DECEIT (B723)

by Hazel Grace

  Without a word, he turns us towards the small dance floor made up where my family’s overly-priced couches usually are.

  When he finds a spot he likes, Bishop mindlessly wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against his hard body so that I can’t escape the smell of nutmeg and leather on his skin.

  “I’m surprised you came home,” he says as we begin to move. My Prada heels give me the perfect view of his neck and the dark beard that blankets his jaw.

  My mouth practically waters because I, on an annoying instinct, want to wrap my lips around that sensitive part of his body. To hear his deep growl in my ear when I lick and tease with his hard cock into my stomach.

  My pussy clenches at how bottomless and husky his voice would get when he’s turned on. How he permits every animalistic sound to escape his throat, alluding to how turned on he is.That he’s going to break through at any given moment to fuck me into the nearest surface.

  Yeah, I’m the Usher remix of You Got It Bad.

  “I am too,” I reply. “I wish I hadn’t.” I steal a quick glance up at him, finding him already looking down at me. “I’m surprised you came.”

  “Not yet,” he deadpans, his blue eyes commencing a path down my pink dress.

  My cheeks flush the same color for the second time as I steel my body against the warmth in his attention. “You could’ve brought me a drink if you were going to stress me out.”

  “I stress you out?” He tips his eyes to align with mine. “How’s that?”

  “This isn’t… your scene.”

  “What gave that away, Ems?”

  You’ll Never Know by Bing Crosby plays off the speakers of the party, and Bishop begins swaying side to side to the baritone and vibrato voice of the world’s most recognizable singer.

  This is like a scene in one of the old movies that I love to watch. The simplicity of love and way of life. Where there were no cell phones or men being complete douchebags day in and out. When men wanted you to know if they cared instead of hiding behind shit.

  “When was the last time you danced in middle school?”

  “Junior prom,” he replies.

  My brows immediately knit. “With Camilla.”

  “I’m full of surprises, Emmy Lou Rhodes.” He tightens his hold on me, his thumb lightly brushing my back in slow and soothing strokes. “I was actually able to get a girl to like me.”

  “No, the shocker is that someone was able to get you to actually go. I couldn’t even get you to agree to go to the zoo with me.

  “You wanted to steal the new baby panda. And with your connections and skills, I was afraid you’d actually pull it off.” He shrugs. “Besides, going to the dance was to pass the time.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And for the afterparty.”

  “And I’m sure the sex.” I don’t bother to hide the displeasure of that aspect in my tone because I knew who he’d be having sex with.

  A random bitch from high school, I wouldn’t give a shit. But the woman he fought for, who he tried to support and possibly loved—yeah, no.

  Maybe I’ll go back and kill Camilla my damn self. Just make her ass disappear. The boys do dumb ass stuff all the time.

  “I didn’t need a dance for that.” His hands slide down the sides of my back and halt right above my ass. “Although, I never dated a Varsity cheerleader.”

  No, you married one.

  I snort. “Trust me, you didn’t want to.”

  “You were a bitch, Ems?” His voice is incredulous but fake because I’ve told him some stories before about my squad days. Like how I dropped Brittany Lilly on her ass when I was supposed to spot her for running her mouth. Then I delivered Stacy Kumar a fat lip for messing with some of the freshmen girls.

  “I wasn’t, but I was surrounded by them twenty-four seven. Private school and all that.”

  “Couldn’t have been all that bad.”

  “Not if you were the only daughter and your mom wanted to marry you off to the first eligible ass clown with a Fortune 500 company.”

  “Your mom wanted to put you in an arranged marriage?”

  “If you count the one time she tried to lock me in a room with Baron McAllister to talk.”

  Bishop’s face screws up. “Who?”

  “Baron McAllister. Shit, by this time, I could be on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills or some crap if I would’ve ended up with him.”

  “I heard what you said.” His tone dips to a dangerous level. “I meant, who the fuck is he?”

