by Natalie Wrye
The car is too cramped. Hell, the city of Manhattan is far too cramped when you’re anywhere in the vicinity of a demigod, a dark-haired angel with eyes intense enough to set you into stone. I try to avoid those stone-setting eyes, keeping my gaze out the rain-streaked window and my mind off the gorgeous man to my left. I fold my arms.
My head is light. My clothes are dirty. My stomach is grumbling because all the food I had has been stolen and my clothes are still fucking damp. I hate this expensive car. I hate its leather seats. I hate that I’m sinking into them and more than that… I hate that I’m sinking into this familiarity of being around Brett, this feeling of comfort. The feeling…of home. The only real home I’ve ever known.
Him. Kayla. The Jackson family.
They were my vision of the perfect unit, a family come true that was nothing like the one I went to sleep near every night. It wasn’t easy being an only child, the center of my parents’ awful attention. I was the only glue keeping them together, and once the bond between parent and child had started to erode, so did the relationship, ultimately leading up to my parents’ divorce.
It was ugly. And public. Everyone at school knew.
Because when your dad was having an affair, and your mom a meltdown, kids couldn’t keep the secrets to themselves, instead choosing to make my life a living hell. Kayla’s was my escape, my sanctuary, my little piece of calm.
Until Brett came and obliterated it.
I blamed the loss of my little piece of heaven on Kayla’s older brother because it was easiest. Because it made sense. Because it was true…
I stare out the passenger side window as if the other side was fascinating. Nothing could be further from the truth. Brett is so much more stimulating. At least, my body thinks so. It won’t stop shaking.
And suddenly my eyes find something interesting to focus on…
We’re going the wrong way.
"Where are you going?” I ask the window, not glancing at Brett. “This is not the way back to your apartment."
I can feel him shift in his seat. "Are you always so sure of everything, Elsie?"
"Sure," I comment. "When I'm not blindfolded. It’s just that… I recognize that street back there." My eyes narrow. "We should have taken it, but we didn’t. Why not?”
From the corner of my eye, I notice Brett’s already-defined biceps bulge. The tattooed wrist attached to his fist starts to shift, and as he turns his car around a corner, his jaw set, his beautiful eyes focused as he picks up speed, sending us racing down the rainy streets like a cart on rails. My heart beats hard as he says nothing.
“Bueller?” I press further. “I’m starting to think I’m talking to air here…”
"Just a pit-stop," he says, a smirk playing on the profile of his smug face. “Just a stop before we hit home.” He glances my way. “Do you trust me?"
With my life, maybe. With anything else…? No freaking way.
I want to remind Brett of the other night, just another reason why I can’t, when we pull up to a crowded block, stuffed with expensive vehicles. He parks in the middle of the street, and I gape as he opens his door, my mouth dropping even farther when he rounds the car and opens mine. I gape at him.
"Wait. What—what do you think you’re doing?”
His mesmerizing eyes are almost gray as they meet mine, the color shifting to a deeper shade. Quiet Brett is back with a vengeance, and he glares down at me, looking taller than his six-foot-two in a V-neck tee and jeans, his rain-slicked hair more messy than ever. He looks…amused. A hint of a smile plays over his lips, and despite the noise in on the busy street, he pays no attention to the background symphony of honking horns, his eyes on one person… and one person alone.
Me.
Not the police that might swing by any moment. Not the angry drivers. Not the bystanders staring.
Only me. The woman still seated in his car, only seconds away from losing her shit. I watch him as he extends a hand towards me, his palm outstretched.
"Come on," he beckons.
My eyebrows reach for the sky. “Where?"
"Inside." His stare never moves. "We're getting something to eat.”
“We are?”
"Yes," Brett keeps his hand in front of me. “Eat. That is, put food in our mouths, chew, swallow and send it into our stomachs.” He looks down at my shirt. “It’s clear that yours is talking to you. Your stomach was growling louder than the stereo. Figured we put something in it.”
