It’s almost funny when you talk to people who clearly have no idea where you came from, and who you really are.
“I do, actually;” I shrug again; “Ditch him.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes; “Gee, thanks, Hudson but it’s not that simpl-“
“No, it really is.” Reagan is staring at me with a strange mix of loathing and curiosity, but I force myself to concentrate on Chelsea; “He’s not going to suddenly just change, Chelsea. As a former lying, cheating asshole, I feel pretty confident in telling you that.” I level my eyes at her; “Just ditch him.” I can see her frown begin to fade as my words sink in; “You’re a strong, confident, beautiful girl, Chelsea, and you don’t need dead-weight like whoever this total idiot is holding you down.”
Chelsea’s fierce look is gone as stares at me with a whole new, much nicer expression on her face; “Um, thanks Hudson.” She looks confused for a second, as if amused that those words came out of my mouth, before her face suddenly breaks into a big grin as she smiles at me; all traces of her former sneer gone. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Reagan shooting a venomous look at her sister, as if she’s somehow traitorous just for not acting like a total bitch to me like Reagan is. I’m almost ashamed to admit the sense of smug satisfaction I get in seeing it.
“He really is kind of an idiot, isn’t he?” Chelsea shrugs in a defeated way, and I find myself opening even more.
“To cheat on an Archer girl like you?” I shrug and wink at her; “Total idiot; must be blind too, which almost makes me feel bad for him.”
Chelsea blushes and grins at me and I see Reagan roll her eyes dramatically and turn back to reach for the water bottle she’s left on the stair-master machine. For whatever reason, I suddenly feel compelled to push her buttons even more on this.
“Why don’t we all go out to lunch? My treat, of course.”
Chelsea’s nodding eagerly but Reagan cuts her off; “Thanks but no thanks, we came here in gym clothes, remember?”
I wave off her concerns like they’re nothing, because they aren’t with the resources I have; “I’ll have one of my guys bring something here for you to wear. Just go hit the shower and I’ll be sure there’s a selection waiting for you when you’re done.” The dichotomy between Chelsea’s impressed and beaming face and Reagan’s look of “are you kidding me” disdain almost makes me laugh, but I compose myself; “So, that’s a yes then?”
I can see just the tell-tale signs of a smile teasing the corners of Reagan’s frown as she shakes her head at me; “Who are you, God.”
“Just ‘Hudson’ will do.”
She rolls her eyes; “You know what I fucking mea-“
“Well right now, I’m your lunch date. So go hit the showers sweet-cheeks.”
P A S T
“So, how was Dad last night?”
Chelsea looks up from her homework and frowns at me. I’m supposed to be doing the same thing, especially since I’ve just started sending transcripts to colleges, but I’m mindlessly paging through TV channels instead. “You should have at least gotten on to say hi, Ray.”
I shrug; “It sounded like you were having a hard time hearing him anyways, wherever he is.”
“Angola.”
“What?”
“Angola; that where he is.”
I roll my eyes and sneer; “Of course he is.”
Chelsea slams her homework down and glares at me; “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means wherever there’s some third world conflict with terrible people willing to spend money of disputable origins, that’s pretty much where you can guarantee our father will be, Chelsea.”
I turn back to the TV with a huff, but my younger sister jumps out of her chair, grabs the remote out of my hand, and shuts it off; “Meaning?”
“Meaning Dad sells guns to bad people, Chelsea!” I shout at her. She flinches at the outburst but I keep going; “It means all of this” I’m gesturing around at the opulent home around us; “We have all of this because Dad is an arms dealer.”
Chelsea’s face scrunches up in a frown and it looks like she’s about to cry; “You don’t know that, Reaga-“
“I know how to put one and one together and get two, Chelsea.” She starts to snivel, and I feel the wind go out of my sails as I reach out and pull her into a hug; “Hey, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know that, Reagan!” She says again weekly as she presses her wet eyes into my shoulder.
“I know,” I say, stroking her hair; “I should gotten on the phone yesterday. So, how did he sound?”
“Good,” Chelsea pulls aways, her eyes red and wet looking.
“Who’s yelling in here?” Quinn pokes her head into the room and frowns when she sees Chelsea; “Reagan-“
“It’s nothing, we were just talking about Dad.”
Quinn shrugs; “Oh yeah, he’s in Angola with The Guys.” She frowns at me; “You really should find the time to talk when he calls you know, it’s not exactly easy to make phone call from there.”
I suppress the urge to growl; “So he’s with the guys in some remote corner of the globe instead of spending time here with us while you’re back on break, huh?” I roll my eyes; “Shocker.”
Quinn makes a face; “Oh, did you want to go to the sub-Saharan conflict zone, Reagan? Were you just dying to take in the scenery with a dash of extreme poverty and active war zone?”
“You know what I mean. I mean spending time with them all the time.”
My older sister frowns; “It’s work, Reagan. And besides, you know they’re all military or whatever; it’s like a brotherhood thing.”
I shrug; “Yeah but they just - I don’t know, they’re weird.”
