by Neal, Xavier
Unmask
Adrenaline Series 4
By Xavier Neal
© Xavier Neal 2015
Published by Entertwine Publishing
Cover by Entertwine Publishing
Photographer: Xavier Neal
All Rights Reserved
Amazon Edition, License Note
Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
All character, places, and descriptions come from the imagination of the author. All are fictional and any resemblance to real life persons or places is purely coincidental.
Dedicated To The Universe: Thank you for letting me take off my mask over a decade ago.
Drew
With a wide yawn, I carefully peel away the thin tanned leg that's tangled around me. Stealthily, I slide from under her sheets.
God I hope she doesn't wake up. It's never a fun conversation. 'Thanks for last night. It was great. I don't remember your name. No. Don't tell me. I don't really care.' Oh, don't even. Of course I don't remember their names. After a bottle of Jack I barely remember my own.
Stumbling around, I manage to find my boxers and jeans close to her bathroom, and my shirt draped on her dresser.
The process of getting dressed is significantly less fun than the process of getting undressed. Sure, both typically happen in a matter of seconds, but getting naked means I'm about to get off and getting dressed means I'm trying to get out. Completely different types of adrenaline rushing through your system.
Once the only thing I'm missing is my shoes, I feel around my pockets in search of my phone. The search ramps up from casual to panic as I find my keys and wallet, but no phone.
Fuck...I left my phone at home last night. Son of a bitch...Don't look at me like that. If you had the big brother I have you'd leave that shit at home when you're trying to escape too.
I tip toe across the room and grab hers off the nightstand. Thankfully, she doesn't have it password protected.
Major mistake in general. Always keep that shit locked up. You never know what could happen when someone finds it. No, not like me. I don't appreciate that one.
As soon as I sneak out of her room and into the kitchen, I dial my brother's phone number.
It rings twice before he answers, “Speak.”
“Middle Man, I need a ride,” I mumble into the phone, leaning against a pillar in the kitchen. “Stranded.”
“I figured. Your bike's here.” He lightly chuckles. “At least you weren't drinking and driving.”
“I'm not a complete moron.”
What? I'm not.
“Yeah. We'll see. You know Mad Man is pissed.”
What else is new? The oldest McCoy brother is always pissed. Always looking for another place to drown all his fucking anger over losing our baby brother just a month ago. He chooses work and riding our asses, I choose liquor and smacking asses. My way is more fun and a little more classic McCoy.
There's a jingle of keys and a deep sigh. “Where are you at?”
“Can't you get Destin to GPS me?”
“He's in the shop,” Daniel replies. “You know, the place where you're supposed to be.”
I mumble, “Fuck...”
One of the benefits of having a computer genius for a brother is not having to ever actually be lost. Yeah, I know, all phones come with GPS systems, but rarely do they come with the ones that can tell you which routes to avoid because cops are on it when you've just stolen some asshole's 22,000 dollar sculpture for calling you a hood rat. And before you comment, I'm aware that by stealing it I may have proved him right, but by selling it, I became 27,000 dollars richer. Man...that was years ago when stealing still had luster and crime didn't always demand we pay in blood.
“Let me find some mail.”
My triplet brother laughs again. “Just like the good old days.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I move for her kitchen table where there seems to be a magazine opened and other paper products. My search is brief. I'm thankful.
Temporarily stealing her phone and rifling through her shit are not activities I can say I'm enjoying.
“1212 Peach Tree Lane, New Johnsonburg.”
“You're in fucking New Johnsonburg,” he complains. “You can't fuck chicks closer to home?”
“We both know we've fucked plenty of chicks close to home,” I snap. “I'll see you outside in ten.”
“It's gonna take me longer than that.”
“Fine. Fifteen.” I end the call, delete his number, and slide it onto her table under the magazine that clued me into exactly where the hell I am.
If I leave it here, she'll probably assume she did it herself. It won't even register that I might've used it.
Swiftly, I'm out the front door and parked on her sidewalk.
Not quite the walk of shame. More like the Triple D style of avoiding false promises. No matter how up front we are with these chicks in the beginning, most of them still want more from us. From the infamous McCoy brothers. We've been legends since we were in elementary school rocking Power Ranger lunch boxes and tattered hand me down shirts. Then girls wanted to give us their extra cupcakes or cookies just to sit beside them and tell terrible jokes, but as we grew up, chicks offered a lot more than baked treats to try to capture our attention. It probably helps that Madden set up quite the precedence for the McCoy named and gave us tips on how to live up to it. Not just in the bedroom but out of it too.