I gaze up at him. “Thank you for the concern, Dad.” I smile sweetly. “But I can feed myself.”
“Well, I didn’t plan on holding your fork, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He withdraws his hand, placing it on top of the passenger door. “Come on, Elsie. Let’s just get something to eat. You don’t have to talk to me. Hell, you don’t even have to look in my direction. I just thought—since your stomach was playing the congas—that you might wanna grab a bite. You know, stop the extra unnecessary surround sound.” He pauses. “Was I wrong?”
Another car blares its horn behind us, its lights flashing fast. The rain starts to pick up. The drivers behind us scowl behind their windshields, and a valet in a red vest comes walking our way, carrying a black umbrella overhead. He looks from me to Brett, his gaze bouncing back and forth.
“Can I, uh… Can I take your car for you, sir?”
Brett glances at me. As if I have the answer. I wish to God I did.
I finally step out of the black BMW, and as I do, Brett reaches into his backseat, snatching a light brown leather jacket. He hovers it over my head, and I squeeze in next to him, feeling the heat of his muscled body, my brain cells scrambling as they struggle to keep the synapses going.
Every thought in my mind that isn’t Brett… is fried. We walk into the swanky restaurant together, shaking off the rain. A host approaches.
“Good evening, Mr. Jackson,” the tall thin man smiles broadly. “May I get your coat?”
“Sure, Alonso. We’ll take two seats.” Brett glances around. “I see it’s crowded tonight.”
“Most nights lately.” Alonso takes his coat, handing it off. “But for you, Mister Jackson, there will always be a seat. Come.” He glances my way. “We’ve got the best seats in the house waiting for you.”
Brett smiles. All muscles and melting stare. Messy hair and all, he’s nothing but refined, rugged perfection. He glances down at me with a wink on his chiseled face. “That’ll do us just fine.”
I walk in front of him as the host shows us to our seats, my stomach tying into knots as we slide into two lightly-leathered chairs surrounding a white cloth-covered table. A lit candle flickers in the center of its surface. I swallow.
Chapter 9
BRETT
Being here with Elsie feels fucking unreal.
What is it about the lethal-tongued blonde that gets me hard? That makes me want to rip every article of clothing off her soft, curvy body and press my lips to the silky surface?
The atmosphere doesn’t make it any better. Of all the places in Manhattan, I had to bring us to Les Anis, the most expensive restaurant on the block, one of my absolute favorite haunts in the entire borough… and one of the sexiest.
The lighting and layered cake made you want to get naked. And maybe that’s how they designed it. Good food, then better fucking afterwards. I had no designs with Elsie. That wasn’t what this pit stop was about. But still…
She looked as beautiful as I remembered. Hell, better.
The halo of frizzy hair she’d had as a kid had turned to curls, free-flowing and sensual. The braces had come off, the glasses turning into contacts, and by fourteen years old, Elsie Carpenter had developed the makings of a young woman. Pretty and wide-eyed. A fucking fantasy… At least to my sixteen-year-old self.
Took me two years to actually take a chance and once I did, there was no going back, no returning the innocence I’d stolen right under my sister’s nose. From her best friend in the world. The female sibling she’d never h
ad.
I was a fucking asshole to touch Elsie. It’s even harder not to touch her now when she’s sitting there, staring across the candlelight at me, her big brown eyes wide as ever. Wild as ever. Womanly as ever.
I want every inch of her so damned bad.
The thought crosses my mind just as the waiter comes. I lean back.
“Can I take your order, sir?” the well-groomed man beside me asks. I look at the menu.
“Yes… I’ll have the lamb chops with potatoes, please. And the house soup.” I glance at Elsie who stares at the open menu, chewing her lip. “And…” I trail off. “The lady will have the same.” She gazes up at me. “That should be good. For now.”
The waiter nods and moves way, just as Elsie stares after him, her mouth open in surprise. Her eyes are hard when she looks back at me.
“Let me ask you a question: Do you have to be a dick wherever you are… or is it just a reflex? Like a tick you can’t control?”
