One wall of the bedroom is lined with what appears to be costumes. I have a vague memory of how much my father loved dressing up for Halloween. However, I didn’t need it to be connected to his apparently active and kinky sex life.
I might’ve been able to get over the costumes and kink, but then I get a load of the elaborate restraint system I apparently missed the first time I glanced at the bed. On the nightstand is a giant economy-size tub of lube. And the cherry on the sundae is the sex swing in the corner.
“Linc, I found something—” Armstrong comes into the room holding what at first looks like one of those adult onesies that have been all the rage. “What the hell is this?”
I rub the back of my neck, aware the tightness isn’t going away and that the sudden throb in my temples is likely only going to get worse. “I might be going out on a limb here, but I think it’s our dad’s sex fetish room.”
“Huh.” He drops the onesie on the edge of the bed. Upon closer inspection it looks more like a wolf costume. “Well, this might explain why our parents didn’t sleep in the same room.”
I clear my throat, a million new questions cropping up. Like, did my mother know? How long had this been going on? Who in the actual fuck would entertain this level of weird? “It might.”
He crosses over to the wall of costumes and pulls a red number off the rack. “I think this is supposed to be a Little Red Riding Hood getup.” He checks under the cape and holds up a very lacy, lingerie-style dress. “You think he dressed up like fairytale characters? It kinda reminds me of like those people who dress up as mascots or whatever and screw each other. I went to a party like that once. Some chick dressed like Princess Leia was getting banged by Chewbacca. It was kinda hot.”
“Can you shut up before I punch you in the face?”
“You can’t punch me in the face. We have that event coming up and that would piss Wren off, and she’ll blame me when it’s your fault.”
“Fine. Shut up before I punch you in your tiny needle dick.”
“It’s not tiny; it’s average,” Armstrong fires back, as if it even matters.
“No. It’s not. There’s even an online support group for the women you’ve been with called the Armstrong Moorehead Needle Dick Support Group.” I’m making this up, clearly. I have no idea if there’s a group for my brother’s unfortunate castoffs, but if there is, I imagine that would be the name of it.
“That’s a lie.” He motions to his crotch. “I’m definitely average.”
“Compared to what? A Chihuahua?” I wave him off. “Your less-than-averageness doesn’t matter, Armstrong. What matters is that this place has clearly been used, probably regularly, and our father obviously had some weird sexual quirks, so there has to be at least one woman out there who knew about this who likely isn’t our mother.”
He stares blankly at me for a few seconds before he finally replies. “So?”
“So?” I throw my hands in the air. “Who is she? Why was our father living this alternate life where he played dress up and did whatever the fuck they did in here?”
Armstrong shrugs. “Lots of people like weird sex stuff. Take Amalie, for instance. She was obsessed with sex toys.”
“That’s because the only person you worry about getting off when you are having sex is yourself. You have to take care of your partner’s needs.” I don’t even know why I’m bothering to say any of this. It’s not as if Armstrong has the capacity to think beyond himself.
“She had too many needs. And she didn’t know how to behave like a wife. Only mistresses should give noisy blow jobs. Like Imogen. She was very good at being quiet. She would’ve made a good wife if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. Now Wren would probably make a good fuck. She’s so uptight. I bet she’s hardly been worked in at all.”
The more he speaks, the more my skin crawls, and my disbelief mounts. His view on women is barbaric, vile, and demented. So I do the only thing I can that will make him stop and make me feel better. I cock a fist and punch him in the stomach. He drops to the floor, clutching his gut, gasping for breath.
We used to get into it when we were kids. Not a lot, because I wasn’t around all that much past the age of ten, but whenever I came home from boarding school, there was sure to be at least one decent scrap.
Armstrong is four years younger, so he couldn’t really fight back at the time. He’d pull cheap shots, and I’d have to take it because he was too young to know better, at least that’s what my mother thought. Armstrong knew he could get away with it, since I’d be the one to catch heat if I retaliated.
But now, he’s just a jackass with a big mouth and zero morals.
I straddle him and bend down, fisting his tie near his throat. “You narcissistic bastard.”
He grips my fist with both of his, manicured nails digging into my skin, and his mouth opens and closes as he gasps for air. I realize I’m at the edge right now, that what I’ve found out about my father explains nothing and everything. And that my brother seems to think his misogynistic, archaic beliefs are acceptable is really more than I can handle.
“Don’t ever bring up Amalie or Imogen again with me. Ever.” His face is turning red, so I loosen my grip enough that he sucks in another gasping breath. “As for Wren, if you say anything like that about her again, or you so much as look at her the wrong way, I will not hesitate to use your balls for golf practice and your dick as the flag. Am I understood?”
I release his tie. He rolls to his side and curls into a ball.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Armstrong.”
“Yeah,” he coughs. “Yes. Understood. Christ, calm down.” He pulls himself into a sitting position. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about what it would be like to stop her incessant nagging by plugging her mouth with your—”
I grab him by the throat and haul him to his feet, cutting off the end of the sentence. Then, I punch him in the junk and let him go.
