Chapter 3

THREE

FOUR MONTHS LATER

“Fuck,” Blondie practically mewls. Her sultry squeal echoes against the vaulted ceiling of the dining room, sending a nauseating ping to my eardrums. I swear, the way she makes each syllable sound as if she’s on the brink of getting off every time the three of us have the displeasure of being together is enough to make my stomach churn with secondhand embarrassment – even if I wish she were squealing like that while bouncing that pretty pussy on my cock and not my brothers – but that’s neither here nor there. Thankfully since she loves to talk like she’s constantly in heat, my imagination can run wild with how my name would sound spilling from those full lips of hers.

“Brett,” she drags my brother’s name, immediately killing the fantasy as she playfully slaps at his arm, nearly spilling the bourbon in his hand. My eyes roll at how oblivious he is to her dramatic antics as he sits with a grin on his face.

“You’re so bad,” she adds. Her breathy tone is directed toward my brother, but the glaringly seductive stare that accompanies her high cheekbones and pouty lips is where it usually is focused on when she’s in my brother’s company…on me.

Not giving up our heated eye contact, she grabs Brett’s cheek, guiding his mouth to hers for the most unnatural looking kiss I’ve ever been forced to witness. Even worse, Brett’s eyes fall closed, and his bourbon spills over, which he doesn’t notice either. But her eyes? They’re unblinking. Un-fucking-wavering in their pursuit of staring right through my damn soul.

Shaking my head, I force myself to look away from her. Ignoring the bitter notes of jealousy and attraction that fill the air between us, I opt to stab my steak like a goddamn caveman. Keeping my gaze off where she still holds my brother’s lips hostage, I gnaw at the medium-rare meat, chewing it with determined vigor to speed this nauseating dinner up some. But of course, as if she can read my mind, she begins to coo, murmuring sweet nothings –none of which sound heartfelt or convincing–in Brett’s ear.

Another giggle breaks from her lips before she clears her throat and my fork drops, clanking against the porcelain plate. I don’t know how the simple act of clearing her throat can sound so erotic. Again, it’s overdone and clearly a tactic to steal my attention, but boy does she fucking have it. Despite the rage her antics bring out in me, it can’t take away from how exquisite the view of her is from across the table.

Now that my attention is back where she wanted it, I can’t help but drink her in. The woman sitting across from me, with curves highlighted by the intricate inkwork scattered over her petite hour-glass frame, is my ideal type. She’s the perfect combination of elegant and beautiful while still being undeniably sexy. I usually don’t go for blondes but the way her golden hair makes her olive skin glow even more than it already does, truly suits her.

She sighs, reaching her hand toward Brett’s lap, but again her gaze is focused on me. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” she grins, finally shifting those big brown eyes to my brother.

Nice one, but that’s a negative. Can’t kiss someone who isn’t alive.

But of course, she wouldn’t know that, because being privy to that information would require her and my brother to have had even one conversation of substance. I’ve barely seen either of them engage in conversation in the four months they’ve been “dating,”if you can even call whatever they’re doing that.

“What can I say, Sally–” Brett begins, pausing to take the last remaining swig of his bourbon. He drains the glass, releasing an audible sigh of approval as he slams it down on the table. His hand slithers to hers. “I guess I’m just filthy.”

“Oh please,” I mutter under my breath, clenching my fist so tightly around my fork that the metal starts to bite at my calloused palm, feeling like it’s about to slice through it.

No response sounds from Sally.

Shocker.

She knows as well as I do that’s a fucking lie. It’s made evident every night she’s here, via the thin sheetrock her voice carries through when she’s practically begging Brett to fuck her harder, faster–better–that he isn’t filthy or even remotely capable of pleasing her the way he thinks he is.

As I continue consuming my dinner like a caveman, I lift my head to where her dark-as-night eyes are still locked on me. This time, I can’t help but notice the lust running rampant in her expression.

Seriously, what the fuck is her deal?

As Brett goes on about how difficult it is to find a store that carries the Buffalo bourbon crap he’s always drinking, the mood in the room shifts. His rambling is merely static. A backdrop to this tension filled chess game Sally and I seem to play every time we are plagued by the other’s presence.

It’d be an outright lie to pretend that I don’t like how her gaze makes me feel, or how badly I want to see her cat-like eyes peering up at me with my pierced cock scratching at the back of her throat. As bad as I want her, I can’t mess with her until I figure out what her deal is. Her fucking my brother has nothing to do with it; I doubt he’d even care considering the amount of women he still has coming through his bedroom when she’s not around. Ever since Sally Hardesty seemingly appeared out of thin air, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that something about her feels off.

