by Finn, Emilia
“Oh.” I think back to the fresh-faced boy, and choose to ignore the pang in my chest. “Davis. Corporal Gavin Davis. Also known as Delta. He joined when he was seventeen, and he died when he was twenty-four.”
“Now he’s at rest, and he’ll never know his girlfriend was pregnant with someone else’s baby.”
I scoff. “Small mercies, I suppose.”
Jay’s shots seem to be getting louder and less often, so when he shoots again and it almost sounds like he’s in the living room, Abigail sits up with a snarl.
“Does he have to do that right now? The sun hasn’t even risen yet.”
“Welcome to my world, Priss. He’s here every damn day, perfecting his shot.”
“He’s not already perfect? I swear, he’s shot like fifty rounds this morning.”
“He’s pretty perfect, but Kane is better. Jay won’t rest until he can outshoot his brother. And since he doesn’t have to sleep like the rest of us…”
“I want to hit him,” she growls. “With my car.”
Chuckling, I pull her back down and snuggle in so my cheek rests on her chest. She tenses up and turns rigid, but as I trail my fingers down her belly and onto her thighs, she relaxes – marginally – then hisses when I touch her slit.
“Mmm.” What do ya know? She’s wet, and when she starts panting in my ear, I nuzzle the side of her tit and grin. “You seem to have developed violent tendencies since we started hanging out.” I gently slide a single finger inside. Slowly, since I know she’s still a little sore.
My cock grows as I push my finger in and out. Soon it’ll be my dick. She’ll give herself to me soon. I know she will. And I’ll know she did it, even though she knew it would hurt, because she’s selfless and kinda… perfect.
“You’re so hot and wet, Abigail. And running people down with your car seems to turn you on.”
Snorting, she buries her nose in my hair and lets her legs drop open. “It doesn’t hurt as much this time.”
“Mm. Like I told you, we work up to the real thing. Bigger and bigger, until you can take my cock. Eventually, I’ll be able to slide inside without any warning, and it’ll hurt a little, but it’ll be the kind of hurt that makes you explode around me.”
15
Abigail
I know my phone will have a billion missed calls. I know my brothers will probably have sent out search parties in the last six hours or so. And I know my six o’clock phone call slot has passed, and Mitch is going to be super mad at me.
I plan to get up in just a sec, but I need to absorb this for a minute more. Spencer Serrano – big, broad, strong, and definitely scary – dozes on my chest and holds my hand while he breathes against my skin.
I shouldn’t have stayed last night, and I especially shouldn’t have slept in his bed. I have no clue what to say about the things I did with my mouth, and if I tried, I might die from blushing. But strangely, the scariest thing is the fact I’m letting him sleep on my chest.
Who am I? And why have I let go of my rules so quickly?
“I can hear you thinking, Priss.” His hand massages my hip with slow movements. “Relax, the world isn’t gonna fall down because you slept in a man’s bed. You remain unsullied…” He pauses. “Mostly.”
“Be quiet. And get off me, I have to get up.”
“I don’t wanna.” He leans heavier into me, and presses a kiss to the center of my chest.
My heart comes to a complete standstill, because he’s too close. Too comfortable. And my bra is too skewed and off-center.
“Get off.” I push him away and sit up. My joints noisily pop as my arms reflexively come up to stretch.
I know I look awfully sullied right now, what with the missing panties and messy hair. And a large part of me knows it’s the truth.
We might not have had sex, but I will still never be able to go to my future husband and promise I saved everything for him.
And Spencer made it so I would always remember him as the guy who stole my panties.
Groaning when I remember exactly that – my panties, gone – I stand and head toward the attached bathroom to pee and take stock of the mess I’ve become. I’m probably supposed to leave the door open or something, considering he’s seen almost every part of my body, but I need a minute to be alone, and the bathroom is as good an excuse as any.
I’m desperately tempted to climb into the luxurious shower stall and experience the showerhead that hangs from the ceiling. All of the showers I’ve ever seen had the head coming from the wall, but this one is massive, a square foot at least, and comes out of the ceiling. It makes me think of waterfalls, and yearn for the steamy water and ten minutes alone.
But if I turn those taps on, I know Spencer will follow me in. Oral sex is one thing, but a shower together is a hard limit that I’m not willing to bend on.
I tiptoe across freezing, bullet gray tile and sit on the toilet. I’m pleasantly surprised to find the bathroom clean; there are no towels on the floor, no shavings in the sink, no urine on the toilet seat. I grew up with far too many brothers to have never sat on someone else’s pee before, so it brings a small smile to my face as I relieve myself and hum with pleasure.
He wasn’t expecting me last night, so it’s not like he had time to run around and tidy up. Which means Spencer is clean, and that makes my soul soar.
I finish up, flush, then walk to the sink and wash my hands. Saving the worst for last, I keep my eyes down. I wash with soap, experiment with the water temperature, wash again, then dry off. When I can’t put it off any longer, I stop and look up…
And gasp at the woman staring back at me.
My hair is wild and points in too many directions. My cheeks are flushed, but I actually kind of like that. Dark circles shadow beneath my eyes, because despite the fact we spent about twelve hours in Spencer’s bed, I most certainly did not sleep twelve hours.
