23. Penn

Chapter 23

Penn

T he front door creaks open, and Reagan and I step into the dimly lit hallway from our late class. The scent of old wood and faint traces of lavender greet us. Oakley must be burning some of her incense. Reagan groans, dropping her bag with a thud.

“God, I need a hot bath and bed,” she mutters, running a hand through her tangled dark hair.

“Go ahead and take your bath,” I say, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms. My eyes follow her as she starts to ascend the stairs. “I’ll grab us some food. But no bed for you, wife. Check the bag on the bed. Got you something to wear.”

Her head snaps back toward me, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why?” she asks, skepticism dripping from her voice.

“Chaos Theory concert tonight,” I reply, smirking. “Thought you’d want to look hot for it.”

“Wait, what? You got tickets?” Her tone shifts, bewilderment mixing with excitement. The edge in her voice softens, but only slightly .

“Yeah, consider it an…anniversary gift. Happy fucking three months or whatever,” I say, my lips curling into a devilish grin.

“Well, consider me flabbergasted,” Reagan says, her voice laced with mock surprise. She places a hand on her hip, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s the catch? You expecting a reward or something?”

“Wouldn’t say no if you offered one,” I respond, my voice dropping an octave as I tilt my head, letting my gaze travel up and down her body. “But nah, just figured you’d want to see the show. Though, if you feel like showing some appreciation later...” I leave the sentence hanging, a smirk tugging at my lips.

“Maybe I’ll let you eat me later. How’s that for appreciation?” She laughs, a sharp sound filled with both amusement and incredulity.

“We both know you love it when I take charge,” I say, shrugging nonchalantly.

“I hate gifts, but this one I’ll take,” she says, shaking her head. “Careful because I’ll start thinking you care about me—” Her voice trails off, leaving it hanging in the air.

“The burn still healing on your fucking neck tells you what you already know. Just go get ready,” I cut in, voice firm but playful. “Before I take Ramsey instead of you.”

“Fine,” she huffs, turning on her heel and marching up the stairs. I watch her go, appreciating the way her hips sway with each step.

Shaking my head, I push off the wall and head toward the kitchen. The sound of laughter and clinking dishes reaches my ears before I even enter the room. The gang’s all here except for Grammy, lounging around the table, grinning like a pack of hyenas .

“Yo, what’s up, fuckers?” I announce my entrance, already bracing for whatever bullshit they’re about to fling my way.

Jeremiah’s seated at the counter, nursing a beer like it’s his lifeline and close enough to reach out and grab his girl. Lincolns got his feet kicked up on the breakfast nook bench. A devilish grin spread across his face. Iris leans against him, her eyes sparkling with mischief, while Oakley’s plating up food, and moving around the kitchen with ease.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our resident Casanova,” Lincoln starts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Decided to grace us with your presence, huh?”

“Careful, Linc. Your jealousy is showing,” I shoot back, grabbing a beer from the fridge. The cold bite of the bottle feels good against my palm.

“Jealous? Of you?” he snorts. “Nah, man. Just surprised you’re not crawling back here begging for mercy.”

“Yeah, all that shit about us being pussy-whipped and now look at you,” Jeremiah adds, smirking over his drink.

“You’re delusional,” I retort, popping open my beer and taking a long swig. The bitterness settles in my throat, grounding me. “Unlike you losers, I actually get shit done.”

“Done? You mean like getting all cozy with Reagan St. Pierre?” Lincoln’s eyes narrow, his grin widening. “Pretty sure you’re wrapped around her little finger by now. We all saw that mark on her. You fucking give a shit about her.”

“You’re hilarious,” I say dryly. “And it’s Reagan Blackwood. She is technically your sister now. Just don’t fucking think about touching her like you touch your other sister.”

“I swear to God, you need to stop the sister fucker jokes,” Lincoln says, flipping me off. “Stepsister and fucking barely that. She’ll be Mrs. Blackwood soon enough as well. ”

“How about no?” I reply, glancing over at Oakley, who’s now holding two plates piled high with food.

“Here,” she says softly, handing them over. “Saved these for you and Reagan. Thought you might need some fuel before the concert.”