I’m used to women walking through these doors, wanting to take a piece of the fortune that awaits us when our father kicks the bucket. But there’s something – a deceitfulness – about Sally that feels more sinister than simply desiring to be covered in diamonds and having a wallet stuffed with an unending supply of cash. Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out eventually. I always do. Perk of being a career deceiver myself, I can always smell them from a mile away.

My suspicion of her feelings toward my brother heightens as he rises from his seat and her shoulders visibly tense as he kisses them. It’s unmistakable. It’s almost as if she’s stifling a gag. There’s no flush painting her cheeks, no warm affectionate grin, nothing. She looks cold, robotic…disgusted.

It isn’t until Brett’s gone, off to fix himself another drink, that relief visibly flows from her, melting her shoulders from their frigid state.

We sit in tense silence, both watching Brett stumble over to the bar. It remains like this for a few seconds until a flash of steel flickers in my periphery, calling to me like a beacon of temptation that I should resist. But who the fuck am I kidding? I can’t look away and I don’t want to. Turning my head, my throat tightens at the sight of Sally’s swiping that fucking tongue ring–my fucking kryptonite – across her full lips. She continues to teasingly play with the steel cap of her piercing, drawing her tongue in and out of her mouth, making the blood rush violently to my cock.

I don’t know how much longer I can sit here before I lose all willpower and rush across the room to bend her over this goddamn table. This game we constantly find ourselves playing is becoming more and more frustrating. I need to get out of here. I rise from my chair, barely making it a step when the pungent scent of oak-aged booze invades my nostrils, followed by my brother’s warm hand curling over my shoulder.

“Where are you off to, little bro?” He singsongs, nudging me to sit back down.

The booze is ripe on his breath, and I know that when he’s had a little too much to drink–like right now–something as simple as me leaving dinner will turn into an ordeal. He’s so much like our father. From the way he looks, to the way he drinks, even down to the way he talks to me like I’m beneath him. All of which contribute to how unattached I feel towards him.

Begrudgingly I sit and, thankfully, he lets go of me and makes his way back over to Sally’s side, settling down next to her. “This guy,” he says pointing his freshly poured drink in my direction, its amber liquid skimming the glass’s edge with his drunken movement. “This guy,” he repeats, “always off in fucking la la land.”

That’s rich coming from the guy who literally misses his girlfriend eye-fucking me right next to him.

“I asked you a question before and you were just zoning out,” he adds, taking a swig of his bourbon.

“Sorry. Long day, I’m tired. Guess I didn’t hear you,” I lie, when a throaty, feminine groan erupts across the table.

I know that groan: that’s the sultry sound Sally makes when she’s about to do what she does best–play games. I shake my head, bracing myself for whatever dramatic antic of hers will shortly follow. Naturally, the second our gazes meet, that’s her cue to spread a devious–and sexy–grin across her face. Not in the mood for the spells she always seems to cast my way, I lower my gaze.

Bad fucking idea because her hand is now teasing the plunging neckline of her dress, highlighting how her ample breasts are on the verge of spilling from the confines of the thin fabric.

Holy fuck, what I wouldn’t give to be her hand right now. Grazing and stroking at her full tits. I want to look. Hell, I want to do more than look. I want to pounce across this room and tear at her dress, capturing her nipples in my mouth and tugging on each of them one at a time, making her scream for more. I want her to whimper, like she does for my brother, except I want her to mean it.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s what draws me to her. That I know she requires a certain level of fucking that my brother can’t give her. Not only that, but her bratty and brazen personality that screams ‘Colson come fuck me’ adds to the sadistic hold she has on me. She’s a challenge. A conquest, that I need to check off my list. Problem is, I don’t think one time would be enough. And maybe that’s why I continuously engage in these tense mind games we find ourselves in when we’re near each other. Even if she’s a tease, at least she gives me that much. With her I’m quickly realizing that something –even if it’s a lie – is better than not having anything with her.

Denying myself the twisted bliss that comes with looking at her, I instead look over to Brett to see if he’s seeing what I am or if I’m hallucinating. But of course, he’s lost in his phone, as usual. Suddenly his brow tightens, concern running rampant on his face. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he rises from the table once again, feverishly thumbing at the keyboard of his phone. Judging from the sudden seriousness that’s washed over him, mildly sobering him up, I assume it’s something business related, which he’ll likely fill me in on later. His gaze bounces between Sally and I. “Sorry, I have to make a call,” he announces.

“Do what you have to do, honey,” Sally says to him, but the devious grin on her face is intended for me.

I swallow thickly, watching Brett exit the dining room, trying to listen to what he’s saying as he mumbles into the phone, but a sultry hum breaks my concentration.

“Like what you see?” she asks, smug as can be.

Here we fucking go.