His Brother's Fiancée

by Vivian Wood

  God, if she had any idea of the things that got him hard …

  “A new visitor!” Another nurse walked in, this one squeaky clean. She didn’t look older than sixteen. “That’s so nice. How do you know Ashton? Family?”

  The last thing he wanted to do was sit here and admit to a Girl Scout that he’s the one who’d put her patient in this bed. “Gotta go,” he mumbled and shoved the book back into his pocket.

  He didn’t look back at Ashton, or the nurse, as he stormed out of the room. But the machine beeps followed him all the way down the hall. They were everywhere.

  As he waited for the elevator, his phone vibrated with a text. “Just checking in,” Harper had written, followed by a string of emojis he wouldn’t even try to untangle.

  He hovered a thumb over the screen, but finally put it away without replying. It would be better this way, for both of us, he thought.

  Sean felt like shit as he walked to the car. It was his fault, he’d led her on. Hell, he’d invited himself to her party, even though he’d never expected her to say okay. And that whole night, the playground bullshit, it was clear she was into him.

  You didn’t have to kiss her. You should have pulled the plug way before that. He grimaced slightly at the phrase. Better late than never. Cut this shit out before it goes too far.

  She was a gorgeous girl. Young, a model, the whole future ahead of her. She’d forget about him in no time.

  7

  Harper

  She furrowed her brows together when she saw the little checkmark appear in the text box. No ellipses, no nothing. Obviously Sean had seen her text. He just chose to ignore it. She automatically relaxed her face and pressed a palm between her eyebrows. The last thing you need are deeper lines in your face.

  He wants to give her the cold shoulder? She wouldn’t be put off that easy. Harper typed in the name of the tattoo shop. A woman with a lilting voice answered. “Mission Hells, this is Gita.”

  “Hi, I was wondering when Sean will be in again?”

  “Uh, let me check. Not ‘til tomorrow at eleven. Do you want to make an appointment?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

  So he has the day off, and zero interest in talking with her. That’s fine, she could wait. One of the few good things her mom had taught her was to go after what she wanted. And Harper intended to do that full force. If Sean wanted to play this cat and mouse game with texting, he was on his own.

  “You think you’re the only pretty girl out there?” her mom had said coldly when Harper was fourteen. She’d been crying non-stop after getting second place in the local pageant. “There will always be prettier girls. Younger girls, thinner girls. Get used to it. But if you want something? You go after it with single-minded determination. That’s the only way to get it. You didn’t want to win this. If you did, you would have.”

  Her mom was cold, but right.

  Sean doesn’t know what he’s in for. You want to reject me? Let’s see you try tomorrow.

  Harper turned down her roommates’ invitations to hit up the opening night of a new club just so she’d get the rest she needed for a puff-free face. “Seriously?” Molly had asked. “It’s open bar!”

  “You go. Have fun, have one for me. I’m on a mission.”

  Molly had rolled her eyes, “You’re crazy. Loot my closet if you want.”

  She’d taken full advantage of that offer. Molly was a trust fund baby who lived the starving—in more ways than one—model lifestyle because she thought slumming it was cool.

  As Harper marched her way towards the tattoo shop, she didn’t even notice the blisters that blossomed from Molly’s unfamiliar leather ankle boots. The rouched vintage-style skater dress just skimmed her upper thighs.

  The bell tinkled as she opened the doors and all eyes were instantly on her. Including Sean’s. He was bent over an old fat man who winced in pain as his shin was inked. “Harper,” Sean said. He stopped the needle and the man let out a breath of relief. “What are you doing here?”

  Suddenly, all her nerve poured out, right through the soles of Molly’s Brian Atwoods. “Uh … nothing,” she said. “Sorry, you’re busy. I was just in the neighborhood.”

  “Harper—”

  She turned right back around. Her ankle nearly rolled in the six-inch heels. Fuck, since when could I not walk?

  “Who was that?” she heard the girl at the front desk ask.