I smile. “It might be a bit of both, actually… but that had nothing to do with being a dick. I know that the menu is complicated…”
She sighs. “I can manage.”
“And it’s in French,” I finish. “I’ve been here often enough. I know what’s good on the menu…” I take a deep breath. “And I know what you like, so I thought I’d help out.”
Elsie sets her arms on the table, her head leaning forward. “No offense, Brett… but you haven’t known what I’ve liked in seven years. And even then you were no expert.”
I take the challenge. “Oh really?” I raise one eyebrow, and she hesitates, her mouth still set in resolve.
“Yes. Really.” She can barely say the words.
“I remember lots of things you like, Elsie Carpenter…” I lean closer, inching towards her face. “What, would you like a list?” She says nothing. “Fine…” I start. “You like it when I kiss below your earlobe, along your nape. Your collarbone is delicate, sensitive to the touch. When I skim my fingers there, you sigh, your lips parting slipping into a moan when I turned the touch to a lick. And oh, did you like the licks…” My voice sinks lower. “Your legs were always toned, tightly-muscled from the track-running. You liked when I massaged the muscles over your thighs, and even more so when my touch slipped between them, grazing over your usual shorts.”
I watch Elsie squirm.
“Your eyes would close. Your pretty pout would part. And you’d make the softest little noises as my fingers caressed between your toned legs, stroking the skin there…” Elsie brown eyes widen, her chest starting to heave. Her breaths grow heavy, her breasts rising and falling quickly. Her eyes flutter closed when I mention—with a whisper—what she used to do when my fingers found the plushness that is her pink pussy, my patient fingertips pulsing to make every part of her quiver, my ears straining to listen to her needy sighs as her orgasm slipped out onto my hand, soaking my open palm.
A small gasp emits from Elsie’s lips as she sits across from me, and it is all I can do not to toss the table aside and pick up her on the spot, slide her into my Beemer and keep driving. Just so I can do all the things I’m imagining, all of the many tender things I know my little Elsie likes.
My eyes scan her face, reveling in the flush they find there. She whispers three telling words.
“Brett…please. Stop.” Her voice is a breathy sigh.
I start to ask if that’s what she really wants… when the waiter returns with our drinks, not knowing the scene he’s walked in on, the vivid memories now in danger of becoming something more…
Chapter 10
ELSIE
Brett was right.
His choices at the restaurant are delicious.
The lamb chops are seasoned beautifully, the red potatoes cooked to perfection. The soup was even silky, wonderful to sip, and I could tell, as soon as the plates came to our table, that every ingredient, every morsel, every bite was made to please, to enjoy, to delight.
A shame I couldn’t taste any of it.
The food felt tasteless in my throat, the flavors gone. The yearning my stomach had felt just minutes before had gone numb, and try as I might, I tried to satisfy my palate, inhaling every splash of sauce on my plate, every morsel.
Unfortunately, my body was craving something else, and refused to be satisfied by the sensuous food, focusing all of its hunger pangs on one person. Mister Delectable himself.
Fucking Brett.
I hated him for doing that to me. For making me relive memories I struggled to bury, moments I’d thawed to keep from being frozen in time. His only redeeming quality?
The regret on his face.
We drudge through dinner, talking about American Superstar, refusing to delve into anything more. After exiting the restaurant, I can see the concession on his handsome face, the guilt written into his non-existent grin. He doesn’t even take his favorite chew toy—a toothpick—as we exit the restaurant; instead he escorts me to my passenger seat with few words, his mind seemingly focused on everything but me.
And somehow I don’t know how that little fact makes me feel. I wriggle in my passenger seat, struggling to get comfortable as night falls on us, quicker than ever. The city begins to come alive with bright lights.
Brett drives in silence until several minutes later, I can’t take anymore. I turn towards him.
“Well? Are we going to talk about what happened at the table or are we going to try to ignore it? Like everything else?”
Brett continues to stare out the windshield. “What’s there to ignore?” He pauses, his jaw ticking as he glares. “I’m a piece of shit.”
