Clusterf*@k (Life Sucks Book 4)

by Elise Faber

  “It is covered,” he told her, adding so she could protest, “Why else?”

  “Because your Soph’s brother, and Soph and my brother are together.”

  “Who cares?”

  Her eyes widened, and fuck, she was pretty, especially when a flush of irritation turned her cheeks pink. “Who cares?” She shoved at his arm again and when that didn’t budge him, she tossed up her hands. Chance shifted so that when they came down, they dropped onto his shoulders and—hip to hip, hands on his body, lips close—fuck, that was good. Even if she was too pissed to process their closeness…or all that goodness. “Who cares?” she exclaimed. “I care. Rob is not just my brother. He’s been like a father to me. He picked up the pieces when our parents died. He held us together even when Carmella died”—Chance knew that was Rob’s deceased wife—“and he’s good and happy and finally whole again. I will not fuck that up.”

  “So,” Chance said, lifting a hand and stroking a thumb across one swathe of pink on her cheek and then the other, “we won’t fuck it up.”

  Misty’s eyes widened; her fingers dug in sharply. He shifted, because the woman had some grip, and then her gaze slid to her hands, her lips parted, and her grip immediately loosened, dropping her hands to her sides. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I—”

  He picked up her hands, put them back on his shoulders. “Next time, do that when we’re both naked.”

  More pink.

  “Uh—”

  “Come out with me.”

  Hazed desire in those eyes, but she shook her head. “I—”

  The bell above the door rang.

  Misty spun and faced whoever had come in.

  This had the pleasurable effect of positioning her ass between his thighs. “Do this while we’re both naked, too.”

  She gasped, but her hips rocked back, rolling into his cock, which was definitely doing more than a twitch now. “I—” A shuddering sigh, her shoulders straightening, her body coming away from his. Then she cleared her throat, glared at him over her shoulder, and asked, “How can I help you, Mrs. Perkins?”

  The old lady with short gray hair glanced from Chance to Misty to her friends pretending not to watch in the corner. Her brows lifted. Her smile was wide. “Frankie can help me,” she said, bustling over to the display on the far side of the shop. “You two…carry on.” A wave of her hand, her curious eyes drifting away only enough to navigate to the pair of women.

  Who all bent together and began whispering.

  Misty groaned, her back still to him.

  He brushed her hair off her neck. “Should I say do that when you’re naked, too?”

  Her head dropped, chin resting on her chest. Then another sigh, her body going ramrod straight. “I’m not going out with you,” she declared.

  He pressed a kiss to the skin he’d exposed.

  Then whispered in her ear. “Also, Soph already had a contractor at the house this morning. There’s nothing more for you to do there.”

  She spun, eyes flashing “I said—”

  A finger to her lips. “It’s covered.”

  And then, eyes flashing, he turned for the door. “I’ll pick you up Friday at seven.”

  “I’m busy.”

  Shit. He was, too. That was family dinner night at Soph and Rob’s. Normally, he’d blow that off—not that he didn’t love his family, but fun, fucking, friends—but he had the feeling Misty would be there at dinner, too.

  So, he wouldn’t be missing it.

  “Saturday then.”

  “I—”

  “Seven.”

  She stomped her feet, and he was left thinking that, fuck, she was cute again. “I’m not going out with you!”

  He chuckled, his hand on the doorknob. “Saturday,” he repeated.

  He tugged open the door, started to step out, the bell tinkling overhead as he heard Mrs. Perkins exclaim loudly, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Misty Hansen, but you’d better get your head straight. I’d give my left tit to go out with that man.”

  Barring hearing an old lady talk about her breasts, that was the funniest shit he’d heard in a long time.

  But that wasn’t what put the smile on his face as he walked through downtown and back to Rob and Soph’s place.

  Nope.

  That was all Misty.

  5

  Male Logic

  Misty

  Her brother was trying to torture her.

  He just didn’t know it.

  But there were five Jackson brothers around the table on his back deck, two Jackson parents, Soph, Rob, and her.

  Dinner with Rob and Soph had turned into dinner with Rob, Soph, and all of Soph’s family.

  There was one Jackson brother who hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

  Two guesses who.

  Stifling a snort, and knowing it would only take one, she straightened in her chair and refused to let her gaze drift back to Chance.

  And failed.

  But damn, he looked good.

  He’d dressed up for dinner with the family, wearing a tight navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms and a tattoo that covered the inside of one arm, from wrist to elbow. She wasn’t sitting close enough to see exactly what it was, but the urge to trace her fingers—and maybe her tongue—along the swirls of it was intense. As was the urge to bury her nose in the spot revealed by the open buttons of his shirt, to inhale the scent of him, to allow it to surround her like he had at her shop.

  She’d dreamed of the fucker over the last four nights.

  Then had woken each morning and had to bust into her collection of vibrators each of the last few mornings, while remembering the flick of his tongue on her skin, the press of his lips, the rough, sensual abrasion of his beard on her skin.

  “Mist, you okay?”