He crumples again, cupping himself this time.
“The fact that you’ve created another human being is a travesty. Thank God, Imogen was smart enough to file for full custody.” I leave him lying on the floor in our father’s sex room. I also take the bin Armstrong filled with the wine and champagne because my brother deserves nothing, and I need a damn drink.
CHAPTER 12
THE PULL
LINCOLN
It’s early evening by the time I get home. My head is spinning, and all I want to do is call Wren, but my phone is dead and my charger is at the office, where I left it. I would search the penthouse for a spare, or go out and get another one, but the need to drown the things I’ve seen out with alcohol is a bigger priority.
So I uncork a bottle of the white I took from my father’s sex pad and down half of it straight from the bottle. It’s good, but it’s not strong enough, so I grab the scotch and pour myself a very generous glass. I’m about to fire up my laptop when I realize that it, too, is at the office. “Dammit,” I say to the sculpture on the side table.
I shrug out of my suit jacket and drop it on the floor, my tie follows, shoes go next, then I unbutton the cuffs on my shirt. I get lazy and decide that’s as far as I’m willing to go in the quest for comfort.
I expel a loud expletive. Today has sucked, and the one person I’d like to talk to, who might have some kind of information I can trust, I can’t get a hold of. And then I remember Griffin is old school and he still has a landline. My excitement deflates when I realize I have no idea what Wren’s phone number is because it’s programmed in my dead, useless cell.
I almost toss it across the room, but breaking something expensive isn’t going to make it better, so I toss it on the couch beside me and go back to chugging my scotch.
I’m in the middle of debating how hammered I plan to get when the door swings open. I know it’s Wren before I see her, based on the way she slams the door and the clip of her heels on the hardwood.
She rounds the corner and props her fists on her hips. It’s her
go-to pose when she’s angry. Her eyes are on fire. Her lipstick is fucking red. I hate it so much. But her skirt is so pretty, the palest gray, with a lacy overlay. Her blouse is white, and it looks so soft, the fabric has a sheer quality to it, so I can see the pale camisole underneath. Her heels are hot pink, which makes me hate that stupid red lipstick even more because it doesn’t even match.
I want to kiss that lipstick off and peel the clothes from her body. Then I want to fuck her against the softest available surface. I would like to claim her as mine. I would like to ensure that my brother has no reason to ever fantasize about her again because the only thing he’ll be able to imagine is me all over her.
Instead of verbalizing any of these things, which are highly inappropriate and also unlikely with how pissed off she looks, I say, in a tone that matches her expression, “What’re you doing here?”
Her jaw twitches. “Excuse me?”
“You let yourself in without even knocking. Again. What if I had company?” I regret the words as they leave my mouth. There’s no way I would have company here tonight, or any other night, because Wren is the star of every single one of my damn fantasies. But she doesn’t know that, and I’m not sure how she’ll react if I issue such an admission. Also, I might be feeling the scotch already since the last meal I ate was breakfast, so I try to backtrack. “What if I were naked?”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Wren’s expression is almost totally blank apart from the slight tic in her cheek. It’s very drone-like and unnerving. “Where were you this afternoon?”
We stare at each other, both waiting for something. Maybe she already knows about the penthouse. Maybe she saw Armstrong at the office, and he said something, so she came here to see how I am. That would be nice. I’d like that. Of course, I can’t answer the question like an adult; instead, I have to continue to be a prick because I’m in a mood, and she’s pissed, and I know she’s going to let me have it soon. And I kind of want her to, so I have someone to battle it out with.
“I had some stuff to take care of.”
“Well, isn’t that nice for you? Thanks so much for letting someone know.” She flails a hand in the direction of my phone, which is sitting beside me on the couch.
“My battery died, and I left my charger at the office.”
She opens her purse and withdraws my laptop and my phone charger, setting them on the coffee table in front of me. “How very convenient for you.”
“You came all the way here just to drop them off?”
She gives me an unimpressed look. “No. I saw them on your desk and figured I was already on my way here, so I brought them with me. You had a tux fitting this afternoon, which you obviously forgot about, so I had to reschedule it for tonight.”
My elation over her presence is eclipsed by frustration. Of course she’s not here because she wanted to do something nice. She’s not here because she’s worried about me. She’s here because she’s doing her job. “Cancel it. I’m not leaving this couch. I’m not in the mood to be prodded.”
“I can’t cancel. The event is tomorrow night, and they’ll be here in a few minutes. I already had to push them back another hour because you can’t answer a phone call, and I had no idea where you disappeared to this afternoon. Must be nice to bail on work and not let anyone know where you’ve gone,” she snaps.
“I didn’t bail,” I reply, just as irritated.
She throws her hands in the air. “I had to rearrange my entire schedule for this. I had plans tonight, and now I don’t anymore.”
That gets my back up. “What kind of plans?”
“The kind that are none of your damn business.”
I set my glass on the table and rub my temples. I thought Wren showing up would make things better, not worse. “Today has been a huge bag of crap, so it’d be real nice if you’d give my eardrums a break and stop reaming me out.”