The sunshine is to the point of blinding, making me further regret having to be up so early. A small pounding tries to creep into my head reminding me why I shouldn't drink so much. Using my hands to rub my temples, I stare at the house across the street where there's a mother trying to feed her baby in a high chair. I stare at the heart warming sight with a dowie smile.
Sometimes I wonder if my mom were still alive just how different life would be. Occasionally I like to think I would've turned out a little more normal. Found some chick to settle down with. Gotten hitched. Had a kid just like that, that she could make a mess trying to feed while I was at work. Sometimes I wonder if my mom were still alive, would we ever have gotten in this fucked up lifestyle?
Daniel pulls up on his motorcycle and immediately offers me a helmet when he stops.
Madden, my oldest brother, is a classic car man. My youngest brother, Merrick, rest his soul, was a sports car kid. The triplets, well, we're all born and bred on bikes. We can ride them all and fix anything that lands in our laps. Daniel prefers crotch rockets. He lives to do stunts when he thinks Madden's not policing him. Destin could go either way, but I like old Harleys. They carry the legend right there in the name. They don't have to mask their greatness behind some French fucking label or fading trend that appeared in the latest car mag.
As soon as I'm settled on the back, he pulls away speedily. I look back to give the house of a future that I'll never have another glance when the front door of my present opens to a frantic leggy blonde.
They're typically blonde. What can I say? I think there's nothing sexier than a blonde head bobbing around on my dick. Oh, like you don't have your favorites?
Daniel flies us from the next town over back to the garage where our apartment is also located. The drive is barely enough time for me to wake up for the long shift that's ahead, but it happens.
More and more frequently since I had to help bury my family twice in a month. Our cousin Ben, who was practically Me
rrick's twin died in a car crash about a week before Merrick was killed...I don't wanna talk about it. Stop bringing it up.
My brother parks his bike on the side beside mine and Destin's. When the three of them are all lined it's like looking at the three of us. They're damn near identical like the three of us. Three black MV Agusta F4CC, easily priced off the line at over a $120,000, each with custom modifications. The seat of each of our bikes has the cursive initial D. Mine has one since I'm the oldest, Daniel, has two, and Destin three. Other than that, there's no way to distinguish to the outside world which bike belongs to who.
Best part is, we're just the same. All brown eyes. All buzzed cut hair. All toned even if we're thinner than the other McCoys have been. The three of us also have the exact same tats on our tanned arms and chest, the differences so subtle at first glance you could never tell us apart. Most of the time we're wearing jeans so the extra tats that don't match don't get seen. But like the bikes, we all pack differences under the hood. I've got a pierced dick. Daniel's got an eyebrow ring he wears occasionally. Destin has an obnoxious as fuck tongue ring. Why the fuck would you wanna pierce your tongue? You have to use that shit daily...and yes, I do use my dick daily, but that's slightly different, don't ya think? I mean what are the chances I'm gonna get a hunk of pizza stuck in the thing?
I put my helmet back on my bike as Daniel sheds the backpack he carried it in. “Bro, Madden's pissed.”
Rolling my eyes I sigh, “You said that already.”
“Yeah, but like pissed pissed.”
I don't look phased.
“He threw a wrench.”
“At least he's not holding all that shit in.”
Daniel snickers a little but shakes his head. “Knox is pissed too.”
“Shit...”
Knox is basically like having an older sister meets mother figure. Don't get it twisted though. She is just as much one of the McCoys as the rest of us. Fuck, some days I think she's more. The only other person who seems to have that much McCoy pumping through their system is Madden. I really do try to give him as much respect as possible. I get it. It wasn't easy practically raising the four of us, well five if you include Ben. It wasn't like we made that shit easy. Especially us triplets. First week of school every year, the three of us were in the principle’s office for some bullshit. Separately we behaved better, but when the three of us were together, which we typically were, shit seemed to always end up with trouble only he could save us from.
“Drew Nathaniel McCoy!” Knoxie's voice pierces my ears.
Fuck. Me. I'm in trouble.
Turning around, I'm not surprised by the irritated expression she's wearing.
Problem with a pissed off Knox isn't just that she looks hot when she's mad, it's that she's violent. Grab me an ice pack?
Her light brown hair blows in the wind. “I'm gonna rip your nut sack off and turn it into a punching bag I use daily in between using your face as one.”
Make that two ice packs.
“Good morning to you too, Knox.”
“Good?” She stomps her foot at me. “No. Good would've been sleeping in past 7 fucking a.m. Good would've been not having to hustle down the stairs to fill in for some brat who can't even seem to remember that he's not the only fucking person in his house that matters.”
On a groan, I complain, “You sound like Madden.”
She points a harsh finger at me. “Do. Not. Say. That.”
