got a caffeine headache building on top of my hangover and I think my head might split open and spill my brains all over your bar if I don't get some java in me soon."

"Tough break, bro. You'll have to hit a Starbucks or something."

It took everything I had not to fall to the floor and cry at the thought of leaving the house without coffee.

"Before you crawl out of here like a half-drunk c.o.c.kroach in search of your glorious caffeine, did you happen to see where Parker ended up last night? I checked both of the spare rooms upstairs on my way down and he wasn't in either of them. Did he take off with someone?"

I dug through the hazy memories from the night before and tried to remember where I had last seen him. He'd spent a good hour and a half stripping on his makeshift stage and then wandered off with half a dozen women hanging from him like jewelry.

"If I had to guess," I lifted my head and cracked an eye at the youngest member of our trio, "I'd say he posted up in the guest house."

"Ugh," Porter groaned, "He better not have f.u.c.ked up any of my furniture. If the room is covered in a fine layer of dust, I'm gonna have to kill him."

I pushed myself to a standing position and waited for my precarious imbalance to pa.s.s before I spoke, "Want me to go out there with you?"

He eyed me warily, "You think you can make it?"

I thought about it for a moment before responding, "No, but I can crawl if I need to."

The genuine smile that split Preston's face was dazzling. All he had to do was smile and people fell in love with him. He just had one of those personalities that made you want to be around him. That smile was his moneymaker.

"Let's get to it then!" He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and, as much as I hate to admit it, I leaned into him to help steady myself against the almost-nautical sway of the room.

"I'm happy to help, Preston, but can we do this quietly? You hurt my head."

By the time we made it to the back door, I was feeling a bit better and my brain had begun to clear. I ducked out from under his arm as we pa.s.sed into the expanse of his back yard and we walked along the edge of his pool side-by-side.

"Why do you think he does it?" Preston asked quietly.

"Does what?" I wasn't sure if he meant the c.o.ke or the extreme public cries for attention in which Parker was p.r.o.ne to partic.i.p.ate.

"All the drugs and partying. I mean, we have it made, Porter. Look at this place," he waved an encompa.s.sing hand indicating his perfectly manicured property, "He could have all this too if he'd just stop being a dumb a.s.s."

"Are you calling me a dumb a.s.s?" I asked with a wink.

"No. I get why you don't go for this. It's not your style. I mean, your place is nice, but it's also very you. Sleek, modern, minimal. But Parker wants this lifestyle, he just can't afford it because he's constantly snorting his money and taking his glorified wh.o.r.es out to elite clubs. I guess I just don't get it. When does responsibility set in? When is he going to realize how much work and planning goes into having a place like this?"

"Honestly," I hooked my arm around his neck and pulled him into my side, "I don't know, kid. I've asked myself the same question for the last ten years. It's common sense stuff to most of us, but to him, he's just having a little bit of fun. He sees nothing wrong with it. After all, you and I get to have fun and have the nice things. Why can't he? He doesn't see the difference between once or twice a year and once or twice a week. I can't help but wonder where the h.e.l.l I went wrong with him."

"No!" Preston stopped dead in his tracks, causing me to list dangerously to one side as I turned to face him, "You can't blame yourself for the bad decisions that a.s.shole makes. I turned out just fine and you had to compete with him for the t.i.tle of role model. If anything, I should have turned out more f.u.c.ked up than he is by that reasoning. Let him take the blame for being a f.u.c.k-up. He's a big boy now."

"That's a lot easier said than done, Preston."

He sighed, clearly frustrated with me, then quirked his head to the side as if listening to a far-off voice. He groaned a few seconds later.

"If he's in there, I really hope he's alone and fully clothed."

The sudden change in topic threw me for a loop and I had to double-time it to catch up to him. His hand was already on the doork.n.o.b when I came up behind him and heard what he'd been listening to.

"Oh, gross..." I braced myself for the worst and hoped for the best. He turned the k.n.o.b and the door swung open.

I was glad I had prepared myself for the worst.

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?" Preston screamed into the dim, sweaty air.

Arms and legs jolted to life and I counted at least six bodies, both male and female, scatter in every direction. Only one person remained in the center of the room as the rest of the party hurriedly poured themselves back into their clothes and slinked past us through the door.

The debut film that had given occasion to the party still played on the wall.

The p.r.o.ne figure of our middle brother groaned from his place on the floor. One of his hands reached out to the side, groping blindly as if it had a mind of its own.

"Your friends are all gone, fool," Preston spat as he made his way into the room, carefully picking his way over the debris and abandoned pieces of clothing.

"Well that explains why it's so cold in here," Parker mumbled as he rolled over onto his side.

