One Bride for Five Brothers

by Jess Bentley

  “Are you on it?” I ask her. “Can you get it taken down?”

  “I tried!” she huffs. “No response this time, August. It’s totally out of control. Do something!”

  “I have to let you go, Melanie. I’ll call you back.”

  “When? August? Answer me.”

  Shit. Whoever did this was on a mission to get a heap of exposure. The pictures are more obvious than before.

  I squint at the photo thumbnails, clicking to expand them one of the time. Only two new pictures, although one of them is artfully cropped and filtered for Buzzfeed. The new Reddit topic already has 1762 upvotes and it was posted only twelve minutes ago.

  This is not good. Not good at all.

  “Take care of this, August!” she demands. “Do your job!”

  “Yeah, I got this,” I mutter, pulling the phone away from my ear and thumbing the disconnect button. I still hear her voice yammering on, but my attention is on the screen.

  On closer inspection, I don't think this is a new group of photos from a new location. I can’t be entirely certain, but I see a corner of the blue chaise in the corner of one of the photos. Unfortunately, it's Kirkman's dick again, this time with a lady’s hand around it. She's wearing silver rings and blue nail polish on her short fingernails. She's kept herself carefully out of frame and that hand could be anybody's, but, again, looks like we got another situation to deal with.

  Scanning the headlines, I see that sentiment has changed. Now, instead of people gaping in horror, the story contains some insinuation that Kirkman is doing this to himself. He's “leaking” pictures of himself to create more buzz. Frankly, I don't think the idea is out of the question either. But since he told me he's not the one doing this, I have to continue to believe him for the time being.

  And unfortunately, some of the coordinates on these entries are hitting pretty close to home. According to my DNS tracker, twelve percent of the commenters on Reddit are located in the Washington DC metropolitan area.

  That's a problem. That's a really big problem. It’s starting to look like whoever this is, they are trying to stir the pot locally. That means that he's about to be exposed, in my experience. You can't keep paparazzi in Washington DC in the dark for too long.

  “Hello?” Kirkman says in a sleepy voice when he finally answers the phone.

  “Who's there with you?” I ask him, tapping the icon to put him on speakerphone so I can get dressed.

  “Fuck you,” he grumbles. “I don't need you checking up on me, man.”

  “Whoever she is, get her out. You're trending again.”

  “What? Shit.”

  “I'll be there in fifteen. I expect you awake. Take a shower. And actually, whoever she is… tell her I need to talk to her.”

  “Fine… fine…”

  The penthouse is in total disarray again, like somebody threw a frat party with a mariachi theme. There are Corona bottles everywhere, absolutely everywhere. A pyramid of Don Patron bottles teeters on one mirrored end table. The air is thick with stale cigarette and pot smoke, and the whole place feels grimy. It's amazing to me that he can trash this penthouse night after night, starting over from scratch. Some people just don't respect their surroundings.

  Pounding on the bedroom door with the back of my fist, I step back a respectful distance. I don't actually want to barge in on him with his dick out, but I do want to make my annoyance perfectly clear.

  I hear voices inside the massive bedroom, then the door opens from inside. Kirkman gives me a cocky half smile. He scrubs his hands through his hair and then gestures at the interior of the room with a flourish, holding his arm out at two blondes still laying crossways over the bed. Sheets are twisted around them, forming lewd visual echoes of whatever the hell they have been doing all night.

  The first one pushes herself up on her elbows and regards me sarcastically. Her eyeliner is smudged into drastic raccoon shapes but her hearty pout tells me she's going to be impatient with my questioning.

  “Show me your hands,” I bark gruffly.

  She doesn't move but glances down at her fingers, newly tucked underneath her. Her knees are open and I can see the patch of light brown pubic hair edging up over her sex. She waves her knees back and forth slightly, as though daring me to come closer.

  “Both of you. I need to see your hands.”

  The second blonde rolls over the opposite way, displaying a full back tattoo of butterflies and spiderwebs. Not sure I appreciate the artistry. Looks like she was a victim of a school project gone horribly awry.