Quinn grins; “You mean hot.”
“Um, not what I meant, but eh, I guess.”
“You guess?” Quinn is grinning at me; “Uh, news to Reagan, they’re hot. Chels? You with me here?”
Chelsea blushes and grins; “They’re super cute, Reagan.”
“They’re old!”
Quinn laughs; “Fuck you! Old? I think Hudson’s my age and Bryce is younger than that, bitch.”
“Fine, whatever.” I reach for the TV remote.
My older sister frowns again; “Did you finish your application essay for Columbia yet”
I groan dramatically; “Yes, MOM.”
She bristles, and I cringe; “Sorry.”
“Just finish that application, dummy.”
P R E S E N T
“What, no Charger?” I smirk at Hudson as his driver brings the Bentley limo around to the back-door of the gym.
He flashes that cocky grin at me as he opens the door for us; “Not today”.
“Hmm, yeah, much too flashy,” I nod with phony enthusiasm; “Good thing you’ve got the Bentley limousine as a far more inconspicuous backup.”
He shrugs; “What fun is money if you can’t spend it?”
“Oh is there money you haven’t spent? I wasn’t aware of that” I smile sweetly at him, nodding towards the sleek, ultra-luxury Bentley.
“Get in the car, Archer,” He smirks, his eyes glinting at me.
*****
Later as we’re finishing lunch on the rooftop terrace of the exclusive place he takes us, I frown as I watch him; half-listening to him as he doles out relationship advice to Chelsea. There’s a mystery to Hudson, almost as if there are two of him both sharing the same stupidly good-looking body. The one Hudson is arrogant and - wait, no, scratch that; both Hudson’s are arrogant. But while the one smug, cocky, overly-confident Hudson surrounds himself with luxury and and sarcasm and boorish behavior, there’s another one that I keep getting glimpses of, like the one sitting here talking to my sister. That Hudson is, well, utterly different. The second Hudson is fragile and partly broken; full of demons with fire in his eye. He’s the man with battle-scars and tattoos peeking out just enough from underneath that Armani armor to make me crazy to want to know which Hudson is the real one.
Or are they
both?
But then of course, I’m reminded of who he is. I’m reminded that however charming and sober and put-together this new Hudson is, this is still one of the family of men my father surrounded himself with off in some remote corner of the globe when he was avoiding us - his real family. I remind myself that however handsome his face is, and however sweet he’s being to Chelsea right now, this man has an agenda in helping finance my campaign. My father might be gone, but Hudson Banks is here, as if he’s helping my Dad exert his will over me from beyond the grave, which is a bizarre and uncomfortable thought.
Chelsea seems right as rain with him though, sitting there wrapped around Hudson’s finger. I shake my head at the sudden pang of, well, something that sure feels a whole lot like jealousy, even I know that’s impossible. But just the same, I find myself clenching my hand a little tighter around my water glass as Chelsea leans towards him, and puts her hand on his arm as she laughs at something he says. I mean it’s harmless; her mannerisms are far more sibling-like than anything flirty, but I still can’t seem to shake the possessive feeling, as if Hudson is mine somehow.
But of course, he’s not ‘Mine,’ I’m not ‘His,’ and there’s nothing between us in that regard at all. He made that perfectly clear back before, during that summer and then at my father’s house. And then of course, I have to remember what he did - or more importantly what he didn’t do that night back then. I have to close my eyes and remember just how shitty I felt when I came downstairs and saw him walking out the door with that girl-
“Uh, Reagan?”
“Hmm?” I look up, started from my thoughts to see them both looking at me, as if waiting for an answer to a question I never heard.
Chelsea rolls her eyes at Hudson; “I told you she wasn’t listening.”
Hudson grins at me as he twirls his empty espresso cup around the saucer; “I was telling Chelsea that you can’t get weighed down with what came before. You’ve just gotta keep your head up, because you never know when something new might come next.”
I smile thinly at him, still mulling over everything I was thinking about before, but now also wondering which of the three of us that particular advice was really meant for.
P A S T
“Jesus, Hudson,” Logan is shaking his head at me in that way that makes him seem like my older brother. I don’t actually have an older brother, but if I did, I know he’d be Logan giving me this exact look.
“What?” I toss the keys to the valet who’s salivating over the sleek white McLaren behind me.
“Not exactly the most subtle statement is it? What part of ‘blend in’ and ‘seamless’ doesn’t click with you?”
I shrug, annoyed at Logan's tone; “I needed a car, man.” Right, that’s why you buy a million-dollar vehicle; because you ‘need a car’. But I’m New Rich - capital N, capital R - we all are, and goddamn does it feel good to fucking live a little without worrying about where the next buck is going to come from, or what piece of my soul I’m going to have to cut out in order to get it. New Rich also means, by the way, that I’m half in the bag - a factor which I’m consciously attempting to downplay to Logan since I’m supposed to be going sober these days. Of course, I’m twenty one years old, I’ve taken a bullet for my country, I want to forget the last two or three years of my life, and I’m worth three-hundred million dollars; anyone who thinks I’m not going to be drinking is fucking delusional.