My shirt is wrinkled, and my breasts are off center. Off balance. They’re just off.
I reach back with my hands under my shirt and fix my bra. I straighten it out, re-clip the third hook, which slipped free at some point in the night, then bring my arms to the front and tuck myself back in so everything sits comfortably.
All the while, I stare into my eyes and nibble on my bottom lip. It’s almost like the Scarlet Letter, like I wear this badge of shame that anyone could see if only they looked. But I don’t feel all that ashamed.
I arch my neck and frown at the marks that never used to be there. Bringing a hand up, I run my fingertips over them and muse over their cause. Stubble burn? Bite marks?
He’s rough with me when so few are. He empowers me, and if I try to chicken out, he coaches me through a situation until I have a brand-new experience under my belt.
I clear my throat at my unintended pun.
“Abigail?” I jump when Spencer knocks on the door. “Come out, Priss. There are no external windows in there. You can’t escape.”
“I’m coming.” I roll my eyes. “Be quiet.”
He chuckles, and when I don’t hear footsteps moving away, I groan and imagine him leaning against the door.
He pushes, pushes, pushes until I’m forced to surge through the flames. Win or lose, live or die, he forces me to face my fear and come out the other side.
Clean hands, messy hair, flushed face, and no option but to step up, I turn away from the mirror and open the bathroom door. Spencer watches me with a filthy grin. He wears camouflage pants and… nothing else. No shirt, no socks. I have no clue if he’s wearing underwear, and his pants ride so low, I’m inclined to say he’s not. His chest is appallingly broad. Not just a bodybuilder type of broad, but the kind a man might have after he eats another, and then a third, and they all merge into one super bot with muscle and ink.
The tattoos that I snapped at him about not so long ago stretch from his arms up to his shoulders. His chest is completely covered, but his stomach remains bare. It’s almost like he’s wearing a long-sleeved crop top; images cover hi
s arms, shoulders, chest, neck… and that’s it. Like the tattoo machine ran out of ink, or like he planned it exactly the way it is, so it provides these majestic colors up top, and starkly contrasted skin below.
I have no tattoos – “obviously”, I murmur to my prudish self – but my brothers do. Nadia does. The Bishops and just about every other person at that wedding does. But every tattooed person I know tends to stick to black ink and shading. Spencer has opted for a gruesome rainbow of skulls and fire. Flowers and wings. Roman numerals, demons, and serpents. It’s a terrifying display of art, but when its canvas smiles teasingly, it’s not so bad.
“You look good all sex-messy, Priss. I knew you had it in you.”
I do something completely out of character for me. I punch his stomach, getting absolutely no reaction from him but a solidifying of his abdominal muscles, before I move through his room.
I stop at the doorway that leads into the living room, and because Jay and his stupid gunshots can still be heard every three and a half seconds, I lean past the doorway and look from wall to wall. I’m still naked from the bottom down, and if a second man sees everything the way Spencer has, I might officially curl up and die.
When the coast is clear, and Jay’s shots don’t slow, I dart through the room and dive onto the couch. It’s like a fight to the death, but it’s me against a pair of jeans while I stab my legs through the denim and try my best not to get tangled up.
Spencer follows me out of the room and chuckles. He has this adoring eye, as though my mortification is endearing to him.
I’ve never in my life worn jeans with no panties, and the denim brushing against my skin now sends the receptors in my brain into a panic. It’s the Scarlet Letter again–everyone will know I’m indecent. Everyone will know what we did last night.
I push the button on my jeans through the buttonhole, and yank the zipper up while my lungs expand and drop. It’s like I’m running a race, but it’s just me against the possibility of everyone knowing my shame.
I catch sight of my sneakers on the floor; one by the coffee table, and one under the couch. I sit back down and start tugging them on and tying the laces.
“Don’t panic so hard, Priss. It’s still only me and you in here.”
“He’s going to know I’m here. He’s going to know what we did.”
“No.” Spencer walks around the couch and sits on the coffee table in front of me. He leans forward with that playful grin and takes my shaking hands. “It’s so much worse than that. He’ll assume we had sex.”
“But we didn’t!”
He chuckles. “A girl’s car stays in a dude’s driveway overnight, means they fucked.”
“Oh my gosh.” I shake his hands off and sit back. I cover my eyes and jam the heels of my palms against my eyeballs. “I didn’t even do that, but now everyone will think I did.”
“Why does it matter what everyone thinks of you?” He holds my knee and squeezes. “Abigail, you are a grown-ass woman, and you don’t have to answer to anyone. You know what you did and didn’t do last night. You know your truths, so why does it matter what anyone else thinks?”
“I…” I hesitate. “I don’t know! But it feels super embarrassing. He’s going to tease me.”
“Babe.” He squeezes my knee hard enough to draw my eyes. “He’s my family. You have the kind of family that shares blood and would die for each other. I have the same thing, minus the shared DNA. Bish is my brother. He will laugh at you for sure, but only because he loves to laugh.”
“He’ll think I’m a…” Just say it, Abigail. Just say the word! “A whore.”
