Too Wrong: Hayes Brothers Book 2

“Come on, MJ!” Someone yells in the garden, and my head involuntary snaps in that direction as I scrutinize the three kids in the pool. “Get in. The water is great,” he adds.

Theo shrugs, waving me off when I shoot him a questioning look. “I expected that when Thalia told me to invite everyone from work. They’re in college.”

That explains their nerve to take a swim while the house is full of more and less sophisticated guests. The mayor is here with his wife. My grandparents are here, too.

Colt joins us with a handful of beers, filling in as our bartender for the evening. “They’re alright.” He hands me a bottle of Bud Light. “The one on the flamingo is a DJ. He played at our Spring Break party.”

“You mean the party that almost had Nico issue the three of you with an eviction notice?” Theo chuckles, glancing sideways at the man in question, who’s silently stewing as always.

“You need to learn to control the crowd, boys,” I say, then tug a third of my beer. “And next year, make sure to get a few freshmen to do the dirty work.”

“Like scraping puke off the pavement?” Conor asks, blowing his longish hair out of his face. “That’s not a bad idea. Well done, bro.” He smirks, patting my back.

The cocky little prick.

Triplets are still nineteen but just a few months away from turning twenty and getting cockier by the week.

A loud splash reaches my ears when someone—probably Mary-Jane, jumps in the water. Nico cuts her shrieking short, sliding the patio door shut and massaging his temples as if the noise is giving him a migraine.

So delicate, this one. Six-feet-three and benching three hundred and fifty pounds, but at the same time, he’s rarely without an AirPod or earphone in his ear, listening to indie alternative rock, pop, or whatever that shit is.

“Top tip,” I say, glancing between the triplets. “Hire a few port-a-johns next year and figure out a way to get Nico out of the house for the night.”

“Whose side are you on?” Nico clips, resting against the wall. “You saw the state of the house after the party, Logan. Why do you think I want to remodel the ground floor? There’s a big splotch on the wall in the guest bathroom after some chick projectile-vomited red wine.”

I burst out laughing, recalling the pictures he sent to the group chat the morning after the party two weeks ago. Mayhem doesn’t begin to cover it. Broken furniture, red solo cups littering every flat surface, and three bucket-loads of confetti and multi-colored crazy strings.

Oh, and the piano…

I was sure the triplets would pay with their heads for the beer spilled across the top and some asshole napping with his head on the keys. Nico doesn’t play anymore, but the instrument in his living room is sacred. No one but our mother is allowed to as much as breathe in its direction.

It took the triplets three days to clean the mess. They replaced the flatscreen that ended up in the pool and re-painted the downstairs toilet but couldn’t fix a few broken tiles and a hole some idiot punched in the wall with another idiot’s head. Taking pity on the Holy Trinity, I sent my crew of contractors to help. Now I own their asses, and that’ll come in handy one day when the time comes to collect the debt.

I pat Nico’s back. “Did you forget what we used to get up to when we were their age? Cut them some slack. They’ll know better next year. If they don’t, you can always cash in their portfolios to cover repairs and a professional clean-up crew.”

The triplets shake their heads in sync, positively mortified by the idea. In two years, they’ll gain access to the stock portfolios Nico set up for them a few years ago, and I happen to know that each sits in the north six-figure range already.

Mine’s on track to hit a million again by the end of the year. I already cashed a million last year to buy the house at the developers’ price. They sell for north of two million on the market, but I designed and built them. It’s only fair I get one cheap.

“I can’t swim!” A high-pitched yelp reaches my ears despite the closed patio door. “Please, I—”

I sit up, recognizing Cassidy’s distressed voice.

She doesn’t finish, cut off by a loud splash. Two guys stand over the pool’s edge, two more in the water with Mary-Jane, but Cassidy isn’t there. The shriek of her voice has the fine hairs on my neck standing to attention. Anxiety jabs my mind, dragging cold fingernails down my spine while I wait for her to resurface. 

Seconds tick by, but there’s no sign of her blonde head. The guys stare, smirking under their noses, which is why I’m not moving. They wouldn’t stand there ever so casual if she wasn’t okay. Fifteen more seconds pass before one elbows the other, pointing at the water, his expression a portrait of restrained confusion. I don’t wait for more.

They’re glued to their spots as if wondering what their next move should be.

Fucking jump!

Fear pierces through me like a steel splinter. Almost half a minute had passed since Cass went under. She should’ve resurfaced by now. I shove my beer in Colt’s chest, jump to my feet and cross the room, eyes on the two guys standing over the pool. Their faces turn more dubious by the second.

