Bossy Brothers: Jesse

by JA Huss

  I crack open one eye, realize I’m lying face down on a bed, have a moment of panic that I’m not on the yacht and actually have no clue where I’m at. Then spy the portholes in the side of the cabin and relax.

  “Ms. Dumas wanted me to serve you breakfast and let you know we’d be landing in about thirty minutes.”

  “Aw, fuck,” I groan as I turn over.

  My belt jingles as I do this and… I realize, my cock is hanging out. I squint both eyes up at the man standing over me with a concerned look on his face, and suddenly recognize Miles.

  His eyebrows are raised when he glances down at my dick.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, then fumble with my pants and tuck the boy away. “Now… what the fuck is happening?”

  I feel drugged. Did that little succubus drug me again?

  No. I think this is just the hangover from last night’s drugging.

  “Breakfast is served, sir. I’m sorry I’m late. You said one hour, and it’s been two and a half, but Ms. Dumas insisted I let you sleep it off.”

  “Did she now?” I ask, forcing myself to sit up so I can rub my hands down my face and take a deep breath to collect my thoughts.

  “Would you like me to wash this?”

  I remove my hands from my eyes and squint up at Miles. “What?”

  “Your shirt, sir. It’s…” He’s holding it up with tiny, silver pastry tongs. “Soiled.”

  “Sure,” I mumble, then look around and say, “You have a fucking laundry room on this thing?”

  “No, sir. But the jet club has facilities.”

  “Jet club?” I ask. Still half in my sleep dream. My heart aching a little about not being on the yacht.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll have it washed and pressed for you when you return.”

  “Where are we going again?” I ask, looking down at the fold-out tray that hovers over the bed.

  “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to tell you that,” Miles whispers. “Ms. Dumas wants it to remain a surprise.”

  On the tray there’s some kind of fizzy drink in a champagne flute, a tall glass of ice water, a miniature bowl of blueberries, and three teeny-tiny cinnamon rolls. I feel like Barbie and Ken will be joining me any minute now. I pick one up and hold it between my fingertips. “What the fuck is this?”

  “A mini-roll,” Miles says, as if these things actually exist. “They have exactly thirty-five calories and one net carb in them.”

  I drop it back on the plate. “I’m gonna need three of these in super-size, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m kidding,” I say. “Wait. No. I’m not. If you’ve got grown-up cinnamon rolls I really would like a few.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “And what’s this?” I ask, pointing to the champagne glass.

  “Sparkling orange juice sir. Non-alcoholic.”

  “OK.” I sigh. “Where’s Emma?” I’m pretty sure she didn’t ditch me since we’re still in the air. But you never know with this chick. She is one insane surprise after another. For all I know she took the parachute exit two hours ago and left me here just to prove she can walk out any time she wants.

  “Working in the middle cabin, sir. She said for you to take your time and meet her out there when you’re ready.”

  “Cool,” I say, picking up all three mini-rolls and popping them in my mouth. “Mmm, these aren’t bad.”

  “Would you like a dozen more?” And did I just detect a smile on Miles’ smug face? “Or would you like me to bake you man-sized rolls?”

  I point my finger at him. “You’re cool, you know that.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Sure, I’ll take a dozen of the little fuckers if you’ve got them ready.”

  “I always make a full batch,” Miles says. “She always eats them all.” Then he winks at me and leaves. I catch a glimpse of Emma in the middle cabin before he closes the pocket door, but then she disappears.

  Damn. The whole blow-job thing comes back to me. Who knew sweet, pig-tailed little Emma Dumas had that skill lurking deep inside her?

  But shit. She did it again. No fucking.

  I chuckle a little. But this time I got my reward and she got nothing.

  Point goes to me.

  I think.

  Maybe not. I don’t know.

  I drink the entire glass of water, then the fizzy juice, then dump the entire bowl of blueberries into my mouth and chew as I stand up, button my jeans and buckle my belt.

  I have no shirt.

  But fuck it. I feel a little better. I didn’t sleep at all after Emma left me last night. I had to get Zach to Photoshop me a fake drug test report, then plan my revenge.

  Which is not really working out the way I imagined.

  But I was tired. She did drug me. No sleep, no food except one and a half ice cream cones. And I was angry.

  I’m on my game now, son. On. My. Game.

  I pull the pocket door open, ready to make my grand re-entrance into Emma’s boring little life, walk through, and lean against the cabin with my arms folded in that way that pumps up my already spectacular biceps. I even flex my pecs when she glances up at me through a pair of adorable nerd-girl glasses.

  But she looks away, uninterested, and says, “OK, get me those reports when you have them. I need the final numbers ready for Natalie by Monday so we can plan this next trip.”

  What a faker. There is no way she didn’t appreciate what I just gave her.

  She fixed her hair. And did she get rid of the pig-tails? No. They are bouncing alongside her face as she pulls the earbud out and places it on the table.

  In front of her is the Wall Street Journal, a glass of orange fizzy, and two Barbie and Ken mini-rolls on a tiny little plate. She picks one up, still ignoring me, takes a bite—a fucking bite? Are you kidding me? The thing is only a bite big!—then sets it down on the plate.

