by D. M. Burns
“Uhm, yeah. Listen to me, I can’t just turn it off. It doesn’t work that way. Plus, I’ve already told you that I won’t do that. I won’t do that to him or you. You guys have enough bad blood between each other Channing. No, that’s a hard limit for me.” I shake my head adamantly.
“First off, there’s no possible way you could make things worse. Not by a long shot.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Secondly, I can’t think of any better reason to have him hate me. Hell, in fact, I’d welcome it.” He winks at me and my eyes turn into slits. “But I get it, Brealyn. All I’m asking you to do is be present, here, with me. That’s all.” He says.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize…” I say.
I slow blink feeling like a deer caught in the headlights on an old country dirt road. What do you say to that? It’s not like I can help that my mind wanders to Brogan. I’m desperately trying to rummage through my vocabulary. Say something Brea. Anything to argue or convey how absurd his request is but I fall short. I’d only be lying anyway.
Instead, I do the only thing I can and nod my head. He lifts my hand to his lips placing a light kiss to the inside of my palm. The shiver that runs through me is not that of excitement, no. I’m fairly certain it’s my body’s way of rejecting anyone but Brogan. Channing stands pulling me to my feet.
“Dance with me, sunshine.”
“Do you always ask in commands?” His smirk is devious. That’s something him and his brother both do. I wonder if her realizes that.
“Would you care to join me for a whimsical spin on the dance floor, Miss. Winters?” He asks on a bow.
“Stop it… Don’t do that, people are staring at us, you weirdo.” The laugh that breaks free from my chest can’t be contained.
In complete defiance of my protest, Channing surprises me by swiftly wrapping one large arm around my waist lifting me off the ground and moving our bodies to the middle of the crowded dance floor. I try to hide my face into the crook of his neck as the upper elite all stare at us like we're taking a crap on their sophisticated fun time. My cheeks are burning bright with embarrassment.
“Screw them. I don’t care what they think.” He spins around and releases his hold on me by a fraction allowing me to slowly slide down his mountain of a chest. As soon as my feet hit the ground again, he gently lays my hand over his chest covering it with his own then slowly gliding us over the sparkling floor.
“You look beautiful in this silver strappy backless number.” He says.
“Thank you. Santa visited me and I must say he has extraordinary taste.” Channing tilts his head to the side in question but I ignore that. I don’t want to explain the wardrobe thing. “Now tell me, Mr. Creed, did you take dance classes?” I smile up at him and he nods yes.
“Four years in college. All the girls in dance were more than willing to tutor me for free.” He chuckles.
“I don’t doubt that for a second.” I cluck my tongue and tilt my head. “Why don’t you have a date tonight?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“What do think you are?” He smiles and those dimples flash out.
“No, stop it. Really, Channing. I’m serious.” I look up at him and his jaw ticks. It’s identical to Brogan’s. “I mean, why are you single? The available women, or ninety-nine percent of the married ones for that matter, make their interest no secret.” My hand creeps up and over his shirt curving along the back of his collar.
“You’d be surprised to know that I have a very healthy but private dating life.” He winks at me. “Just because it’s not splashed across the news media doesn’t mean it’s not happening behind the scenes. True to form, I’ve never put much effort into relationships. There’s really no point. It would’ve been a waste of time.” He shrugs his shoulders and smirks.
“Mkay… Well, is there anyone special?” I ask.
The room around us starts to chant out a countdown to the New Year and Channing stops in his tracks. That lonesome eyebrow cocks and the smile he presents me with is nothing short of sexual sin. He leans forward merely an inch from my face.
FIVE…
FOUR…
THREE…
I hear the crowd in the background but that gets drowned out.
“Oh, you bet your ass there’s someone special, my little country friend.” His low deep voice sets my heart off on a thundering breakaway. Similar to horses being released from the starting gates. His spearmint breath tickles my nose but that’s cut off when he wraps both arms around my back standing to his full height with me off the ground once again. Those dark spheres with rimmed gleaming silver bounce between mine. “Happy New Year, Brealyn. Either give me a friendly New Year’s kiss or I’ll take it.”