  I glance around my mother’s party because none of my alleged friends are here.

  This is for her, always is and was.

  She invited all her botox bunnies with fake tits and blonde hair for my Sweet Sixteen while they got plastered on martinis. By six ‘o clock, while my girlfriends and I were playing truth or dare, two young men showed up. The adults went into a locked room. Wild shouts and “take it off” were coming from underneath the gape of the door.

  My mom or her friends hired strippers for themselves for my underaged party.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a list of men she wanted me to meet tonight.

  “He should be around here somewhere,” I surmise as Bishop’s head snaps to the side, searching for a faceless man. “He’s married, Bish.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” he snarls. “Tell me she sealed you up in a room with him to study, and I won’t kill him.”

  “She locked us in a room to study,” I strum. His blues trail back to me, unamused by how insincere I sound because they constrict. “My daddy saved the day, don’t worry.”

  Bishop scans the place again, and I squeeze his hand to reclaim his eyes on me. I receive them immediately, and they soften a little as he takes me in.

  “Are you jealous, Bish?” I give him a tiny grin, telling him he has nothing to worry about with the boy who couldn’t make a pass at me over two decades ago if he tried.

  “Were you jealous when you beat Camilla’s ass?”

  “Yes.” There is no way of getting around that question. “And I’d do it again. I just regret not breaking one of her legs.”

  Bishop tugs me closer, our bodies compressing so tightly that nothing can get between us now. “You know she’s nothing, right? Nothing is going on or ever will go on between us again.”

  I shrug, not knowing a thing but what Kyson told me. “I guess it doesn’t matter. We are unconventional and—“

  “Normal is boring, Ems. We weren’t born for ordinary. And you weren’t meant to be kept by an asshole like me.”

  I don’t say a word because I’m afraid of what he might say next. My heart begins to seize in anticipation that he’s going to sever said organ in two.

  I don’t want to get divorced.

  I don’t want him to leave me or let me go.

  Apparently, I like being tortured with this never-ending feeling of hopelessness and trepidation that Bishop will never be emotionally available to me.

  Bishop leans down, lips descending near my ear when he whispers, “Whatever you’re thinking, wife, don’t. I’m a selfish prick.” His lips brush against my forehead tenderly. “Happy Birthday.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about my baby sister working with so many guys,” Emmy’s oldest brother, Beckett, says over his glass tumbler of red wine. He actually keeps lifting his pinky finger every time he takes a sip, causing Marty to almost choke the first time from laughing.

  This dude is a fucking tool.

  Here we are, minding our own business when this asshole decides to come out to the patio and interrogate us like he’s got a clue.

  Dark blonde hair that’s immaculately styled, I’ve been sitting here for a solid minute wondering how long he spends on it. Emmy never made too much of a fuss over her hair but, then again, I never really gave her a chance to when I was around.

  She was never really out of arms’ length from me if I could help it.

  “I like it,” Marty claims, propping his leg on his l
eft knee. “It keeps her safe.”

  Beckett narrows his brown eyes at my partner. The gentle breeze coming off the water and tussling his hair as he ping pongs his gaze between the two of us.

  He sure as hell doesn’t know what to make of all this. While he didn’t expect four dudes and Blue to come and crash Emmy’s birthday party, I’m out of my element here too.

  Emmy’s childhood home is the size of the entire trailer park I grew up in. It’s a ten-bedroom beach house nestled up in the dunes with a magnificent view of the Atlantic Ocean. I’ve never stayed somewhere so nice before, and just by sitting here with a glass of expensive whiskey trying to bear a conversation with Emmy’s brother. It's becoming the most tedious mission I’ve ever had to do without throwing him over the balcony.

  “Why would she need protection?” he grills, and he couldn’t hide the displeasure in his tone of how commoners like us got into his parents’ house.

  We eat boys like this for breakfast.

  Marty would make him scream within thirty seconds.