  I stride up to the bed, crossing my arms. “Which one are you?” I ask.

  “Lorna,” she sneers. She's on the manifest, so that's good.

  “And you?” I ask the one with her back to me.

  “Anita Boone,” she drawls.

  Apparently the sound of her own voice pains her and she throws her arms up over her head protectively. But I can see when she does that she's wearing dandelion yellow nail polish and thin gold pinky rings.

  “Your hands,” I tell Lorna. “Show me. Now.”

  She flops back, raising both hands at once and flipping me the bird with both fingers. Dark red. Not a match.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, ladies,” I mutter in my most professional tone, then pivot. Kirkman is leaning against the door jamb with his shoulders, holding a cigarette between two fingers and a lighter in the other. He raises one eyebrow at me as I approach.

  “You get what you needed?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I inform him.

  He follows me toward the kitchenette, and I start a pot of coffee because I'm a goddamn gentleman.

  “They’re on the manifest and everything, right?” he announces. “See? I listen.”

  “Yes, I appreciate your compliance.”

  “So what's the problem?”

  I spray the counter with a bleach solution and wipe it with a paper towel. I'd like to be able to lean on something here without picking up a disease or film of dirt or anything.

  “You're all over the Internet again, man,” I shrug, finally turning around. “But it's not them. Those two didn't do anything, as far as I can tell.”

  “Well I’ve only been fucking approved pussy. So much for your manifest!”

  “It's not them. Somebody else.”

  “Then who?”

  “My best guess is it's the same woman as before. Does this ring any bells?”

  I pick up the picture on my cell phone and hold it out to him. He crosses his arms and shuffles forward, scowling as he squints.

  “How would I fucking know?”

  “Well, that is your dick, right? You recognize it, I presume?”

  “Yeah, but I have it with me every day.”

  I grind my teeth, hoping to bite back the frustration that's rising in me.

  “That's not helpful.”

  “I'm not trying to be helpful,” he shrugs. “It's not my job. It's yours.”

  “So… those hands? The rings? Blue nail polish? Any of that ring a bell?”

  He shuffles toward the coffee pot with his hand out, scowling as though he's actually trying to help figure this out. After a few moments he finally shakes his head.

  “Wish I could help you, man. No idea. I mean, I know where my dick was last night, and it wasn't in those hands. Other than that, it’s all news to me too.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I bark, slapping my palm down on the counter. A group of mugs jumps in place from the impact.

  “Calm down, man. It's too early for this shit.”

  “It's noon, Kirkman. And you need to start taking this seriously. You're only here for another week. And then I'll be rid of you. But between now and then, could you please try to keep your shit together?”

  He sighs, drinking coffee down in three large gulps.

  “Dude, I'm just gonna do my job. Okay? I can’t help what other people do. But I can tell you that whatever this is, it's not new. Didn't happen yesterday, so it's your ongoing proble
m. You fix it, all right? I have got shit to do.”

  Despite it what an asshole this guy is, he has still got a point. It is my job. I need to get a grip on this.

  “Well, try to keep a low profile today. I hope those girls did a solid one for you last night because I need you to stay here for twenty-four hours. Could you do that?”

  “Nope.”

  He starts to walk away from me.

  “What are you talking about? I just said I need you to stay here.”

  “Well, I need to go to the mall,” he says. “Lorna tore my favorite shirt off me last night. She's a hellcat. I want to go pick up a couple of things.”

  “Not possible,” I inform him. “I need you to stay here while I try to manage the situation.”

  “So, figure it out,” he shrugs, turning back toward the bedroom. “I'm going to the mall, August. Do what you gotta do, okay?”

  Fuck.

  He shoves his boxers down as he's walking, stepping out of them before heading back into the bedroom. I hear the girls laughing and he doesn't even bother to shut the door.

  Looks like I'm babysitting him on a little field trip to the mall. This arrogant little shit.

  Chapter 36

  Dahlia

  Tell me what you want.