Cassidy’s I can’t swim! reverberates in my head on repeat like a broken record, silencing other sounds. I slide the door open and break into a sprint, alert and focused, as I shove aside the two assholes still staring at the pool. 

Taking no time to assess the situation, I jump in, aiming for the girl in a red dress who sank to the bottom like an anchor.

She’s thrashing as if violently shaken by invisible hands.

I swim closer, my muscles harder than stone. I know why she’s thrashing like that. I’ve seen this back in college during swim practice. One of the guys fainted from exhaustion and toppled over into the pool. He had little air left in his lungs when he hit the water, and it didn’t take long before oxygen depleted, and he started violently thrashing about just as Cassidy does now, drowning in my brother’s pool.

Dread floods my mind the same way water floods her lungs. Fear grips my throat. Memories blend with reality, but adrenaline spurs me on, deeper and faster. 

Three seconds. That’s all it takes to reach her, but it feels like I’ve been swimming for-fucking-ever.

Three seconds that are enough for her to stop moving. She’s perfectly still, no longer an ounce of oxygen left in her body. She rests at the bottom of the pool, arms and hair floating around her head, mouth open, eyes shut. I grip her waist, pulling the limp body flush to my side, and plant my feet on the tiles for leverage, mustering all of my strength to shoot up, my vision blurry, eyes stinging from chlorine. 

As we break the surface of the water, I suck in a harsh breath, pumping oxygen into my lungs. 

But I don’t hear the same from Cass.

She’s not breathing.

The weight of the inevitable crushes me from the inside out.

My brothers stand by the edge, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. The rest of the party is outside, too, watching as Colt and Conor grip Cass under her arms, hauling her out of the pool.

A second later, I crawl the short distance across the artificial lawn to where she lies, ghastly pale and unmoving. Water drips from my hair, nose, and clothes, and my heart rams in my chest as if it’s fucking hollow. 

She’s not breathing.

“Call an ambulance!” I yell, pushing Cassidy onto her back, my ear hovering over her lips.

A sense of impending doom creeps up from the pit of my stomach, seizing my racing mind. I pinch her nose, tilt her head, and open her mouth with trembling hands, then cover her lips with mine, forcing air into her lungs.

Once.

Twice.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing.

It’s not working.

“Come on, Cass,” I mutter, swallowing something hot and bitter stuck to the back of my throat. I find her breastbone with my fingers and place my palm above it, starting chest compressions. “Come on, breathe. Breathe, breathe…” I chant quietly, deaf to the noise around us, focused on the lifeless girl with blueberry-blue lips and cheeks as white as curdled milk. I pump five more breaths into her lungs. “Fucking breathe, Cass.” My muscles burn every time I press down on her chest. 

“The ambulance is two minutes away,” Theo says close behind me, his tone laced with a tiny fraction of the terror rushing through me, threatening to turn into a bright white freeze of panic.

This can’t be happening.

She can’t die.

“Don’t stop, keep—” he cuts himself off when Cassidy gasps, fighting to inhale a single breath. 

Her eyes pop open, mindless animal panic etched in the blue irises. A shudder of relief rattles through me like a picture coming back into focus. She breaks into a coughing fit.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I say, repositioning her weak body into the recovery position. “You’re okay, Cass. You’re okay. Calm down, just breathe.”

She jitters on the tiles, gasping for air in between coughing up half of the goddamn pool. She finds my hand and holds on tightly.

Jesus, what… fuck! I can’t focus on a single thought.

I squeeze her fingers, caressing the line of her spine until she stops spitting water like a loose garden hose, and I get some semblance of sanity when I see that she is breathing.

She jerks to a sitting position, breathing erratic, wide eyes staring into mine. Water trickles from her hair and down her nose, cheeks stained with tiny rivers of mascara.

“Don’t try to talk,” I say. Chlorine must be scorching her throat, and talking won’t help. “Just breathe, okay?” I cup her shoulders, inhaling a deep, shaky breath through my mouth, and urge her to do the same. “Good, good,” I chant. “Just like that. You’re fine. You’ll be okay.”

She wraps her arms around her frail, trembling frame, teeth clattering from fear more than cold. Blonde hair sticks to her neck as she hugs herself, silent, struggling to contain the panic.

My pulse is still a disorganized gallop, but now that she’s breathing, I hear the hushed voices around; I hear Theo still on the phone with the dispatch operator.

“God, you scared the hell out of me.” Thalia drops to her knees beside us, wraps Cass in a towel, and hands one to me. She hugs Cassidy to her side, prompting more people to join and check if she’s okay.

She almost died. She’s not okay.

The chatter grows louder when I move away, patting my face dry and raking the towel through my hair; my bones all but evaporated, leaving nothing more than skin to hold me upright.