  Mills would cause him to cry with just his jokes, and I’d drive him to piss his pants within the same time frame.

  Kyson would be the one who’d give the dickhead a good solid two chances before peeling away at his skin.

  Marty swirls the liquid in his glass around, clearly unaffected by the brother drilling. “We keep the press out and her life normal.”

  “And you—“ He points between Marty and I. ”—are her personal bodyguards?”

  “Yep,” Marty claims. “Governor Lockwood makes sure he keeps her particularly safe and sound at all times.”

  “And you’re allowed to drink on the job?”

  “This motherfucker,” I mutter over my glass, about ready to go book a hotel for the night.

  It was bad enough that Emmy’s mother was up my whole entire ass earlier at the party. Asking me how long I’ve known Em, do I work out every day as she gingerly touched my biceps, and if I wanted these banana nut muffins that she baked.

  She didn’t look like someone who spent time in the kitchen, and the look on Emmy’s face was murderous when I turned them down twice, and her mom wouldn’t take the hint.

  “Em hates formalities.”

  “And we hate a lot of questions,” I add in, pinning this Ivy League-looking asshole with my glare.

  “I just want to make sure that you’re qualified,” he says calmly, leaning back in his wicker chair. “Emmy doesn’t talk a lot about—”

  “Leave them alone, Beck,” Emmy cuts in, drawing my attention to my left. My eyes immediately fall on her, soaking her body in like I subtly do all the time.

  Like I do all the fucking time, let’s be real.

  She’s changed her clothes because some asshole spilled something on her outfit earlier. He chuckled at his fuck up, asked if he could escort her to her room so she could change, then suffered a severe heart attack when Mills and I flanked his sides.

  Now I’m pained to see her wearing a lavender dress that’s cut mid-thigh and shows off her curvy waist. The sleeves or straps—whatever the hell you call them—drape along her biceps, leaving her shoulders bare. Her long locks are now pulled up in a messy bun with small strands teasing the side of her face and neck.

  She’s breathtaking.

  Add on the white heels she’s strutting in, and my dick is beginning to respond in earnest to her again, forgetting that just hours ago, I had to meet this famous Baron McAllister and not rip his fucking head off.

  Rising from my chair that’s padded with blue cushions, I make my way to her like I’ve been baited so many times before.

  Her honeyed eyes find me immediately, which does nothing from the inner battle that permanently resides within me when it comes to Emmy.

  I’m at constant war with myself to remind her who I am and what I’ve already done to her. The other half of me, the rational side, tells me that we dodged a lifetime of fancy parties and gatherings that I have no impulse to attend.

  Except, Emmy would be there. What else would I really require at that point?

  “Can I get you something to drink, Em?” I ask, my question coming out like a carnal growl of appreciation and definitely need.

  Undoubtedly need.

  “Uhh…” I threw her off, and I love when I can. It doesn’t happen often, but when Em can lose her words, it’s victorious. “Yeah, sure.”

  “You wanna show me where you keep the liquor?” I’m fully aware of where it is. Beckett gave Marty and I a full breakdown of how old their whiskey, wine, and bourbon were. Like Marty and I check the bottles before we buy.

  Mills lets go of her arm then finds the company we’ve been keeping.

  His lips curl into a sinister smile.

  He loves fucking around with people, and I definitely let him because I’d rather not speak to anyone besides the woman in front of me.

  I sometimes wonder if the other guys see it.

  If they can read me as much as I can them when it comes to the little blonde that we all want to protect in some capacity.

  Blue is a different breed of woman, I’d always conserve her life like I would anyone else that belongs to B723, but she handles herself like the boys. She prefers not to be coddled and breathed upon.

  Granted, Emmy doesn’t either, but she doesn’t seem to mind it as much as she bitches about.

  Shit, we can’t be half as bad as the Beckett asshole who still sits behind me.

  Emmy pivots on her heels and starts for the inside of the house that smells like clean laundry. Candles are lit on every single surface of the family room, giving it a homey feel even though the high ceilings and enormous amount of space are anything but to me.