  Harper had never been more grateful for the humongous Oliver Peoples glasses that rested on her nose. Tears threatened to fall, but she’d hold it together at least until she got back home. The one-mile walk was murderous on her feet. Two blocks from the house, as if she couldn’t control it, she turned into the corner bodega and grabbed a travel-sized bag of Cheetos, two slices of pizza that must have been sitting out for days, a pint of chocolate ice cream and a six-pack of Coke Zero.

  Harper tore through the Cheetos before she even made it back home to set the foundation. Thankfully, nobody was home. Most were at go-sees and who knew where Helena was. Harper grabbed a spoon out of the kitchen, slumped on the couch and ate the pizza without tasting it. There was the sound of some little, feral animal chewing and swallowing madly. It took her a minute to realize it was her.

  The pizza gone, she crumbled up the little paper boxes it came in and balled them into the shopping bag. She finished the ice cream in less than three minutes with massive spoonfuls.

  Harper downed a Coke Zero to make the last part of the process a little easier. Bubbles always helped.

  She locked herself in the bathroom, though everyone in the house knew better than to try and open a shut bathroom door anyway. With practiced ease, she knotted her hair into a bun and crouched over the toilet. She knew instantly exactly how to place her fingers. As her eyes watered and she started to gag, she scraped her knuckles against her teeth as the purge began. Fuck, every time. No matter how many times she tried, she could never stop her teeth from scarring up her fingers.

  She didn’t stop until her vomit turned orange. There, that was the last of it. Harper checked to see if any vessels in her eyes had burst, but she’d lucked out this time. As she dropped in Visine, just in case, the familiar wave of embarrassment washed over her. Still, it was worth it for that feeling of emptiness. That feeling of control.

  You can make this right, she thought to herself as she looked in the mirror. Get it the fuck together.

  She ran her left fingers over the knuckles of her right hand. Where there weren’t scars and fresh wounds, there were callouses. Fuck it, she thought.

  Like always, as soon as she was physically empty, she needed something different to fill her. She thumbed through her favorites list on her phone to “Bestie” and pressed the big green phone icon. “P, you free?” she asked.

  He groaned into the phone. “Is it before noon?”

  “Barely.”

  “Whore,” he said. “Yeah, I’m up. Now. You’d better tell me it’s something tragic or I’ll beat that perfectly molded ass of yours.”

  “I’m not sure yet,” she smiled into the phone. “Can I come over?”

  “As long as you don’t expect tea and scones. Ain’t nobody got time for that shit.”

  “Be there in ten.”

  She peeled off Molly’s dress, hung it perfectly back in the tiny closet, and pulled on some Lulus and a racerback tank. Running to P’s will burn a few extra calories, even if it is just a mile.

  He waited for her on his porch, mug of coffee in hand and folded into a fluffy lavender robe that contrasted his oil-black skin beautifully. “You look like shit,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She motioned for him to scoot over on the porch swing and he obliged with an eye roll.

  “A pretty shit, but still,” he said. “So, spill. Last time you had the balls to call me before noon, you’d landed the Rachel Zoe campaign. Which I’m still pissed at you for, by the way. You can walk for her but not me?”

  “Babe, you know I’ll walk for you as soon as y
ou have a show that’s not at Eagle la at one in the morning.”

  “You love it,” he said. “Everyone loves it. You should come to my shop and see the new inventory, by the way. High-end leather has gone colorful.”

  “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Yes. Finally, you’re coming over to the dark side. I would just love to strap you into this new red catsuit I have in. I see it worn with this gold ball gag that’s totally safe after the last recall. I swear—”

  “P,” she interrupted. “I’m serious. I’m down. What do you think if we take your leather designs and pair them with high-end models? Would you be up for working with tattoo artists to inspire a new line? Maybe even pairing some models with tattoo artists to work on some art pieces for photography that could be the backdrop for the show?”

  He raised a perfectly shaped brow, microbladed fresher than hers. “Don’t toy with me,” he said. “Not unless you have a crop in your hand.”

  “I’m not! I’m serious, what do you think?”

  “I think it’s fucking brilliant. But I also think this isn’t a random idea from you. Spill the tea, bitch.”