  “Did you get some rest?” Emma asks, peering up at me from behind those adorable glasses.

  “I did,” I say, flexing my pecs again.

  She doesn’t even glance at them. But she saw. I know she saw. “Did you eat?”

  “If you can call that eating. What the fuck is up with your Barbie townhouse food?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Those,” I say, pointing to the two crumbs of mini-rolls.

  She glances down at them. Then up at me. “You have a problem with my cinnamon rolls?”

  “You didn’t eat the ice cream cone either.” I slip into the chair opposite her then pick up her plate and dump the crumbs into my mouth and chew. Then I point at her. “I’m gonna challenge you to an eating contest.”

  She guffaws so loud I lean back in my chair. “Is that the only game you feel prepared to win today, Mr. Boston? Haven’t you learned your lesson? I win everything now. I’m not that girl you once met.” Then she cocks her head at me and narrows her eyes. “Didn’t you see the way I ate your cock?”

  “What?” I laugh.

  She wants to smile. But she presses her lips together to tuck it away.

  I nod my head. And I guess I don’t have her self-control, because my grin is big. I don’t know. I might like her. I mean, I did like her. Would like to like her still. But she’s not letting this one-up bullshit go.

  I do like that dirty talk though. So I say, “Well, I had my eyes closed for half of it. Maybe you could give me a play-by-play?”

  This time she not only smiles, she laughs.

  Got you.

  “Where are we going anyway?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.”

  The door opens and Miles appears with a whole shitload of little rolls on a bright silver tray. “Your rolls, sir,” he says, placing the plate down in front of me. Then he looks at Emma. “We’re in descent now, Ms. Dumas. We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Miles,” she says sweetly.

  Why doesn’t she talk like that to me?

  I’m not a bad dude. OK. I was a bad dude. But I’m no
t anymore. “You should give me a chance,” I say.

  She narrows her eyes. “A chance to do what?”

  I shrug. “You know. Date you.”

  “Date me?” she huffs.

  “Yeah,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. “If Johnny hadn’t pulled me away from you all those years ago, we’d have been a thing.”

  “A thing? What kind of thing?”

  “You know. We’d have fallen in love, and broke up a million times by now. Been in more fights than we could count. Hate-fucked so many times we lost count.”

  “So romantic,” she says.

  “We’d be… that couple. You know?”

  “No,” she says. “I don’t know.”

  “That couple,” I say again. “The one everyone hates because they’re so in love, but all they do is fight. And break up. But then they can’t live without each other, so they always get back together, even if they’re not together.”

  “You mean… they have ex sex? And no one wants to be around them because they’re so annoying. ”

  I point at her. “Yeah. There you go. That kind of couple.”

  “Why would anyone want to be that couple?”

  “Because,” I say. “It’s true love.”

  “Sounds more like true hate. Definitely an emotional contradiction I want no part of. Quite probably a severe psychological condition that results in decades of misery.”

  “Or,” I counter, once again pointing my finger at her. “Love is a battlefield and they’re just both generals.”

  “You’re insane.” Then she finishes her fizzy drink and folds her paper. Takes out her phone and pretends to be busy so she doesn’t have to talk to me.

  But I sit there for the next few minutes just gazing at her with a new sense of awe.

  Yeah. That’s what this is. Love is a battlefield—thank you, Pat Benatar—and we’re just both generals.

  “I’ll prove it,” I say.

  “I’m sorry?” she says, glancing up from her phone. “What’s that mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I was gonna say, Just wait till we fuck.

  But I decide that’s what she wants me to say. She wants me to want her like that, just so she can say no and keep the game going.

  But guess what?

  I didn’t get to be a general on the battlefield of love by accident.

  A few minutes later we’re landing and I’m looking out the window. Something I should’ve done earlier, I decide. But I was pret-ty distracted.

  “Palm trees,” I say. “Blue-green ocean. Beach.”

  Emma just grins and says, “Welcome to Key West, Jesse Boston. You wanted to take me back in time? Here’s your chance.”

  And all I can think, when I walk outside and let the hot, summer, Florida sun hit my bare chest, is, Well played, Ms. Dumas.

  Well played.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - EMMA

  He’s smiling.

  That wasn’t the plan. I didn’t start this little adventure to make him happy. “Why are you so happy?’

  “What?” He chuckles. “Why wouldn’t I be happy? I’m in Key West with the girl who got away. Fucking sun. Fucking ocean. Fucking beach. This is my jam, girl.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh.

  “Besides, you’re happy too.”

  “I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just… your jam?”

  “That’s what all the cool kids say now.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  He shrugs. “I’m cool. You know it. I know it. Let’s just stop pretending.”

  “Arrogant, that’s what you are.”

  He points at me and grins. God, why does he have to have such a sexy grin? “I wish I had grown up here. You’re so fucking lucky.” And then his smile falls. Just a little as he looks out the window at the ocean. “God, I miss it.”

  “The beach?” I ask.

  “All of it. The wind. The salty air. The rocking motion of the yacht.” He looks at me. “The idea that you could set sail and end up on the other side of the world, ya know?”

