Not My Brother's Best Friend

FIVE

DAMIEN

I STRUCK THE MANNEQUIN'S FACE WITH A HARD PUNCH, RELISHING the sharp sting that shot through my arm on impact. My muscles burned, sweat dripping into my eyes and blurring my vision, but I didn’t let up. I’d done this so often, I didn’t need to see to land my blows.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and aggression. This was the one place where I could unleash the anger I kept carefully buried everywhere else. I’d taken up Krav Maga a decade ago for self-defense, but over the years, it had become more than that—it was my release, my sanctuary.

By the time I finished pounding the mannequin, my body ached, drenched in sweat. I grabbed a towel, wiping my face before taking a long gulp of water. Work had been hell, and I needed this session to clear my mind.

"Hope that helped burn off some frustration," Ralph, the training center’s owner and my instructor since I’d moved to D.C., commented dryly. Stocky and powerful, he had the build of a seasoned fighter and a face that could intimidate anyone, but deep down, he was a softie—not that he’d ever admit it. "You went after Harper like he owed you money."

Ralph named all the training dummies after TV characters or real-life people he disliked.

"Rough week." Since it was just the two of us in the private studio, I spoke more freely than I normally would. Aside from Josh, Ralph was the only person I truly considered a friend. "I could go for an actual fight right now."

Dummies were fine for practice, but Krav Maga was built for real combat—quick reflexes, fast counters, and the unpredictability of a real opponent. A lifeless dummy couldn’t provide that.

"Yeah, let’s go for a round. Gotta wrap it up by seven, though—no overtime. Got a new class coming in."

I raised a brow. "Class?"

KM Academy catered to experienced fighters, offering one-on-one training or small-group sessions. Large classes weren’t its style.

Ralph shrugged. "Yep. We’re opening up to beginners. Just testing it out with one class for now. Missy wouldn’t stop hounding me about it. Said people want self-defense training and that we’ve got the best instructors in the city." He chuckled. "Thirty years of marriage—she knows exactly how to work me. So here we are."

"Plus, it’s smart business," I noted. The academy had little competition in the area, and there was definitely demand for high-quality training. Not to mention, plenty of professionals could afford it.

Ralph’s eyes gleamed. "That, too."

I took another sip of water, my thoughts churning. Beginner lessons...

Maybe Ava should take one. Honestly, everyone should—man or woman. Self-defense is the kind of skill you hope never to need, but when the moment comes, it can mean life or death. Pepper spray only goes so far.

Before Ralph and I started our session, I quickly fired off a text to her.

I still wasn’t thrilled about the whole babysitting situation, but Ava and I had reached a tentative "truce"—her word, not mine—after her peace offering last week. And when I commit to something, I go all in. No half-assing, no cutting corners.

I’d promised Josh I’d look after his sister, and I wasn’t about to break that promise. That meant signing her up for self-defense training, upgrading her subpar home security system—though she’d nearly lost it when the installation team showed up at seven a.m.—and generally making sure she stayed out of trouble. The less she got herself into bad situations, the easier it was for me to focus on my business and, more importantly, my plan for revenge.

Still, I wouldn’t mind another batch of those red velvet cookies.

They were damn good.

And I especially wouldn’t mind if she delivered them wearing the same tiny shorts and tank top she’d had on at my house. A vivid image flashed in my mind—a bead of sweat rolling down her golden skin, disappearing into her cleavage.

Ralph’s fist slammed into my gut. I grunted.

Fuck. That’s what I got for letting my mind wander.

I clenched my jaw and forced my focus back to training, shoving all thoughts of Ava Chen—and her curves—out of my head.

An hour later, my muscles were on fire, bruises already forming beneath my skin.

I stretched, wincing, as muffled voices filtered in from the hallway outside the private studio.

"That’s my cue." Ralph clapped me on the shoulder. "Good session. Keep at it, and you might actually beat me someday."

I smirked. "f**k you. I could beat you right now if I wanted to."

I’d nearly done it once, but a part of me liked knowing I wasn’t the best—yet. It gave me something to chase. But I would win. I always did.

Ralph’s deep laugh echoed through the sweat-drenched space. "Keep dreaming, kid. See you Tuesday."

As soon as he walked out, I checked my phone for messages.

Nothing.

A small crease formed between my brows. I’d texted Ava almost an hour ago, and she wasn’t the type to leave a message unread. She was compulsively fast at replying—unless she had a photoshoot. But I knew she didn’t. She always told me beforehand, giving me the details: location, client names, and contacts. I ran background checks on every single one of them. Too many psychopaths in the world to take chances.

I sent a follow-up text.

Waited.

Nothing.

I called. No answer.

Either she’d turned off her phone—something I’d explicitly told her never to do—or she was in trouble.

Blood. Everywhere.

On my hands. My clothes.

My pulse spiked. That old, familiar noose tightened around my throat, dragging me back to a place I refused to go.