“Then don't act like that,” I insist. Knox opens her mouth, but I bite, “Look, you can either spend the next ten minutes chewing me out about my piss poor choices in following my dick over my brain or you can move out of my way, let me change, and get back to the day off you had planned.”
Daniel chimes in, “Weren't you supposed to go to the beach or something?”
Confused, I ask, “It's a little cool for a day at the beach, isn't it?”
Knox bites her bottom lip.
Looks like she's got a secret too.
“What do you do at the beach?” Daniel asks.
Sarcastically she snips, “Pick coconuts and pretend I'm Sandie from Sponge Bob.”
“I would've never guessed you had a bush like that,” Daniel jokes until Knox balls her fist and comes towards him.
She pops him twice in the shoulder and claims, “Two for flinching motherfucker.”
“Fuck!” Daniel complains.
I try to stifle my chuckle, which is when she says to me. “Go. Change.”
With a nod, I prepare to go, but stop to ask, “We got any more EA? I think I've got like one left.”
EA, which is the street name for a drug called Enilanerda, is a miracle liquid. Basically it ramps up your immune system to kill any STDs that may try to weasel their way in. One little shot and you don't have to worry about a goddamn thing with one night stands. Hell, for women it also prevents unwanted pregnancies. What the fuck is better than a shot you can take that erases all the problems that comes from fucking around? Yeah, yeah, I know. You're waiting for the catch. Probably why it's not legal. Aside from the money it would cost pharmaceutical companies, no drug is without its drawbacks. EA has an effect on your sex drive. Every time you take it, you run the risk of becoming dependent on it in order to get a hard on or even lose the capability of ever getting one again. Chicks run the same risk as well as being infertile. Sex is a roll of the dice anyway you do it, might as well take the path that suits your lifestyle best.
“Yeah. Vinnie dropped off a delivery this morning. Might I suggest you slow down on putting your dick in anything that's willing to accept it. We don't get free shipments like we used to and while our discount from Vinnie is steep, it's not steep enough.”
Playfully I question, “Did you really just ask a McCoy to fuck less?”
She lets out a disgusted groan.
I give her a wink and she slugs me hard in the shoulder as I walk by. Instead of showing her how much that shit stings, I simply laugh and head around the building, using the side door that leaks into the stairwell.
One of the best things about the garage, aside from the expensive beauties that roll in and out for our services, is the fact our apartment is right above it. I love living with my brothers. They're my best friends. Destin, Daniel, and I spend more time with each other than we do anyone else. We've been that way since we were kids, never figured out a good reason to stop living life that way.
Inside I stroll passed the kitchen and to the right down the hallway. At the split, I turn the direction of my room. I pass Daniel's, the bathroom we share, and head right for my room that is in the same condition I left it.
Is it wrong part of me hopes Knoxie will go all mother hen just once and clean it for me? Hey, she cleans Madden's room for him. A dude can dream.
Tossing off my clothes that wreak of booze, cigarettes, and expensive perfume, I fumble around the piles of clothes that need to be folded or washed.
I know it's sad that the two once separate piles have now morphed into one booby trap. At least it protects my door from unwanted guests.
I grab a pair of work pants and one of my white shirts that has my name embroidered over the pocket. As soon as my shoes are on, I look around the room for my cell phone.
There's no telling where that shit is.
Carelessly, I knock the car mags off my night stand, rifle through my top drawer past the empty vials I know I need to toss. Thankful I have one left that's full, I grab it, and a fresh needle.
Between the piercings and tattoos I have, needles don't even cause an eyebrow raise any more. You might wanna look the other way if you're squeamish. Don't worry. It's only gonna take a second.
Once I'm done, I toss the empty vile back in the drawer and the needle in the disposal container that's specifically for them.
Before you start questioning why I have one of those but can't throw the vial away, Knox bought us those years ago to use and two...I'm lazy. Whatever.
I return to searching for my phone. Feeling a little a
nnoyed at the fact I can't find the damn thing, I growl as I hunt under my bed around half empty soda bottles and energy drinks.
“You know it might help if you clean your fucking room,” Madden's voice pulls me up to my feet.
Madden is scary as fuck. Triple D, which is what we've been nicknamed since we came home from the hospital, we're intimidating only when we need to be. Madden's face is sharp with nothing soft to it. The jagged scar along his jaw bone line doesn't help the stone cold killer look he portrays. Before you ask if he is or isn't, let me ask you something. Would you blame him if he was because it was the only way he knew to protect this family? To make sure we weren't killed instead? It's fucked up, but we live in a kill or be killed lifestyle. And now that the youngest two of the crew are dead, his kill instinct has jumped. Severely.