  Off the space is a small bar-like area, tucked away for whatever reason. I would call this a closet, but it’s the size of a modest bedroom with a bartop, liquor bottles on the shelves behind it, a fireplace, and some leather chairs that offset the white throughout the whole house.

  “Did you see your room yet?” Emmy asks me as she rounds the bar, plucking up a glass and turning to see what her options are.

  I nestle up at her side, chest pressed into her clothed bicep as I take the glass out of her hand, feeling the subtle shudder of her body.

  “I told you that I’d get you a drink,” I impart, peering down at her and inhaling the smell of peaches radiating off of her.

  I’m practically frothing at the mouth to taste her.

  It must be the delicious and expensive whiskey, but the urge to plop her ass on this bartop and stand between her legs is on my wishlist right now.

  Ever since she showed up in Pittsburgh with my dog, it’s been harder to get her out of my head. Before, I kept myself busy with B723 shit. I could partly keep myself away from her and my mind from wandering to inevitable things.

  Earlier, when I told Em I was a selfish prick, and I meant it. She has no reason to be married to me, and I have every one to let her go.

  Except I love her.

  And Emmy hauls me out of being the strong one between us. The individual that doesn’t care or need anyone. It’s all untrue when all I want is a life with her—as ordinary or unconventional as she claims we are and will be.

  “I’m the hostess,” she quips, still keeping her concentration on the various bottles of overpriced booze. “I should be handling—”

  “It’s your birthday—“ I stand in front of her blocking her view of shit I don’t need, and press her into the bartop. ”—and I should be handling this ass in my hands and trailing a wet path down your neck with my tongue.”

  Emmy blushes and—fuck me—those brown eyes hit my cock’s response to what I was just talking about.

  “Where’s my room, Ems?”

  “Upstairs.”

  No shit.

  A cocky smirk plays off my features, and I don’t bother to make it fall.

  No, I love to see Emmy bothered by the random shit I say.

  “Wanna show me?”

  Her brows knit. “You
didn’t want your drink?” I shake my head because I have other wants right now.

  I want Emmy’s legs wrapped around my neck as I give her a birthday orgasm before giving her another one with my dick if she feels so inclined.

  “Are you having a horrible time?” The slight disappointment in her voice, I want to wipe it clean.

  Whether she’s in a place I don’t want her to be, or somewhere that we have to be together, I’m never having an abhorrent time if she’s in the room.

  “Just forgot where it was. Your house is too big.”

  “Alright then.” Emmy steps to the side, pulling herself out of the sandwich I created between me and the island and leads me to the second story.

  The stairs are a dark and shiny marble getting me to wonder how she ever ran around as a kid without busting her ass on the floors. How cute she’d look in little dresses like Madelyn, causing havoc and shit.

  We turn to the left and down the lengthy hall, doors on either side of us as she gets to the end before pivoting and gesturing with her hand, “This is it. One long walk down, one hallway.”

  “Where’s yours?” I press, looking back at the rooms we passed along the way.

  “You don’t want to see it, trust me.”

  “Why not?” I bring my neck around to see her fidgeting with her fingers. “I should know what room my hostess is staying in, in case I need something.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Kace Bishop you never need anything.”

  “Not true.” I shake my head, erasing a step towards her. “I always have this pestering and overly strong feeling to fuck this certain blonde all the time.”

  I see her swallow before she crosses her arms defensively along her chest, playing my comment off like a joke. “How romantic.”

  “Are you dogging me for wanting to sleep with my wife?”

  “I’m barely your wife. We don’t—“ I tsk and shake my head again.

  “You hid me, not the other way around. I would’ve made a banner if you wanted me to, Emmy. I don’t give a fuck what Marty or Mills have to say about it.”

  “And Kyson?” She flicks a brow. “What do you think he’d say if he knew we married each other on accident?”