  Jumping and nearly upending her plate, she tore her gaze from Chance—fucking hell, how had it gotten back there?—and turned to look at Soph, who was trying to pass her a platter of food.

  “Sorry,” she said, taking it and shoveling food onto her plate so she didn’t have to look at Soph, “my mind is other places.”

  “Is this about the garage door?” Soph asked quietly.

  God, it would be so much easier if it was.

  “No,” she said, still scooping.

  “About the wall?”

  Also, no. Though those two items had been at the top of her list of worrying, along with the whole ordering-an-SUV thing. Another spoonful ended up on her plate. “No, Soph. I’m fine. Really. I mean, I do want to pay you back, but—”

  “You know that’s not an option.”

  Misty made a face.

  “You can’t argue with a pregnant woman.”

  Her face got…face-ier.

  Soph studied her for a moment then smiled as she changed the subject, probably knowing she’d just won. “So, do you have any new patterns for me?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  Soph was turning into quite an accomplished knitter, especially with all the downtime she had on set. She’d made her way through all the beginner patterns Misty had in stock and was now working on some intermediate ones.

  “Great!” Her smile grew. “I’ll come by tomorrow and if I time it right, we can grab lunch.”

  “Sounds great.” And it did, until her eyes drifted across the table and found Chance’s, remembering what he’d said about Saturday. Specifically, that he wanted to take her out. At seven. Because at that moment, his eyes seemed to say, “You’ll go out with her, but not with me?”

  Damn right, she would.

  Soph wasn’t complicated.

  Not like Chance was.

  Opening her mouth to say something, anything that would get her mind off all that complication, Misty was thwarted when Soph turned away and answered a question someone asked. Though Mist was too twisted up to pay attention to who asked it, especially when her gaze drifted back across the table, and she found herself falling fully into Chance Lan
d.

  True to his word, he had been right about Rob and Soph calling in the big guns. By the time she’d arrived during her lunch hour four days ago, the garage door had been replaced and the pillar was in the middle of being repaired. Her Yelp trolling had been for naught, which meant she had just needed to deal with her car.

  Her car that had disappeared sometime between returning to her shop to finish out her day and teach her evening classes and stepping out her back door to the parking lot, only to find it empty.

  Empty save Rob.

  Who’d told her he’d taken it to the shop and to not give him lip—she had given him lip, anyway, because as much as he was her surrogate dad, he was still her brother, and she was used to taking care of herself. Once she’d gotten her ranting out of her system, he’d shoved her into his truck, driven her home, and zipped inside to make sure her newly finished bathroom was doing okay (long story, but the room was almost like their pet at this point—they’d had so many issues redoing it together that neither of them quite trusted that something else unexpected might not happen in there—more burst pipes or mold or a fucking poltergeist taking up residence and creating havoc). However, because his work was solid and her bathroom was now gorgeous, there wasn’t much to check, so he’d kissed her on the forehead, told her he’d pick her up in the morning for work, reminded her about dinner Friday night, and then disappeared back to his Soph.

  What he hadn’t reminded her, and what she’d forgotten, was that dinner with him and Soph wasn’t just dinner with him and Soph.

  It was dinner with him, Soph, and all her family.

  Five brothers. Her dad. Her mom.

  That was fine. Misty owned a retail shop, for God’s sake. She was good at small talk and charming people, and furthermore, Soph’s family was nice and super cool.

  The problem?

  Chance staring at her like he couldn’t wait to get into her fucking pants.

  Her pants thinking that was a great idea.

  And Rob, usually her barrier when it came to unwanted advances (But is it unwanted? her inner demon asked, knowing full well that Chance and his body and eyes and that triangle of skin she wanted to lick had been the source of four orgasms for her that week, even if he didn’t know it), was off his game.

  Okay, that wasn’t fair.

  Rob was as wonderful as always.

  He just…only had eyes for Soph.

  As it should be.

  It was just…Chance was looking at her and she wanted him and…she couldn’t have him (because complications). So, a barrier would be awesome right now.

  “Um, Mist?”

  She jumped again and nearly upended the platter and her plate this time. Tearing her eyes off Chance—a-fucking-gain, fucking hell—she glanced up at Carter, the oldest of the Jackson brothers. He had the same dark hair and olive coloring as Chance, but his eyes were a rich hazel. “Yeah?” she asked.

  “Can I…have some?” he asked. “Or are you going to eat it all?”

  Her stare dropped to her plate. Or more accurately, to the pile of salad that had engulfed her plate. “Shit,” she muttered. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” Lusting after your brother.

  Carter had a ready smile, just like the other Jacksons, and it came out then, as though he knew what was in her head. “No harm, no foul,” he told her, snagging the platter, scooping some of the salad from her plate back on to it—bad manners or not—then passing it to Caleb (the Jacksons had a thing with C names), the middle brother, without taking any.

  Before she could comment on that, he scooped up a healthy portion from her plate onto his then smiled again. “See? All good.”

  Out of nowhere, her eyes prickled.

  God.

  Why did she have to be such a crier?