With those words between us, I feel one of his overheated hands glide slowly up hitting the exposed skin of my back warming my existence instantly. My mind doesn’t comprehend anything that’s taking place here. Too much is happening all at once. Everything is muffled and I feel disoriented. It’s as if I’ve been muted like a TV.
My hands move on their own accord encasing his face. I watch the traitors with baffled eyes. My insides are protesting what they’re doing. His skin is smooth but rough under my touch from the sharp angles of his features. His fingers filter into my blanket of hair, cupping the back of my head, and I watch in slow motion as his beautiful face closes in on me. I want to jerk out of his hold but can’t, I’m frozen.
Those thick masculine red ribbon lips of his take mine demandingly. He separates a path for destruction, invading my mouth in a slow sensual exploration. He tastes of spearmint and sinister sin. The sensation of everything Channing overloads my thoughts as I hug this man tightly into me.
Why am I doing this? My entire body becomes fiery in an unhealthy way right before he draws back scraping his teeth over my bottom lip in his departure. The growl that slips from his lungs comes to life between us. It’s nothing short of predatory and dangerous. Those sinful dark circles study me and he makes no move to let me go, zero.
An obnoxious amount of silver with gold-colored ticker tape and balloons fall all around us in our motionless stance on the dance floor. We simply stare at each other. My breathing labored and panicky. I blink through the confusion that I feel but my eyes stay on Channing. What in the ever-loving Hades hell was that?
“That was anything but a friendly kiss,” I whisper out.
I smile down at him feeling at odds with myself. What have I done? Oh, yeah that's right. I’ve just kissed the brother of the man I’m in love with. This is the making of a twisted country song if I ever heard one. Jesus Christ. Channing’s full-blown smile makes its debut blinding me as he flicks pieces of celebration confetti tape out of my long locks.
“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one to notice that too.” His jaw ticks like he’s pissed at himself and I don’t know why. “And I look forward to doing it again and soon. Gotta say that you’re the best friend I ever had.”
“That’ll never happen again, weirdo,” I say, and his smile breaks out.
“Call it divine intervention, or maybe fate. But this just in sunshine, you can’t change God’s will.” He says.
But he’s the wrong brother.
chapter 2
channing
I cover my hand over my mouth while yawning for the tenth time since my baby brothers lead accounting guru took over the meeting. This lady is going to put me to sleep. I silently find myself wondering if they're trying to force me out of my position here at Creed Capitals by boring me to death. I’d rather get the cliff notes and highlights emailed to me for my own analyzing eyes to dissect.
It’s been two weeks since I brought in the New Year with a rather fascinating blonde-blue eyed country girl. Brealyn set off a spark in my soul that defies logic. I wonder if that’s how Brogan feels about her and if so, I’ve got to assume he’s plotting my torturous death out in gruesome detail. I’m fairly certain you’re thinking that our alley slap-a-thon from a few weeks back was round one, but you’d be
wrong. That wasn’t even a precursor to our level of Godlike trickery. We’re both epically capable of so much more than you realize.
My confusion on why dear old dad wouldn’t share the fundamental basic bullshit with Brogan is still tapping on that vacant door inside my mind. The glimpses that I stole from Grant highlighted the fact that his main objective for his “known” son was to allow him to feel accepted in the world that surrounds him. Not placing any emphasis or highlighting the fact that Brogan was different. Even though I think that was a huge mistake on Grant’s part. We’re very fucking different.
Brogan’s mother, Macie Creed, begged her husband during labor to give their son normalcy. That was a sad and heroic scene that stuck with Grant and understandably so. Having his wife pleading with him for his word right before giving birth to their son only to take her last breath before his very eyes, killed a large part of that man. It was an epic love with epic sacrifice. Seeing that shit firsthand is why this guy will never reproduce, fuck that. Grant honored his wife’s wishes though and downplayed his son’s abilities.