"What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you?" Preston was dangerously close to Parker's head and his hands were on his hips, indicating he was going to flip out. I was about to bear witness to yet another brawl between my younger brothers. I knew I should step in and intercede, but Parker deserved what he had coming.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe, fighting off the grin that kept creeping onto my face.

"Outside of the raging hangover that you're not helping, I seem to be perfectly fine, if not a little bit nude."

"You just had an orgy to the soundtrack of your baby brother f.u.c.king his way through an entire cast! You are not perfectly fine! You're f.u.c.ked up! I'm not sure which one of us needs a shower more at this point! What the h.e.l.l made you think it was okay to f.u.c.k your friends while watching me?"

Parker groaned as he returned to his position on his back and flung an arm over his eyes, "Can you try to leave quietly and close the blinds before you go shower? My head hurts."

That was the nudge Preston needed to send him over the edge. He swung his leg back and brought it down hard into Parker's ribs. The breath was still wheezing out of the drunk one when the shoe dropped again. I listened hard for the sound of cracking ribs with each blow. I'd step in at that point, of course. Until then, Parker was on his own.

I'd seen this play out more times than I could count. It never failed: Parker would overstep a line, Preston would finally snap and throw the first punch, then Parker would pounce like a tiger knowing that as long as he didn't swing first, neither of them would get in any real trouble for it. He would pound the ever-living snot out of our youngest brother until I finally stepped in and pried them apart.

Since Preston was the baby, he didn't get in trouble for starting it.

Since Parker didn't start it, he didn't get in trouble for defending himself.

Since n.o.body ever got seriously hurt, I was off the hook for not stopping them before it got physical.

Something about this fight was different though. Some sixth sense was buzzing in the back of my head and I didn't like it.

Preston's shoe was about to crash into Parker's chest for the fifth or sixth time when he froze. His foot hung there, suspended in the air a few inches from Parker, for several tense moments before he lowered it to the floor and narrowed his eyes.

"Get out," Preston hissed, "Get off my f.u.c.king property and don't bother coming back. I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore." He spun on his heel and stormed by me back into the yard.

As I stood there staring into the room, I finally realized why the familiar scene had bothered me so much: Parker hadn't even tried to fight back.

I pushed off the doorframe with my shoulder and strode toward him as he rolled back and forth on the floor clutching his ribs. Bruises were already forming on his naked skin. I could make them out even in the tenebrous light of the luxuriously large living room of the guesthouse.

When he finally caught his breath and stopped writhing at my feet, he let fly a string of curses that even I couldn't keep up with.

When he finished, I asked the question that had been burning in the back of my mind, "Why didn't you take him down?"

He stared at me with equal parts pain and anger shining through the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

"I know you could've," I pressed when he turned away to stare at the ceiling in silence, "I've seen you do it a hundred times before. Why not this time?"

I saw his body tremble as he choked back a sob. I had to fight the urge to walk away and ignore what had just happened. That's what I had always done before. I couldn't close my eyes to it anymore.

"Why, Parker?" I yelled, "What the f.u.c.k is going on in that head of yours? You just laid there and took the beating of a lifetime from a guy I've seen you wail on dozens of times. I want to know why, G.o.ddammit!"

"Because I deserved it," he whispered.

The tears finally slipped over the brim of his lids and traced wet streaks down his cheeks onto the carpet. Part of me felt bad for him, but a bigger part of me cheered at seeing him accept that he had messed up for once.

"I can't argue with that," I sighed, "Put some clothes on and let's get you out of here before he comes back with a sledge hammer to finish the job. I've got a phone call to make."

I rose to my feet and hit the power b.u.t.ton on the projector near the door, erasing our brother's naked body from the wall before stepping out into the sunshine. I'd spent enough time dreading the call I was about to make.

My family was a train wreck. Preston had just tried to kill Parker, my mom had detached herself from our lives in almost every way, Dad was dead, and I was about to have a panic attack over calling a girl.

I felt like a foolish a.s.s as I fished my phone and her business card out of my pocket and dialed the number. I forgot how to breathe as my finger hovered over the 'call' b.u.t.ton and I tried to convince myself that making the call was worthwhile.

"If you don't push the d.a.m.n b.u.t.ton, you'll never know," I told myself and touched the little green phone symbol.

I put the phone to my ear and said a small prayer.

My stomach sank when the call went straight to voicemail.

"You are a f.u.c.king mess, Holly Nash."

The encouraging words from my half-zombie best friend had me folding down the top half of the Sunday funnies to glare at her.

"Get some coffee, you grumpy b.i.t.c.h."