  I stare at the message, my heart already in overdrive. When I don't immediately respond, another message pops up.

  Tell me.

  I take a deep breath. There are so many things. He's been on my mind constantly since we started, but the new picture of him in my room made it all seem so much more… intimate. What was he thinking? What did he touch in my room?

  I want to see more of you.

  Tell me more.

  I start to type, then stop. What can I say? That I want to see all of him? That I want to feel him close to me? I want him to show me how he touches himself, watch him touch me? What can I say?

  I'm so wet for you right now.

  I bite my lip. It's the truth. As I'm sitting at my desk, I feel my body clenching and throbbing, feel how swollen I am.

  I would like to feel that, he texts immediately. I want to see those panties again.

  My body clenches again. I almost can hear his voice in my ear.

  I want to touch them, pull them to the side so I can see your pussy.

  I almost see it, he continues, did you know that?

  I gasp, standing up suddenly from my desk. I can't be out here in the middle of my office like this.

  Heart racing, I rush to the back of the room, trying to find some privacy. There seems to be somebody in the ladies room, so I duck down the other hallway, toward the storeroom where we keep boxes of paper and file folders.

  The single overhead fluorescent fixture buzzes and vibrates, giving the room a sort of movielike quality.

  My hand trembles as I stare at the face of my phone. I'm hungry to hear more. Is he done? Is that it?

  Then what? I dare to ask.

  First I want to just look at you, he texts back. I want you to spread your knees for me. Lie down. Open your legs.

  My breath is quick and flustered, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

  I want to, I tell him.

  Cautiously I edge to the back of the tiny room, fitting my shoulders between two tall metal shelving units. I don't think anyone would come in here, but just in case…

  I want to just look at you until you’re wet for me. Until you’re soaked through your panties.

  I'm so wet right now, I confess.

  Of course you are. And you know what I want. You know what I want to do to you.

  You want me to… I stop, afraid to text more, as though writing the words is as real as doing the deed. My body is throbbing so intensely, I feel like something is definitely happening to me.

  Tell me.

  The door to this room doesn't lock, and I keep glancing at the pale metal handle, expecting it to jiggle at any time.

  You want me, I write, knowing it’s not enough.

  …

  Tell me more.

  I take a few deep breaths. He's already opened the door, already got further than I thought we were going to. Can I tell him? Can I really even put it into words?

  I want you to see me, I text, my fingers trembling so hard I barely get the letters right. I want to feel your hands on me. I want to feel your weight over me.

  And then what?

  I hold my breath. I remember the dream, the way his shadow moved across me like the moon eclipsing the sum. The way his weight covered me all at once. The way his body fit along mine, threatening to either break me or fill me, I didn't know which.

  And I want your cock, I type, shaking hard. I want to touch it. I want to wrap my fingers around it.

  Yeah. I want to give it to you. I want to stretch you over my big, fat cock.

  I'm so hard for you right now, he continues. I read each word hungrily, over and over. Is this really happening?

  You want to see?

  Blinking, I moan into the silence of the empty room. I do. More than anything. My body shudders and clenches with waves of desire, pulses of something I've never felt before. It's like light or electricity.

  Show me, I type back.

  In a few moments, another image pops up. This is a video. The preview image is his familiar, broad palm, cradling his hard, thick cock. I can make out the veins swirling across the surface, and a gleaming jewel at the tip. It's pointed at the camera, so enticing it makes my mouth water.

  I press the triangular Play button and watch, enthralled. His hand moves up and down the shaft, his wrist rolling nimbly as he works his cock, pumping two, three, four times. Then he pauses, and swells. Before I realize what's happening, he comes, the white, thick liquid spurting out in a abstract loop that fountains from the tip and drips over his rigid hand.

  My mouth falls open. The video stops and the Play button reappears.

  I’m panting, shocked. I press play again and watch the entire sequence, completely rapt. I've never seen this before. It's thrilling, strangely beautiful,.

  And when video stops… and just disappears.