I snort. “Okay, so I’m not arguing that. But that still doesn’t address anything. Are we going to keep ignoring whatever’s going on between us… or are we going to do something about it?”
He nods, not looking at me. His blue-green eyes are bright against the dark purple sky, his dark brown hair even darker, and with a layer of stubble covering the lower half of his face, the man sitting beside me is every bit of the rugged perfection I remember. All muscles and melting stares. Impossible to be around.
He’s a lightning rod of unadulterated lust, and I swallow just staring at him, struggling to take in the car’s recycled air that’s filed with his scent. He smells so fucking good. So warm. His body feels hot, even from a foot away, and I’m drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, daring the fire to fucking burn. I exhale loudly, waiting.
Brett answers at last. He sighs.
“I’m leaving the keys on the kitchen counter for you. Going to do us both a big favor tonight.” His deep voice trails into nothingness. “I’m going to a hotel. Apartment’s all yours. For now. I won’t be staying there tonight.”
I gape, barely believing my ears. I stare at his perfect profile. “Seriously? That’s your big plan of action?”
He shrugs with one shoulder. “Only one I got, Ms. Carpenter. What I did at the table…” He inhales deeply. “It was fucked. And I can’t promise I won’t do it again.”
I glare at him. “You will. And I will.” I face him, frowning. “We owe it to ourselves. And Kayla…” My tone turns soft. “And to be honest? I don’t actually want to be alone tonight.” The truth tastes bitter on my tongue, but I talk around it, needing to share my fears. “The first American Superstar audition is tomorrow, remember? I don’t have any clothes. And… I honestly don’t think I can be by myself right now.” My eyes fall to the floor. “Even if the company is you.”
The venom in my voice slips out. It’s hard to hide it. I’m still furious with Brett for his foray into our past, still livid. But for the first time since the restaurant, Brett really looks at me, his eyes scanning my tightened body. His eyes flicker under the flashing lights outside our windows, and my gaze clashes with his, my heart racing as we stare each other down, my brain reminding me—for the fortieth time—why I can’t trust Brett Jackson.
Mr. Best Friend’s Brother. Mr. Dick.
Mr. Greatest Sex I’ve Ever Had. And still the sexies
t man I’ve ever seen. A butterfly whisks into my stomach as Brett stares… and stays there, my body aflutter.
Brett nods. “Anything for my sister’s best friend. Because that’s how it needs to stay, Elsie.” He glares back at the road. “Just friends.”
Chapter 11
BRETT
I made a vow to myself in the car. And I’m struggling to keep it.
The ride up to my apartment floor is tense, the air thick, and in an elevator with only the two of us, Elsie and I stand on opposite sides, not saying a word, our eyes focused on the silver double doors and not each other. Through the silence of the cramped metal quarters, I swear I can hear her beating heart, the sound of her slightly galloping pulse as she stares at the buttons on the lift, her small Converse-covered feet shifting.
Her skin still looks damp from the humid night, her small shoulders still bare. The hoodie she’d draped around her body now lies tied at a waist too tiny to be real, and if I couldn’t see her, hear her, practically fucking taste her, I’d think that this was all a fucking dream.
Elsie Carpenter. Here in my city.
Ethereally gorgeous, even when’s furious at me, my sister’s best friend is every bit of the feisty blonde I’d talked with, laughed with, lay with, seven years ago, and finding her again feels scarily like fate, a destiny I hadn’t even known I’d been driving towards.
Of all the places in all the fucking world, she had to land right in mine.
And I don’t know how to be with her anymore. How to relax.
Every nerve in my body is humming with her here, and I feel like the dumb kid I once was with her—all hormones, no fucking brains and all need.
Need. It’s such a foreign concept to me.
I’ve never needed anything but my shop and consistent sex.
And as we exit the tiny elevator, I’m still exploring the damning feeling, slipping my key into my door as Elsie follows slowly behind me, filling the apartment with her scent.
