The Distance Between Us (Book Two ✓)

twenty-seven

BEAU

My fingers drum against the table rapidly, moving beyond my control as I take another look around the run down diner in New York. Back from LA, I told Beck to split the distance and meet me here. Truth be told, the commute is easier for me anyways, but I was in a bad mood.

Rocco is fed up with me by now, tired of me flying off to wherever I decide, whenever I decide. Running my fingers over my eyes, I make a mental note to stick out the rest of the tour uninterrupted.

A waitress, young and pretty, refills my coffee, giving me a shy smile as she does so. I simply stare at the chipped black polish on my thumb nail, hoping my appearance doesn't frighten her too much, the tightness in my face a reminder of my bruises.

I adjust myself in the shiny red booth to get a better view of the door, wincing as my ribs throb in protest. Looking back down at my knuckles, I run my finger tips over the scabbed skin, nervous energy pulsing through me with every breath.

A hand knocks on the hard surface of the table then, to my dismay, catching me by surprise. When I finally look up, it's like I'm being sucker punched all over again.

"I can't lie, Beau. I didn't think you'd show," Beck grins despite my glare.

Casually, leisurely, as if unaffected by the circumstances, Beck takes a seat across from me, grabbing the attention of our waitress with a raise of the hand.

Rage fills me instantly, quicker than even I had expected. I hold it inside as the young girl pours another coffee, leaving cream and sugar on the table and quickly scurrying away.

"You look... well, like shit." Beck shrugs.

Again, I say nothing, in no mood for games. For a moment, the only sound between us is the metallic clanging of spoon against mug as Beck meticulously stirs too much cream into the coffee.

"Oh come on, Beau." Beck leans back finally, brows raised at me. "Don't you have anything to say to your big brother?"

Beck's eyes, an odd shade - bluer than mine but greener than Jace's, taunt me from across the table. Golden hair falls into his eyes, reminding me how similar we were in some ways. My own hair was never quite so blonde and darkened up as I got older, until I finally discovered black hair-dye, the first step in leaving behind the person that I was before.

"What do you want, Beck?" He always looked more like our father - from his jaw and broad nose, down to the stupid smirk on his face.

"I told you," Beck shrugs casually, perusing the diner menu as if this is a social call. "I want to talk."

"You have five seconds to start talking before I'm gone." I snap, feeling that the five seconds may actually be too generous. How many years has it been without seeing him, without seeing anyone from my life before MisFits? And now, he expects what - a joyous reunion?

He must have forgotten - when I left home those years ago, I did so with the intention of never seeing his face again.

Beck looks down at his hands folded atop the table then at mine, a smirk playing over his features. His friends always thought I was weird, painting my nails and dying my hair. I remember, because he never told them to leave me alone about it.