“Thanks, little Ashford,” I mumble, feeling a rare twinge of gratitude. She’s always been the considerate one in this chaotic mess we call a family.

“Don’t mention it,” she replies, her eyes meeting mine with that warm, unwavering gaze. “You’re a good guy for the people you care about, pennywise. Don’t let these assholes tell you otherwise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, but there’s a hint of a smile on my lips. I flip Lincoln and Jeremiah off with a flourish, savoring their laughter as I start to walk out of the kitchen.

“Be careful out there, lover boy!” Lincoln calls after me, his tone half-mocking, half-serious.

“Aw, our little Penn is growing up,” Iris mocks, but there’s an edge of truth to it that pisses me off.

“Eat shit, sissy,” I retort.

As I climb the stairs, plates balanced precariously in my hands, I can’t help but feel a strange mix of anticipation and dread. Tonight could either be a step forward or another disaster.

I push open our bedroom door and step inside. The warm light of some fancy fucking lamp she bought casting shadows on the walls. Reagan stands in front of the mirror, towel wrapped around her, droplets of water glistening on her skin. She catches my eye in the reflection, and for a moment, the world outside this room doesn’t exist.

“Food,” I announce, setting the plates down on the bedside table .

My gaze drops to her bare shoulders, the curve of her collarbone, the hint of cleavage peeking from beneath the towel.

“Why are you staring?” she asks, eyebrow raised, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Because you’re my wife and I fucking can,” I reply, letting a smug grin spread across my face.

All she does is roll her eyes at me before sitting down and eating the fancy pasta dish Oakley made.

I should be eating my own fucking plate, but I can’t help but watch her as she consumes her food, making noises and doing a little shimmy. I grip the back of my neck, because Jesus fuck it hits me all at once. I do fucking care about my wife.

Unable to deal with this I resort to my default setting.

“Make sure to wear the dick-gloss tonight.” Before I walk off to go shower and get ready.

The chaotic energy of the concert pulses through the air, a living, breathing entity of sound and sweat. Reagan stands in front of me, lost in the music, her body swaying to the beat. The pit is packed with bodies, each movement jostling us closer together. I snarl at anyone who dares to get too close. My eyes narrowed into slits as I stake my claim.

I keep Reagan close, my arm a protective cage around her waist. She fits perfectly against me, and every time some idiot gets too close, I give them a look that promises pain. I feel the weight of my possessiveness for Reagan bearing down on me like a heavy chain.

“How did you manage to get these tickets last minute?” she shouts over the deafening roar of the band, her voice slicing through the cacophony.

My lips curl into a wicked smile as I lean down, bringing my mouth close to her ear. “I know someone,” I reply, my breath hot against her skin.

Reagan’s brow furrows in skepticism. “Yeah? Who?”

I straighten up, letting my gaze drift momentarily to the crowd before looking back at her. “It’s better if you don’t know,” I say. The truth is tangled in darkness and blood, threads that Reagan is better off not pulling at. “Let’s just say they’re…connected.”

She rolls her eyes, a flash of irritation crossing her face. “Whatever,” she mutters, turning back to the stage. The music swells, guitars screaming and drums pounding in a frenetic symphony of chaos.

The scent of sweat and beer mingles with the smoke from fog machines, filling my nostrils with every breath.

The lead singer’s voice pierces through the air, raw and electric. Reagan throws herself into the music again, her movements fluid and hypnotic. I watch her lose herself in the sound. Her guard momentarily dropped.

A tall guy with neon green hair crashes into us, his body knocking into Reagan’s shoulder. My hand shoots out instinctively, gripping his arm like a vise. “Back up, turn around and leave or I’ll fucking kill you,” I growl.

He blinks at me through dilated pupils before nodding frantically and backing away into the mass of bodies.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, though there’s no real reprimand in her tone .

“I did,” I say simply.

“It’s a concert. People are going to bump into other people.” She rolls her eyes at me.

“And they can bump into every single person here and the goddamn Pope, but the one fucking person they won’t be bumping into is you. You’re a goddamn Blackwood.” I say so matter-of-factly that I don’t even realize it’s come out of my mouth until seconds later.