  “There’s nothing to tell! Seriously.”

  “Lord, you’re easy to see through. I get the idea that, at the very least, you already have somebody in mind.”

  She grinned at him devilishly. “As a matter of fact …”

  Harper scrolled through her phone until she found the public Flickr photos of Sean she’d bookmarked after she’d first met him. “Holy fuck, who is that? And why isn’t he strapped to my bed as we speak?” P grabbed her phone and started to scroll through the photos. “Love the neck tat,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She bit her lip as she remembered the perfect lines of the raven.

  “Sean Cavanaugh,” P said as he read one of the descriptions. “I’m in. Like, balls deep in him if that’s an option.”

  “Afraid not,” she said as she took her phone back.

  “Oh, I see. You actually like someone! Oh, my God, there do be miracles. Thank you Jesus!” P yelled to the sky.

  “Shh!” Harper said with a giggle.

  “Okay, so where does Mr. Neck Tattoo with the forty-two inch chest work?”

  “You know Mission Hells?”

  “I’ve seen it,” P said. “Okay, I’ll get on it. And at least see what my boss says about the whole thing. I’d definitely need his inventory to complement my designs. I don’t do whips and chains, honey. Not my thing. Just the fab attire that goes with it.”

  “I love you,” she said as she cuddled into his chest.

  8

  Sean

  (8 Months Ago)

  “I can’t believe this,” Ashton said as they cruised along Rodeo Drive. It was rididuclously touristy to head straight for the most famous street in the city, but neither of them cared. Los Angeles was worlds away from Washington D.C., and there wasn’t a suit in sight. “I can’t believe the girls here,” he added.

  “Check that guy out,” Sean said as they passed Agent Provocateur. The hobbling old man was at least eighty, but a flawless blonde clutched his arm. She couldn’t be older than twenty-five.

  Ashton laughed. “Man, we’re gonna own this city.”

  Sean grinned at him. He didn’t exactly know how much Ashton made as a hedge fund manager, but given how they’d matched each other step for step, move for move, back in D.C., the salary was probably comparable to Sean’s trust fund.

  For a month, they’d gone out every night. It was easier in Los Angeles than it was in D.C. Even though they’d known every single club, lounge, bar and underground scene that operated in D.C., there was always the sour air of judgment when you got shit faced on a Monday night—and that same stench didn’t exist in L.A.

  There was a party every night. Red carpet events, debuts, the opening of some celebrity pop-up shot that nobody gave a shit about but the booze and girls always flowed.

  It happened on a Tuesday. Ashton and Sean spilled out of a bar that, predictably, played ILoveMakeonnen’s “Tuesday” every thirty minutes. Ashton’s arm clutched Sean’s shoulder a little too tightly as he sought balance with the camaraderie.

  “Yo! You guys comin’ over, right?” Sean couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but the 24-karat gold chain with the ridiculous marijuana leaves embedded with emeralds was familiar.

  “Yeah, dude, text me the address,” Sean said. He could hear the slur in his voice, but nobody seemed to care. He laughed into the California night sky that had started to turn pink with morning.

  “Fuck, Sean, you been there enough,” the guy said, but he pulled out one of his phones to send it.

  “Hey, man,” Ashton said as they piled into his Landaulet. “For real, I gotta be in the office in three hours.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Sean said. He watched Ashton make a messy line on the thick, custom steering wheel and snort it without giving a damn about the dust that fell to the floorboard.

  “You bump?” Ashton asked, as always. Sean just shook his head and raised the flask of whiskey he’d tucked into the glove compartment. He never liked to chase a good drunk with coke. He’d tried a few times, but coke just wasn’t his thing—it had nothing on liquor. Ashton needed help staying up, functional, act like he wasn’t a coked up, highly functional alcoholic at the office.

  “You seriously gonna go into the office like that? You know this dude’s place always reeks of weed,” Sean said.