  But what he’d done was really sweet, and Rob aside, no one had done sweet for her in a long, long time.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  His fingers came to her chin, brushed lightly over her jaw, studying her eyes (no doubt glassy), and smiling gently. “Anytime.” He leaned in a bit, voice lowering. “I know us Jacksons can be a lot to take in.” He straightened, smoothing back a lock of her hair that had gotten stuck on the stubble of his cheek. His grin made a reappearance. “But you’ll get used to us.”

  Unbidden, her gaze slid from Carter to Chance, whose emerald eyes blazed with something she might think was jealously, if not for the fact that they didn’t know each other, and she was sitting sandwiched between his brother and sister.

  Carter shifted and she glanced at him, saw that he was looking at Chance, too, his lips turned up at the expression on his brother’s face. “I think you’ll be getting used to him, too,” he murmured after a moment, turning in his chair so his hazel eyes locked on hers. There was something intense in them, as well. Not jealousy and not solely amusement, though that was there, also. This was attraction, firmly banked, not to be acted on.

  Misty released a breath.

  At least this Jackson had some fucking sanity.

  “Though I don’t think he even realizes how much.”

  “I’m not getting used to anyone—” she began, finding it difficult to keep her focus on Carter when she could feel Chance’s gaze boring into her. Also, she only began because before she could finish the rest of her sentence, Chance called over the chatter of the table, “Rob?”

  Her brother pulled himself out of his Sophie daze and turned to Chance. “Yeah?”

  “You care if I date your sister?”

  The table went silent, forks freezing in mid-air, the conversation dying out, many pairs of eyes darting from Chance to Misty to Rob. Waves crashed in the distance, seagulls cried, but for all intents and purposes, the world went quiet…at least their little slice of it.

  Rob slowly set down his fork, face an unreadable mask. “You going to hurt her?”

  Misty made a noise of disgust. “Neither of you gets a say in my love life—”

  “You going to hurt my sister?” Chance countered.

  “No,” Rob said.

  “Then there you have it,” Chance told him. “I’m not going to hurt Misty, either.”

  That was really shitty male logic. So, if Rob hurt Soph, then Chance would hurt her? Or vice versa? Or was it because neither of them planned to hurt anyone? And anyway, shouldn’t she be the one deciding all of this—or at least ending the conversation that pertained to her and her dating life that was being conducted as though she weren’t in the room.

  Sighing, she rubbed her forehead, a headache beginning to form.

  Everyone else appeared to be stymied by the shitty male logic, because there was only more silence, minus the waves and gulls.

  Well, she might not be able to cure her headache without some Tylenol, but she could damn sure cure this silence. “First,” she began. “No one needs to ask permission to date me, like I’m some fucking heroine from a historical novel—shit, sorry, Mrs. Jackson—”

  “Martha, please,” Mrs. Jackson said. “No need for formalities.”

  “Right, um, sorry for cursing, Martha.”

  “I have five boys and a daughter, honey. I’m used to cursing, particularly around the dinner table.”

  “Oh.” A beat. “Right.”

  She nodded, silently telling Misty to go on.

  Right. Misty cleared her throat and powered through. “I’m an adult, and I can decide who I want”—she cut a glare at Chance—“or don’t want to see.”

  More silence.

  “Second?” Chance asked.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “You said ‘first.’” His elbows plunked onto the table, and he leaned forward, and hell if it didn’t feel like he was six inches from her rather than six feet. “That points to you having a second reason for turning me down the other day.”

  Quiet. Gulls. Waves.

  Eyes on her, waiting for an answer.

  And seriously, why in the fuck did he do this at the dinner table?

  Probably, because he
was smart enough to know it would be harder for her to turn him down in front of his family.

  Sighing, she went back to rubbing her head. “Second, because it’s too complicated.”

  “How?”

  This question was from Soph, not Chance.

  Relieved to tear her eyes from the man six feet that felt like six inches across from her, she turned to Soph, who for some fucking reason, was smiling. “If things go wrong, I could mess up this. You’re happy. You guys are all happy. If Chance and I don’t work out”—she glanced at Rob—“things could get uncomfortable, and you might not have this.” She waved a hand at the table, which before then had been filled with laughter, teasing, and a multitude of conversations.

  Rob was quiet for a long moment, long enough for her fucking stare to be drawn back to Chance. The man had goddamned tractor beams for eyes.

  Then her brother spoke, and her gaze whipped back to his, knowing he would see it her way.

  He’d lost too much not to.

  “It’s only a date, Dewdrop,” he said and shifted so he could meet Chance’s gaze.

  “What?”

  Rob didn’t so much as look at her. “Take care of my sister.”

  “I—excuse me?” she began sputtering. “What the hell is wrong with—?”

  But then someone began passing platters again, forks began moving to mouths, conversation resumed, seemingly no one perturbed by her continued sputtering and then her gaping like a fish.

  Chance pushed back his chair, rounded the table, and bent down to murmur in her ear, “Tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”

  6

  Pirate’s Booty

  Chance

  “This is complete and utter bullshit,” Misty snapped.

  He bit back a grin when she slammed the pieces of the puzzle they were working on down onto the replica pirate’s table and stalked away.

  Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.