“Penn, you’re going to scare everyone off,” Reagan says, turning her head slightly, her lips curling into a smirk.

“Good,” I grunt, not easing up on my glare. A tall guy with a nose ring gives me a wide berth after one look at my face.

“Possessive much?” she teases, leaning back against me. Her hair brushes my cheek, soft and fragrant.

“Just keeping what’s mine safe,” I growl, my hands resting on her hips as I press my fingers into the sliver of skin between her crop top and leather pants.

“Both men and women are competition for you, you know,” she quips, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her eyes glint with mischief as she looks up at me over her shoulder.

“Like I’d lose to any of these assholes,” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Besides, we both know you couldn’t handle anyone else.”

“Keep telling yourself that, psycho,” she laughs, a dark, melodic sound that sends jolts right to my dick. “Just because I’m bi doesn’t mean I’m easy prey.”

“Never said you were,” I reply, my voice low and rough. “But let’s be real. No one’s got what I have.” My grip tightens on her, grounding myself in the feel of her.

“Arrogance or psychoticness?” she challenges, arching an eyebrow. Her breath hitches as I lean down, my lips brushing her ear .

“Both,” I whisper, letting my tongue flick against her earlobe. Her shiver is my reward, her scent intoxicating.

“And what about you? Should I be worried about the guys and the girls?” She twists in my arms, her eyes challenging mine.

“Jealousy looks good on you,” I say, smirking at the fire in her gaze. “I don’t care if someone is a man, woman, or any of the in-between’s. Are they hot and do they suck dick like a professional?”

She just glares at me, and I let her spite fuel me. She’ll never admit it, but I can see it written all over her.

“But you know better. I haven’t touched anyone else and won’t.” We just stare at each other for a long, tense moment.

“Just shut up and listen to the music,” she finally says, pushing me away playfully. But her eyes betray her, dark and burning with desire. And fucking terrified about what I just said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, a wicked grin spreading across my face. As the next song blares from the speakers, I flick my tongue against her ear as I sing the lyrics about fighting and fucking right to her.

The song changes and we move with it and my wife looks like a goddamn rockstar under the strobing lights. She’s lost in the music, eyes closed, body swaying against mine in perfect rhythm.

Fuck, this goddamn concert was one of my better ideas.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, half-expecting some dumb meme from Lincoln or Jeremiah. But no, it’s the group chat.

Linky-Loo-Boo

Graham’s awak e

My heart skips a beat and then slams into overdrive. I can feel Reagan’s eyes on me, but I keep my face neutral. No need to alarm her just yet. I glance down at the screen again, waiting for more, but nothing comes through.

“Lincoln says Graham woke up,” I yell into her ear, trying to keep my voice steady. Her eyes widen, and she nods, gripping my arm tighter.

“That’s good news, right?” she asks.

“Maybe,” I reply, fingers flying across the keyboard. I need more information. A second buzz interrupts, this time from Jeremiah.

Jerry

He can’t move his legs. Docs don’t know if he’ll walk again.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair. “Graham can’t move his legs.” The words feel like lead in my stomach.

“Fuck.” Reagan breathes, her face paling. “He won’t walk?”

“Don’t know,” I say, shoving the phone back into my pocket. The concert’s energy feels distant now, a cruel contrast to the worry gnawing at my insides.

Reagan’s grip on my arm tightens, her knuckles whitening as she yanks me toward the edge of the pit. “Where the fuck are we going?” I shout, trying to pull back.

“To the hospital, jackass!” she snaps.

“We can finish the concert,” I argue half-heartedly, my voice swallowed by the surging crowd and thundering music.

“No, we fucking cannot,” Reagan insists, her tone brooking no argument. She shoots me a look that could melt steel. “They’ll play more shows. Right now, we need to be at that hospital. ”

“Fuck. I don’t know if I can do it. Walk into that room and see him and know he can’t walk.” I admit, finally giving voice to my worry.

“Grow up. He’s your brother and walking or not, you need to be there. He’d be there if it was you in that bed. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you and your brothers is that it’s Blackwood over everything. No matter what.”