Bravo, Grant Creed… You have one son that’s completely fucking clueless and the other always sees way to fucking much. Hell, sometimes I wish for ignorance. Knowledge is a killer within its own right. My insights are like little trailer snapshots. I don’t get the full picture, just bits, and pieces.
The best way I can describe my crystal ball capabilities would be to tell each of you it’s sorta like someone providing you with your date of death upon birth. Visualize someone smiling down at you and saying, “Hi, little guy! Welcome to the new world tiny human… By the way, next week is your expiration date. Have fun while it lasts, fucker.” That exiting information is forever swirling around in your head giving you little chance of enjoying the presence. That’s a fucked concept, huh?
My future foresight flicks on when I focus on one person, I can catch bits and pieces of what’s to come in flashes, similar to the old polaroid snapshots where it produces a picture in hand. I can see all their past memories without concentration in vivid detail. My mind is one huge historical landfill of photo albums, past and present, for every face I’ve come across. A self-taught requirement at a young age was the ability to flip that walk down memory lane on and off when needed.
The cold hard facts are that Lone Walkers are very fucking different. Where people need sleep, we don’t unless our talents drain us out. Generally, we tend to keep to ourselves because our abilities are sensitive. Compelling us to latch onto others and taking over our senses ultimately leading us around. Distance is key. The need for seclusion is our way of defense. A cloak protecting us from the outside world that draws at our abilities and bleeds our lifeforce dry.
As we fall in love our powers are amplified. That’s something that Brogan has yet to learn but I have faith that he’ll figure it out. He’s a resilient little fucker. Our full potential sparks to life as soon as that simple emotion tips over in an hourglass countdown on our existence.
That love thing is a fucking killer though. I used to detest those visions of Brea with a red-hot hatred unrivaled. Knowing that she was ultimately the reason for my demise left me feeling a certain type of way. Supposedly, a Lone Walker’s equal, the love of their life, is worth every damn second of that countdown to the end of said existence.
I could see it but never understood it, no. Visions of meeting her, bits, and pieces, with no conclusion though. Over the past few years, when I’ve thought about a lifetime here on this circular sphere with no end in sight, that realization was like a set of cold dead hands gripping me around the throat choking me unmercifully. It was enough to peak my interests and so, I found myself snooping around Miss. Winters.
I come by my knowledge from simply taking Grant's thoughts. Honestly, I would’ve loved to have had his consented advice and guidance. Having dear old dad give that over to me willingly, possibly over time, through a father-son relationship. That would’ve been optimum but that wasn’t either of our faults. I don’t begrudge that man or my mom anymore.
Grant knew nothing about me, and my mom died right after giving birth. Everyone was out of reaching distance before I could rummage through their minds filing cabinet. I simply embrace the life that I’m afford every day.
My visions prepare me for what’s to come but I’m completely caught off guard by that woman, period. My reaction to her, both mental and physical, never filtered through the past or potential visions I’ve received, ever. Seeing is believing but feeling is understanding. Except in this case. I can’t grasp what’s taking place within my chest. It’s like that sweet down south charmer has placed a southern spell over me. It’s confusing as all hell.
I wanted to consume her. Inject myself into her being and become a part of her chemical DNA code. Marking her in a way that linked us forever. Take everything that I was due out on her body, vicious victory. But oddly enough, I found myself hesitant in moving forward with my intent. And it has everything to do with him, my god damn brother. It’s an anomaly. I don’t understand my hesitation because that little asshole wouldn’t think twice about stuffing me in a cold tomb if it meant getting to Brea.
Reframed, I’ve taken a step back. This is why I’ve not called or bothered her since our ballroom opened mouth meet and greet. Giving her time to accept how she’s feeling about me is key. Letting that seep into her subconscious; just beneath her porcelain skin. That’ll burn the memory of the other Creed right out of her pores.
There’s this absurd little satanic voice in my head encouraging me to allow her to come to me on her own terms. I want her to need me the way I want her. It’s a fucked notion, but I’m following those side note orders that the idiot asshole in me is scripting out.