Her expression shutters, and her lips press into a thin line. Her throat bobs with a thick swallow, and she lifts her chin higher. I catch the slightest tremble before her cheek tics again. “I’m trying to help you, Lincoln. I’m sorry if my constant attention is inconvenient for you, but no one knew where you or Armstrong were this afternoon. Everyone was worried, and frankly, so was I.”
I drop my eyes from the ceiling. She’s not looking at me. She’s focused on the wall behind my head. She keeps blinking rapidly as if she has something in her eye. I’m so confused about so many things right now. I want her here, but not for the reason she showed up. “Do we really have to do this tonight?”
“People have bad days, Lincoln. It happens. Imagine what every single day looked like for me when my primary role was keeping Armstrong out of trouble.” She’s interrupted by a knock at the door. “You need to suck it up for an hour, and then you can go back to moping.”
She spins around, and her skirt furls impressively as she stalks out of the room. She shoots an apathetic glare over her shoulder when she reaches the hall. “The sooner you strip down, the sooner it’ll all be over.” And then she disappears around the corner.
God, she pisses me off and makes me hot at the same time. I’ve never encountered a woman who I simultaneously want to screw and tell to screw off. I’m angry at my father, at the woman he cheated on my mother with, at Wren for being here for the wrong reasons, at myself for not having asked her to be my date for the goddamn charity event when she dropped that stupid file full of women on my desk.
Five seconds too late, I consider getting my ass off the couch to stop her from opening the door. But I’ve already made things more difficult, and if I push, she’ll push back, and I’ll probably say or do something I’ll regret. There’s a good chance I’ll do that anyway.
I’m not going to be any more in the mood for this tomorrow morning than I am now. Actually, I’ll probably be in a worse mood, because I plan to get wasted after everyone leaves, so I don’t have to think about what I saw in that penthouse. About how screwed up my dad was and how he cheated on my mother, likely on a regular basis. How this might explain why she’s a cold, heartless woman.
I mutter my annoyance, but I unbutton my shirt and shrug out of it, dropping it on the floor with my shoes, tie, and jacket. I slip my belt through the loops and add it to the pile.
Just as I’m pulling my undershirt over my head, Wren returns with two men, both of whom I met before at the suit fitting. “Almost ready for you,” I say, my eyes fixed on Wren as I lift my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor.
She, on the other hand, makes a point of staring at a spot above my head, but her gaze flicks down more than once. “So glad you’ve decided to be compliant.”
So much damn snark.
She motions to the two men to her left. “You remember Bradley and Ulrich. Bradley already has the tux ready, you just have to try it on to see if it requires any additional alterations. Then Ulrich can neaten you up.”
“I just had a haircut. I don’t need another one.”
“We’re going to smooth out the edges. It shouldn’t take long.” She looks around the room, then taps her lip. “We should probably do this in the bedroom.”
I decide if I’m going to have endure this torture, I might as well get something out of it, like a reaction from Wren. I flick the button open on my pants and drag the zipper down. “You don’t think we can do it right here?”
“Bradley will need the mirror, and you’ll want to see how the tux looks.”
“Why? It’s not like I have an actual say in what I’m going to wear and whether I like it. Too bad I can’t go like this.” I shove my pants over my hips.
“Well, it would certainly get some attention.” Wren’s gaze slides down my chest.
Ulrich coughs into his bent elbow as I kick the pants off. I should probably switch to black boxer briefs since they do a better job of hiding what’s going on than white cotton does. Which is exactly where Wren’s attention is focused at this very moment.
I smile, though it’s probably m
ore sneer than friendly. “Shall we, then?”
Wren glances at her phone. “I’m going to step out and grab a coffee. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Do you really think that’s a good idea? I mean, aren’t you supposed to be supervising me? You wouldn’t want me to have a go at this with an electric trimmer, would you?” I motion to my hair.
Wren clamps her mouth shut. “You wouldn’t.”
I shrug. “You can’t be sure if you leave, can you? Come on, Team Lincoln, let’s put me in a penguin suit.” I pad down the hall and smile when the angry clip of Wren’s heels follows a few seconds later.
Maybe this is exactly what I need. A sexy, angry distraction named Wren.
CHAPTER 13
TIGHTY-WHITIE SHOWDOWN
WREN
I am so annoyed. And turned on. But mostly annoyed.
I hate that I had to give up a movie night with Dani because Lincoln couldn’t be bothered to tell anyone where he went this afternoon, and that he’s threatened to take sheers to his damn head if I so much as run out to grab a coffee. He’s winning the Dick of the Day award, that’s for sure.
I should’ve expected him to take me seriously when I made the comment about stripping down. Lincoln is aware he looks as good out of a suit as he does in one, and he seems to derive particular enjoyment in embarrassing me by wandering around in as little as possible. Or maybe it’s because he’s spent time in countries where people are worried about important things, like food and shelter, rather than their appearance.
Regardless, his ass is fantastic in those damn underwear. The rest of his body is absolutely magnificent, so as irritated as I may be, at least I have something nice to look at while I deal with his extra-surly mood.
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