“You should get one, it’ll help you calm the fuck down a little.” I can see Logan tense up, his jaw tightening and his shoulders flexing beneath his suit.
“Baaaabbe?” Oh, right, my date. I dance over to the other side of the car, to the bejeweled, shiny-manicured hand dangling out of the passenger side, and pull her out. She’s makes a face at me that I know she thinks is sexy, which is in reality kind of just stupid looking, but I push it out of the way and grin at her as I haul her out.
I look up to see Logan shaking his head again;“Seriously?”
“Logan! Manners!” I say dramatically, feeling the booze I slugged down earlier course through me as I jerk my thumb at him. I roll my eyes at my date who’s name is escaping me and who’s probably either too fucked up or too clueless to actually get the look of disdain Logan is throwing her way anyways.
“It’s a birth- no, retirement?” I frown, realizing I’ve honestly forgotten why the fuck we’re here.
“It’s a graduation party,” Logan growls through tightly-clenched teeth as he eyes me; “For the Old Man’s daughter.” He shakes his head as he peers at me; “Jesus Christ, Hud, have you been fucking drinking?”
The valet pulls my car away and as I jaunt past Logan with the bimbo on my arm, I pat him on condescending on the shoulder; “Try and have a little fun, dude. We’re fuckin rich now.” I somehow walk away without him breaking one of my arms, and we stumble our way through the front doors of the Old Man’s castle-like estate.
A hand shoots out and grabs my arm hard, and I whirl around, fire in my eyes.
“Easy, Marine.” It’s William, and I’m instantly feeling like shit because I know I’m not supposed to be drinking, and I also know that he can see right through me and knows I have been. His eyes narrow at me, and I can see that he’s not mad per-say, he’s just disappointed.
Jesus, why is it always ten thousand times worse when he people you want to look good for are disappointed instead of just plain angry at you.
“Are you in control?”
No. Yes. Maybe? Grab me a beer and I’ll let you know? I of course don’t say any of those things and just nod like an asshole instead. I’m not trashed or anything, but this man has risked so much and given me a life straight out of a fucking movie script; all on the foundation that I clean up and keep my shit together, and I’m blowing that.
“I’m good, sir.”
He nods slowly; “Good, I know Reagan is excited to meet you.”
P R E S E N T
I awake from the memory momentarily confused by the ceiling that stares blankly back at me until I remember that I’m in the guest bedroom at Reagan’s apartment.
Technically, it was her mother’s place that she kept in the city to get away from it all, Reagan told me last night when we got in. But since she graduated, it’s apparently became Reagan’s de facto home. It might not be a mansion up in Greenwich, but it’s hardly slumming it either. It’s light in here, and airy, and even though we’re in Manhattan, the sounds of the city seem more of a background lull than the typical white noise grating on your ears. There’s a homey warmth to it that I realize quite starkly is something I’ve never known; not in the desert during our deployment, not in hiding after that, and certainly not in my shattered life before. Even with the money I have now, my penthouse is stark and modern and cold; the opposite of this place.
This place has love.
I wince as I roll out of bed, feeling the dull pain in my shoulder and partially regretting my workout last night. Reagan’s building has a pretty lame little gym in the basement, but when I realized there was a boxing bag there, I hit it hard last night when we got back. I wince again recalling that I fell asleep without showering last night; a problem that needs fixing right now.
I groan, thinking about how I’d tried to shower the night before, only to realize when I’d walked down the hallway that the door was shut and the water was on. The dawning realization that only a thin piece of wood and possibly a shower curtain stood between me and a naked Reagan had gotten me so fucking hard that I’d felt my pulse roar in my ears like a fucking jet engine. The mental image of her, the hot water cascading down her perfect body, the steam rising around her, her hands lathering her skin with soap had me gripping the doorframe with an iron grip, wanting nothing more than to break down that door, crush her body to mine and take her right there in the damn shower.
Obviously, my restraint is to be applauded, as I’d instead gone back to my guest room with a raging case of blue balls and a nonstop fantasy of Reagan wearing nothing but some soap
bubbles dancing through my head as I’d fallen fitfully asleep.
I’m still thinking about it, and I’m rock hard with my cock straining at my boxer-briefs as I poke my head out of the door and look around. Reagan might be what most people call an early riser, but I’m a Marine; “early” is a subjective term.
I’m used to the five-nozzle automatic steam shower I’ve had installed at my penthouse these days, but there’s an old world nostalgia that hits me when I manually crank on the water in Reagan’s clawfoot tub. The loofa that played a very soapy and very x-rated roll in my dreams of her last night is hanging there on a hook by the shower-head, and a surge of lust hits me again as the scent of her soap and her shampoo hit me. I think of her standing in this very tub last night, her skin pink and wet, her breasts rising and falling as she breathes in the steam, and the water running over her stomach and her hips to trickle down between her legs.
Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance Page 26