Between Brea’s moral battle of brotherly rights and wrongs coupled with the asshole’s rejection sitting across the table from me; it’s only a matter of time. As we’ve concluded already, I’m a patience motherfucker. I can wait for her.
Brea’s facial expression spoke a thousand truths when I kissed her. She was confused, hesitant, and battling over how I made her feel. Those emotions flowed from her beautiful face dulling the excitement in me slightly. My body encouraged me to reel things in for the time being. I believe that she’ll eagerly give herself over to me if I abide my time. Allowing her to open up to me willingly will heighten the experience of her. And God knows I want to experience everything Brealyn Winters related, repeatedly-thoroughly.
With those thoughts running a marathon in my head, I steal a glance across the way at him, down the elongated marble red boardroom boss slab that divides us here at Creed Capitals. The marble was a pricey purchase but one that might withstand our bickering, maybe. I focus on my kid brother’s ice whites beaming into my forehead like a laser. That’s one angry little motherfucker too.
His well-lit lightbulbs are blaring out at me. Hell, he’s probably imagining roasting my ball sack. Not that I blame him much. After tasting her, I see why he wants Brea for himself. She’s like a refreshing strawberry floating at the top of a nice bubbling glass of champagne. I chuckle under my breath and shoot him a wink. God, he hates my ass.
Unbeknownst to Brogan, I knew that he tagged along with us on New Year’s Eve. Spying on us as he hung back in the shadows. Oh yeah, that’s right. I knew he was there. I could feel his resentment. His eyes were on us from the time I caught up with her on the sidewalk to the moment I dropped her off at her loft. As soon as Brea disappeared into her building, I felt his chilling aura washing down on me like an ice-cold avalanche encasing me in a deadly grave. I would’ve sent him an invite but fuck him.
Swirling my finger around the edge of the table were the redwood is edged, I watch as I scorch my cursive initials into the timber. I suppress a light chuckle knowing this pricy purchase cost my baby brother well over eighty thousand dollars.
My eyes scan back over the boardroom of business suits focusing on the lovely lady talking. Her coat of black shiny hair that stops at her shoulders is a nice
contrast to the red suit wrapped over her body. I can see the appeal. My baby brother likes eye-candy but this one is intelligent too. However, her heat index is higher than everyone else in attendance. Her aura and outline burn with an elevated temperature casting out a deep blood red pulsating tent.
When I prompt my power and focus, I can see into your body like an illuminated x-ray. It’s one of the reasons I studied medicine. Any infectious sickness or harmful intent within your vessel, I can pinpoint it. My brows crease as I try to locate the source of the issue within her body that’s causing the problem. Then I see that within her Prada purchase she’s carrying the flu strand around like a contaminated cylinder ready to unload onto every person in this damn building.
“Excuse me, Mrs.…” I interrupt and cock my brow at the woman speaking.
I let the unspoken and forgotten last name hang out in the air between us. The rest of the coats raise their heads in my direction as well. They can thank me later for breaking this shit up. I’d rather attempt a go at having my god damn balls slammed in a door jamb then to pretend I’m interested in anything else this woman has to say.
I can’t remember the introduction details and frankly, I don’t give a shit. I’m generally known as a mild-manner, nice, but formal businessman ninety-nine percent of the time. Cruelty or rudeness is not my thing. I’m fair but firm with solid business morals. However, right now I’m just fucking bored and I don’t know this woman. This hiring decision came from Brogan’s side of the ship. Hell, if I recall correctly, she was brought over from The House of Creed.
The lady clamps her mouth shut halting the numeric fuckery filtering the air. She turns her attention to me expectantly. She sniffles and her red nose reminds me of Rudolph the diseased reindeer. My smile slithers into place as I nudge my head toward the bullshit charts and highlighted graphics on display.
“Cambridge. Katherine’s last name is Cambridge.” Brogan deadpans. His voice is void of emotion but filled with serrated icicles probably aimed directly at my throat.