  I gasp, panicked. What did I just do? Did I lose it? Did I somehow broadcast it? Oh my God. What just happened?

  I call Bunny in a panic.

  “Hey, I can't talk right now,” she says in a rush when she picks up the phone. “Lunch rush isn’t even over yet. I'll call you right back —”

  “Bunny, I lost a video!”

  I hear her make a surprised noise. “You lost a… what are you talking about?”

  “He sent me a video? I played it… And now it's gone! What did I do?”

  “A video of what?” she chuckles.

  “Bunny, I don't a time for this! What did I do?”

  “Oh, geez, relax,” she drawls. I hear voice changing as though she's moving, maybe sitting down. “When you send videos through Instagram direct message, they don't last. You can play them once or twice, I think, then they just disappear.”

  “They disappear? Like on purpose?”

  “Yeah… actually, I don't even really understand why. Maybe for privacy or something. Like Vines, kind of. But if you played it a couple times and it disappeared, that's exactly what it was supposed to do. You didn't do anything wrong.”

  “Oh my God,” I sigh, relieved. “I mean, I thought I lost it! Like sent it out into the world or something!”

  “No, no,” her voice drifts off, and I can tell she's clearly distracted. “You didn't do anything. So… what was it a video of?”

  “It was his… you know. Penis.”

  “You don't say!” she purrs, and I can tell I have her interest again. “What was he doing with his penis? Is it nice? Is it enormous?”

  “He was… you know. Holding it. Pulling on it. Like for real.”

  “Oh my God! Did he come?”

  I push myself back farther between the shelving units. “He totally did! I can't believe it!”

  “He sent you a cum shot?! Wow, August! D
id not know you had it in you, old man!”

  “I know, right?”

  I breathe excitedly, trying desperately to keep my voice down. I'm so glad Bunny understands. My body is still buzzing, thrilled and enthralled.

  “Did you ask him for that? Damn, you are dirty girl, Dahlia!”

  “No! He just started… like, talking to me the other day. He started, you know… talking about doing it. What it would be like. It was so amazing. I just couldn’t even stand it. He said he wanted to lay me down and spread my legs and…”

  “Stop!” Bunny commands me.

  “Oh, I'm sorry! Is this totally gross or something —”

  “— no, it's totally hot! I just want to see it in person. Pick me up in thirty minutes.”

  I giggle, glad to know that it's not just me.

  “I think I could do that. There's still half a day left almost.”

  I hear Bunny sucking her teeth. “Yeah, well, now you got me all hot and bothered. Let's go walk it off at the mall or something. I want to see those texts!”

  “Yeah, okay. All right. I'll be there in half an hour. The board meeting is happening this afternoon, and I wouldn't mind not being here when that happens anyway. Since I made absolutely zero progress on the whole Kirkman front, I guess I can go ahead and be absent. They are probably going to start picking names out of a hat to fire.”

  “That's the spirit,” she says, distracted again. “I'll be out front. Just swing by quick so they can't stop me.”

  I disconnect the call, slipping the phone back into my pocket and trying to stand up straight. My knees are still wobbly and I feel like I've been tossed around by a roller coaster. Carefully opening the door, I peek out into the hallway to make sure I’m alone before I stroll nonchalantly back to my desk.

  After about ten minutes of typing like a good, industrious employee, I stand up and take my purse from my bottom desk drawer, hoping nobody's going to ask me anything on the way out. I'm totally entitled to lunch anyway. It shouldn't raise too many suspicions. But as I duck past Lori's office, I see her glaring at her PC screen and typing like a mad woman. I feel a pang of remorse, knowing that I let her down.

  Somehow, Bunny looks adorable in her waitress outfit. It's the old-fashioned kind with the wide collar. Her pink dress buttons up the front, complete with plackets and a floral hanky peeking out of her breast pocket. She's got a nameplate too that says Belinda on it, although I don't think anybody has ever called her Belinda in real life. She's always been Bunny. Her mom says she's been Bunny since the day she was born and instantly nestled right up to her like a tiny mammal.