I stare at the pool, searching for my baseball cap to busy my brain and get a hold of the frantic emotions, but I don’t locate it before my eyes come across the fucker who almost drowned Cassidy.

I don’t stop to think. I never do.

I jump forward like a spring, grip him by the throat, throw my hand back, and then send it whooshing across the air at full speed. My fist strikes his jaw. His head turns to the side, and blood bursts out of his mouth. I hit him again, blinded by the tornado of emotions swirling inside my head. It destroys the last of my composure the way the real thing destroys cities.

I can’t see straight. I can’t grasp a single rational thought as my fist connects with the asshole’s face over again. More blood gushes from his nose. He slips out of my grasp at some point, tumbling to his knees, hands clasped over his face.

A few mortified gasps and my mother’s outraged and frightened Logan! reach my ears as if it’s a soundtrack to the unfolding scene, but I don’t pay attention.

And I don’t stop.

I’m barely able to see past the cloud of red madness.

“What the fuck were you thinking!?” I boom, yanking him by the collar to haul his ass back up. “I heard her scream she can’t swim from the fucking living room!”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, head tilted back to increase the distance between us or stop the bleeding. His eyes gleam with fear, and shoulders sag. “I-I thought sh-she was kidding! So-sorry, I-I didn’t—”

“Didn’t think?!”

Nico grips my shoulder, digging his fingers into the bone hard enough to bruise as he yanks me back a step. “Calm down, Logan,” he seethes quietly through clenched teeth so only I can hear him. “She’s fine. She’ll be okay.”

The siren of the ambulance rips through the afternoon air, reminding me about Cassidy. I glance over my shoulder to where she still sits on the ground, pressed firmly against Thalia’s side. I grit my teeth, pushing the rage to the background but not before I shove the fucker responsible with all my might.

With one minute of deep breaths, I’m composed when the paramedics, led by my father, enter the garden. His eyes are on me, not a trace of condemnation on his face for my outburst.

On the other hand, Mom’s pale face could rival the whiteness of Cassidy’s cheeks.

I’m even calmer when the paramedics hook Cass to oxygen and pull her onto a stretcher to take her in for evaluation at the hospital.

“How long was she unconscious?” One of them asks while another covers Cass with a blanket.

She’s still shuddering, a harrowed, bleak look on her pretty face, eyes full of fright. 

“About two and a half, maybe three minutes,” Theo says, approaching the paramedic. “Logan started CPR as soon as he got her out of the water.”

I’m only partially focused on helping Theo answer the questions. A, my rendition of the events is tainted by the tremor of panic that sizzled through my veins before Cass started breathing, and B, I’m still too fucking jittery to focus on anything other than her. Most of my attention is on her while she’s convincing Thalia not to follow her to the hospital. 

Why the fuck not? 

Someone should go with her. Someone should keep her distracted. She almost drowned. She shouldn’t be alone.

“Urgh, fine!” Thalia heaves, her accent flaring, a clear sign she’s unhappy. “But call me when you get out of the hospital. And call me if you need anything.” She runs inside the house to fetch Cassidy’s bag.

Three minutes later, I watch the paramedics carry her out of the garden through the side gate.

Later that night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling in my bedroom. The moonlight dances on the white canvas, casting shadows which, in a weird, twisted way, remind me of Cassidy’s lifeless body. She could’ve died today.

Just like that.

A few seconds longer, and who knows if I would’ve brought her back. What if I were in the bathroom? Or at the front of the house checking out Nico’s new car. Or at home, making sure Ghost wouldn’t eat Ares.

What if I wasn’t there?

No one else paid attention to what was happening in the garden. How long before someone would react and jump in to pull her out of the pool? 

Questions and what-ifs don’t end for hours. The clock on the nightstand reads two a.m. when my phone pings.

Cass: It’ll never be enough, but it’s all I have… thank you.

I read the message ten times as if it’s written in Greek. My fingers hover over the screen for a few minutes before I type a humorous reply in an attempt to break the tension. I feel like I’ve been trached, but instead of a tube, someone shoved the nozzle of an air compressor in my trachea and flipped the switch, inflating my lungs like balloons.

Me: I think your Guardian Angel has a drug problem.

Cass: He’s tired of me now. He’s been slacking for a while.

Me: Are you still at the hospital? What did the doctors say?

Cass: That I should take swimming lessons and that I’ll be fine. They’re releasing me in the morning.

Me: Get some sleep.

Cass: Goodnight.

I type out a reply, then delete it, then type again, and delete that too. After a couple more tries, I toss the phone on the nightstand with a deep groan, forcing my eyes shut.