  “Hey, man, we can’t all afford to get art degrees and roll into a part-time gig at a tattoo parlor at four in the afternoon,” Ashton said. There wasn’t any judgment in his tone, though. He made another line and straightened it up with a girl’s hair barrette abandoned on the console.

  Sean closed his eyes while he listened to Ashton’s tight, strong snorts. The feel of the leather on his triceps and the sounds of early morning L.A. nearly lulled him to sleep. This is how it had been since college. Ashton at the wheel, energizing up before they transitioned to a house party. Sean at the ready, shotgun, as long swallows of whiskey purred down his throat.

  “How many you had tonight?” Ashton asked as he revved the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  “Fuck you care for?” Sean asked. He opened his eyes and looked over at Ashton, who gripped the steering wheel like it was a life boat.

  Ashton shrugged. “Just askin’,” he said. “Tell me the address.”

  Sean pulled out his phone and opened the blinking text app. The numbers and words swirled before his eyes. Damn, it had been a long time since he’d had the spins. “You don’t remember where this dude lives?” he asked.

  “No, do you?” Ashton asked pointedly. Sean felt the SUV snake over the wake-up bumps on the highway and smiled. The shake felt comforting, a reminder of how alive he was.

  “North Curson, you know where that is?” Sean asked.

  “Put it in the GPS,” Ashton said. Sean glanced at the touch screen, inches from Ashton’s white-knuckled hands.

  The rumble strip growled below the tires again and Sean heard a horn wail as they raced by. “Slow down!” he said. “You’re gonna get us fucking pulled over, man.”

  “I am not,” Ashton said. “Just do the GPS. Cops don’t think anyone’s out partying on a Wednesday morning, there’s no speed traps.”

  A flash of worry and fear trickled into Sean. He took a long pull on the flask to drown it. Ashton was right, cops weren’t looking for partiers in the middle of the week. If anything, they’d think they were tired from an early morning commute. He looked at Ashton. The coke had woken him wildly up. He could totally pass as sober, albeit high-strung. And besides, it’s totally legal for the passenger to be drunk.

  But still … what if they drug tested Ashton? Wasn’t coke worse than alcohol? Fuck, who knew the laws here? “Hey, you want me to drive?” Sean asked. It seemed like the Audi they flew past was dangerously close.

  Ashton laughed. “No, mom, I’m fine,” he said. “Finish your whiskey
, dude, you’re starting to sound like an old lady. And tell me the goddamned directions, you’re going to put us in the valley or some shit.”

  Now that was good advice. Sean took another pull of the whiskey and focused intently on the Google Maps app on his phone. No way in hell was he going to try and work Ashton’s complicated built-in GPS system. The images whorled before his eyes and he messed up repeatedly. “Fuck, what did I say the street number was again?” he asked.

  Ashton groaned. “Seriously, by the time you get us there I’m gonna have to drop your drunk ass off and go straight to work.”

  “You say that now, but that’s before you see what kind of THOTs turn up,” Sean said. He thought he sounded particularly wise.

  “You know my weakness,” Ashton said. He turned the radio up with the controls on the steering wheel and rolled down the windows.

  “What the fuck?” Sean asked, but the wind on his face was soothing. It whipped the heat the alcohol made him radiate off his skin.

  Ashton lifted his head and howled into the night. Sean lolled his head to watch and laughed. He joined in and their combined voices wailed into the night. But when he glanced at the speedometer, it looked like it was well over the 100 mark.

  “Ashton, seriously, you gotta slow down,” he said.

  “Jesus Christ, Sean. What the hell is your problem? Why are you being such a goddamned prick tonight? I’m the one who has a real job I have to go to.” Real anger clouded Ashton’s voice, but he wouldn’t look at Sean.

  “My problem?” Sean asked, amazed. His emotions overpowered the whiskey-flavored haze. “How about that I don’t want to go to fucking jail just because you’re driving like a lunatic? Slow the fuck down.”

  “Fuck you, Sean,” Ashton said coldly. “You know, I don’t even know why we’re still friends.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Sean asked. Soberness shot through him and steadied his vision. He looked at the speedometer again, 110.