I shut my eyes, forcing my mind to latch onto something else—something solid. The memory of my first Krav Maga lesson at sixteen. I focused on that moment, on the discipline and control, until the red stains of the past receded.

When I opened them again, the panic had morphed into something sharper, heavier—an unrelenting knot of anger and worry in my gut.

I didn’t waste time changing. I bolted out of the training center, still in my workout clothes, and headed straight for Ava’s house.

"You better be there," I muttered under my breath, weaving through traffic.

A Mercedes tried to cut me off at Dupont Circle. I blocked it and flipped off the driver—a smug, overgroomed lawyer type—who scowled at me through the windshield.

I didn’t give a s**t.

If you can’t drive, stay off the damn road.

By the time I pulled up to Ava’s building, my phone was still silent. The muscle in my temple throbbed.

If she was ignoring me, she was in deep s**t.

And if she was hurt?

I’d bury the bastard responsible.

Six feet under. In pieces.

The door swung open before I could knock. Jules.

No time for pleasantries. "Where is she?"

Her big, doe-brown eyes blinked at me, all innocence. A façade. I knew better. Jules Ambrose was one of the most dangerous women I’d ever met. Anyone who dismissed her because of her flirtatious, playful act was a fool.

"Who?" she asked, voice light, casual.

I wasn’t playing this game. "Ava." My tone was steel. "She’s not answering her phone."

"Maybe she’s busy."

"Cut the bullshit, Jules." My patience snapped. "If she’s in trouble, I’ll find out one way or another. And you know your boss—one word from me could tank your internship."

I’d done my research on all of Ava’s closest friends. Jules was pre-law. Her internship between junior and senior year? Critical for landing a spot in a competitive law school.

The flirt vanished. In its place, cold calculation. She leveled me with a glare. "Don’t threaten me."

"Then don’t lie to me."

We stared each other down, the seconds stretching, until finally, she exhaled sharply. "She’s fine, okay? She’s with a friend. Probably just busy. Not everyone is glued to their phone."

"Address."

Jules huffed. "You know, for a guy who looks that good, you are an absolute overbearing asshole."

"Address."

She sighed, irritated. "I’m only giving it to you if I come too. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t do anything stupid."

I was already halfway to my car.

Five minutes later, we were speeding back to D.C.

Josh was getting an invoice for my gas when he got back. Just for the principle of it.

"Why are you so obsessed with this?" Jules asked, flipping down the visor mirror to reapply her lipstick at a red light. "Ava has her own life. She’s not a dog—she doesn’t have to jump every time you say fetch."

"For someone who claims to be her best friend, you’re not nearly concerned enough." Frustration coiled in my gut. "When have you ever known her to go an hour without responding to a text or call?"

"Uh, when she’s in the bathroom? Class? Work? Sleeping? Showering? A pho—"

"It’s been almost an hour," I snapped.

Jules shrugged, unfazed. "Maybe she’s having sex."

My jaw ticked.

I wasn’t sure which version of Jules was worse—the one who constantly tried to convince me to mow the lawn shirtless, or the one who got a sick thrill out of baiting me.

Why couldn’t Ava have lived with one of her other friends?

Stella was easygoing, and Bridget—given her background—would never say half the s**t Jules did. But no, I was stuck dealing with the redheaded menace.

No wonder Josh always complained about her.

"You said she was with a friend." I pulled onto the street where said "friend" lived and parked.

"A male friend." She unbuckled her seatbelt with a slow, smug smile. "Thanks for the ride and conversation. It was...enlightening."

I didn’t bother asking what she meant. She’d just serve up more sugar-laced bullshit.

While Jules took her sweet time getting out, I was already at the front door, banging an impatient fist against it.

A minute later, the door swung open, revealing a lanky guy in glasses, confusion written all over his face. "Uh… can I help you?"

"Where’s Ava?"

"She’s upstairs, but who—"

I was already moving, shouldering past him with zero effort. He weighed, what, a hundred and sixty pounds? Maybe?

"Hey! You can’t just go up there!" he yelled. "They’re in the middle of something!"

Not my problem.

If Ava was having s*x? Even more reason to interrupt. Horny college guys were some of the most dangerous creatures in existence.

Maybe she was back with her ex.

Josh mentioned the guy had cheated on her, and Ava didn’t seem like the type to take back someone who had done her dirty, but Miss Sunshine and Roses had a bleeding heart. That kind of naïveté would land her in serious trouble one day.

I reached the second floor easily—no need to guess which room she was in. The sounds leaking through the half-open door at the end of the hall told me everything.

Behind me, Jules and Spectacles pounded up the stairs, the latter still yammering about how I "couldn’t be up here," as if that would suddenly stop me now.

Humans were lucky they’d made it this far. Most people were idiots.

I shoved the door open fully—and froze.

Not s*x.

Worse