Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book)

isn't anywhere I expect him to be. In the main room, people are sardined shoulder to shoulder, gyrating on the dance floor, guzzling liquor, collapsing in humping pairs on couches, poolside chairs, and every other flat surface, but I can't find Remington.
Finally I see Lala's long blonde hair and tanned skin, exposed by a total lack of any but the most necessary clothing. She executes her best dirty dancing moves, but she's not dancing with any professor.
My brother droops at her side like he's about to pass out on top of her. She presses a palm to his chest to keep him upright, then turns her back to him so her ass is crammed against his junk, and a sick disgust rips through me.
She catches my eye, and her smile is all triumph.
She thinks I'm jealous. If she wasn't grinding against my brother, if she didn't know full well what he's been through recently, I might actually feel sad for how pathetic she is. But using Remington to punish me is going to get her hot little ass nothing but trouble, and I need to send a clear message tonight, before she does damage I can't undo.
I stalk over and give her a look that sets her mouth into a pout.
"Get lost before I lose my shit, Lala," I growl, pushing her off the dance floor and toward the gate out.
I pull Remington back and force him into the house, ignoring his slurs and weak-fisted attempts at punches.
"Fuck off, Winch. Seriously, man, I'm sick of you always playing big daddy. Go act your goddamn age, alright? Go chase some tail. Go drink til you puke. Go get the fuck off my back."
"What are you thinking, asshole?" I shove him against the wall and bang his head back into it a little. "Lala? You know she's trouble, so what are you doing?"
"You don't want her," he snarls, bucking against me.
A year ago, I wouldn't have had a chance in hell of holding my brother back. He could have thrown me across the room with one arm. But a lot's happened in a few months, and it rips me the fuck up that I can pin him so easily like this.
"You don't fucking want her either, so stay away. That girl's got schemes, and we don't need to get tangled in them right now."
I shove him back one more time, hard. His head droops forward and his shoulders shake up and down unevenly. He's crying, and panic crushes me like an elevator car with a snapped cable.
"Stop. It's okay, Rem. It's okay. You just need to sleep it off. You need to sober up."
I lead him to the hall of family bedrooms, the ones I keep locked when Remington throws these big, stupid house parties. I yank the key out of my pocket and get his door open. The cleaning ladies get a bonus every month to make up for having to take care of my brother's disgusting room, so it looks alright tonight. But no amount of bleach and scrubbing can take away the dejected, wasted feel that seems to fill every space he's in.
I walk him to the bed, his arm around my shoulders, and let him drop. He moans and his head rolls back and forth. I pull him to the edge of the mattress, tip him on his side, and set up the little garbage can next to the bed.
"Puke now if you need to," I tell him, my voice low. "No shame in it, man, and that way you don't choke."
My brother shakes his head, then heaves once, twice, and finally pukes into the can I hold for him. When it’s full of his bitter, sour vomit, I take it to the bathroom and flush it down the toilet, get him a glass of water and a washcloth. I try to hand them over so he can clean up, but he's past that, so I wipe him down, get him to drink a little before I put the rinsed can back by the bed in case he needs it for round two, and start to leave.
"Winchester?" he croaks as I flip the light off.
In the dark, huddled on the bed, scruffy as hell and slack with sadness, he's unrecognizable from the hero of my childhood. I don't know this guy.
"You need something?" I ask.
"Do you think they'll take her away?" Sobs make his words cracked and wet sounding. "Tell me the truth."
"They will if you keep fucking up."
I tighten my grip on the doorknob, so ready to leave my brother's embarrassing sadness and all the problems that just keep multiplying faster than I can handle them lately.
"Pop said it would be okay."
His voice shakes, and he sounds like a much older man and a really little boy at the same time.
"Yeah, well you asked me for the truth. Night."
I pull the door shut and trip the lock so no one winds up stumbling in on him.
Lala's waiting down the hall, arms crossed, a scowl on her cute little face. "He okay?"
The fury I felt for her is already half-extinguished. I just don't have the capacity to give a shit where she’s concerned anymore.
"Blitzed, but he'll sleep it off," I lie.
If he slept for two weeks he couldn't sleep off all the liquor he has stored up in his body. His liver has to be pickled by now.
"I'm sorry about that, out there. We were just having fun."
She tosses a strand of blond hair over her slim shoulder. I lean on the wall across from her.
"You know he's in no place for your games. Between the two of you, I feel like a fucking nanny."
She takes a step toward me.
"I'm sorry, Winch. Really. I know you've been stressed. And I know I need a lot of attention. But wasn't I good for you, too? Didn't I make the crappy stuff worth it?"
She threads the questions with the hint of sex so hot and fierce, it's tempting. I'd be