  “So. Go do that. No one’s stopping you, right?”

  “No,” he says. “No one is. It’s just not the same anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t even own a yacht right now.”

  “So go buy one.”

  “And then what?”

  “Sail it, of course.”

  “To where? With who? Why?” I don’t know what to say to that, so he says, “The racing circuit was my excuse. That’s why people came with me, why I had a destination, why I had direction. But they kicked me out for drugs.”

  “So race yourself.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s just not the same.”

  “Hmm,” I hum. Because I don’t really get it.

  We’re in the limo on our way to the beach where my parents still run their little dive shop. Except it’s a lot bigger now. I have three older brothers, none of whom went to college like me. And all of whom still live here doing their beachy thing, courtesy of me.

  Not entirely true. But I did lend them money to get started in their respective businesses. My parents still own and run the dive shop I grew up with. Same little place near the marina. But I bought all the buildings next to them. So now the Dumas family owns and operates Dumas Diving, Dumas Boat Tours, Dumas Deep-Sea Fishing, and Dumas Water Adventures. We also own an entire block of cottages a few blocks away. Nothing super nice because my family is forever middle-class, no matter how much money they make. So we cater to middle-class people who just want to have a good time on the island and not kill their savings account.

  “So…” Jesse says. “Where are you taking me?”

  I thought this was a good idea when I came up with it. But now I realize… what the fuck was I thinking? I planned a day of water sports. Diving, of course. Because I’m a rock-star diver. Been doing that my whole life. So I was pretty confident I could show Jesse who’s boss by taking him diving. He might not even be certified and then I could make a big deal about how we have to snorkel instead.

  But going to the dive shop means meeting my parents.

  Just what the fuck was I thinking?

  “Emma? You gonna answer me?”

  “You probably don’t have a diving certification, do you?”

  “Fuck yeah, I do. I don’t have it with me. But you’ll vouch for me, right?”

  Of course he does. “Sure,” I say.

  “You’re disappointed, aren’t you?” He smirks.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yeah, you are. You planned this whole day to out-date me.”

  “Well, I’m winning so far.”

  He leans over in the backseat of the limo and says, “I’ll come in last every day of the week for that little surprise you gave me on the jet.” Then he waggles his eyebrows at me, points to them, and says, “Yes. To be clear. That was innuendo.”

  I sigh.

  “Seriously, you should let it go now. We’re having fun.”

  I side-eye him.

  “Liar,” he says. “You are having fun with me. I’m a fun guy.”

  He is fun. I will admit that. And he’s kinda been a good sport about the whole drugged-up kidnapping. I did feel pretty guilty about the drugs after he mentioned how hard it was to get clean. But he hasn’t brought it up again. And he’s not like… jonesing for coke, or meth, or whatever his drug of choice was back in the day. So, dodged a bullet there.

  But again, my fucking parents.

  The limo stops and Jesse looks out the window and up at the sign. “Dumas—oh, shit.” He looks at me. “You brought me… here?”

  I nod.

  “Your parents’ fucking dive shop?”

  I nod again.

  “Emma,” he says. “I have no fucking shirt on.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  “What? I can’t meet your parents for the first time with no shirt on.” He leans forward and taps on the window just in time to catch the driver before
he gets out to open my door. “Dude,” Jesse says, once the glass rolls down. “Take us to… somewhere to buy clothes. I need to change.”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Boston,” the driver says.

  And I wonder, how the hell does the driver know who Jesse is? He’s my driver.

  We go back towards the shops and double-park alongside a beachy clothing store.

  Jesse opens the door, looks at me, then says, “Just drive around the block a few times. I’ll be out in five minutes.” He jumps out and slams the door before I can even answer.

  True to his word, he is standing at the curb five minutes later when we make our fifth trip around the block.

  But it’s what he’s wearing that makes me suck in a deep breath of air and hold it.

  I put on these shorty-shorts and the tank top because he asked for the pigtails. This was what I was wearing when we met. I didn’t do it to flirt or make him want me. I really didn’t. I just wanted to piss him off.

  But he’s waiting to be picked up wearing something very similar to what he was all those years ago now too.

  My heart aches a little as he smiles and waves when we pull up. Because he’s wearing tan board shorts, a white ribbed tank that shows every single hill and valley of his amazing muscle-y chest and stomach, a pair of dark sunglasses, and skater shoes on his feet.

  He is twenty years old again and I am lost in time.

  Falling. Just… falling and falling. The same way I did when he came up to my shaved-ice stand the first time we met.

  He opens the door and jumps in, grinning like a boy. “OK. I’m ready now. Probably not the best choice for meeting the parents, but this here outfit was my jam back in the day.”

  He laughs at his joke. And I can’t help myself. I laugh too.

  Then I realize… I don’t think he did this to play a game. He didn’t choose these clothes to one-up me. This really is just him. The one I met. The one I loved and hated in the span of three days. The one who inspired me to spend ten million dollars on a second chance and commit more felonies than I can count.

  “What?” he says. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “These clothes,” I say.

  “I know. But… your parents are still cool, right?”

  “What do you mean? Still cool?”

  “You told me.”

  “When?”