As though surprised by my horrible cussing, Spence lifts a brow and grins. “He doesn’t think anyone is a whore. He is the male version of an unpaid prostitute. He has Sophia now, but before her, he was all about hooking up with women before they’d even been introduced.”
“No…” My eyes widen. “Really? Who does that?”
Spencer does that, that’s who.
He grins. “Sometimes, we have loose morals until the right one comes along. Jay found Sophia, and he will never stray from her. Kane was no saint before Jess, but now he’s stuck, and he never wants to get out. We don’t judge each other for sex before marriage, Abigail.” He looks deep into my eyes. “That’s just you.”
I sit back as though he struck me. I’m offended that he insinuates that I judge. But I guess, in a way, I do. I don’t do it to be mean or rude, but because of my own expectations on myself. I expect a man and a woman to know that they’re in love, and if they’re in love, then they should marry. I expect everything to be fairytale perfect, and for couples that are in love to never break apart… But it can’t be that way, because my life has been a series of imperfections and broken pieces.
“He won’t judge you, Abigail. He’ll probably smack your ass and make a sex joke.”
“Will you tell him we didn’t do… that?”
“And risk being called a soft cock because I couldn’t seal the deal?” He scoffs. “Hell no. He would judge the shit outta me for that.”
“You’re a coward.” I push away from him and pick my purse up from the floor near the end of the couch.
Spencer watches everything I do with an amused glint in his eyes, and such a pretty smile on his lips that it almost seems… wrong.
Spencer is massive, gruff, grumpy, and crude. But when he smiles, it almost appears to reverse-age his face. His scars remain, but where they made him scary and older yesterday, they’re just there now, and make his constantly inquisitive brow seem funny and cute.
“Jerk.”
I snatch my phone out of my bag and groan at the missed calls. It’s bad. It’s really, really bad, and makes me want to curl up and die. I don’t have to worry about Jay anymore, because I probably won’t survive the phone call I’m about to make.
“Abigail?” Spencer follows me to where I stand, and presses his chest to my back. His hand comes up and rests on my far shoulder. Then he brings his fingertips up and scratches the nape of my neck in soothing circles. Leaning over me – though he barely has to try – he reads over my shoulder and makes the mock hissing sound. “Ouch. Those dudes are seriously passionate about keeping you under lock and key, Priss. No wonder you’re a high-maintenance princess, what with all those foot soldiers waiting to grant your every wish.”
“Be quiet.” I push away from him and squeeze the phone in my hand.
Seventeen missed calls from Mitch. Seven from Nix. A handful from Beckett and Corey. And right at the top, the one that spells my doom, a text from Troy. He’s working, so for them to bother him like that means I’m in big trouble.
I turn to Spencer with what I know is panic in my eyes, and when he stalks forward, I press my hand to his stomach and hold him back. “I need to make this phone call, but I’m begging you, I’m pleading for you to zip your lips and not say a word.”
“Why can’t I speak?” His dark eyes flicker between mine. “Why won’t you tell them you spent the night with me?”
“Because you and my brothers already get along so well,” I answer dryly. “I’m not playing around, Spencer. I need you to stay quiet.”
Bringing my phone up before it rings again, I read Troy’s text first.
Where are you, Abigail? I’m hopping a flight at 1300 and coming to kick your ass if you don’t check in soon. You know I’m chill. I’m the chillest of all of us, so for me to write this text means the guys haven’t stopped hammering my phone. I told them you’re probably fine, but time is getting on, and you’re still MIA. They’re worried. Fix it, or I’ll see you for dinner tonight. You won’t be able to sit, because I’ll beat you to teach you a lesson.
I let out a deep sigh and hit dial rather than type a lie up. I’d rather say I’m being good and sitting at home, but it would be a bald-faced lie, and I can’t bring myself to do that, so I take my punishment and dial instead.
“Abigail Rosa, I am going to make you pick your own stick from the yard before I smack
you with it.”
“Hi, Troy.” I roll my eyes and step away from Spencer when his eyes narrow. “I’m fine. I’m right here. I’m alive.”
“Where are you? Because Beckett is tossing your apartment right now. I have confirmation you’re neither under the bed, nor in the closet.”
“Troy!” I groan and throw my head back. “I swear, you’re all apes. I’m allowed to turn my phone off for the night.”
“That might be true,” he concedes. “And I might believe that that’s all you’ve done. Ya know, phone off, movie on, copious amounts of spicy chicken nuggets and ice cream consumed. But like I said, Beck’s in your apartment right now, and you ain’t there.”
“You’re insane.”
“You also aren’t at the shop, because Corey’s there, hounding Nadia. You’re not at the hospital; Mitch checked. And Nixon is at work, being held down by the guys before he Hulk-smashes the town to find you. Don’t make me ask this again; where are you?”
“I’m at a friend’s house.”
“You’re safe?”
“Obviously.”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, kid! Are you at a male friend’s house, or a female friend’s house?”
Oh god. The answer to that, that I’m at a male’s house, will mean that Troy and the guys will believe what Jay believes. They’ll assume I slept with Spencer.
I groan. “A male friend’s house. But it’s not what it seems.”
“Did you use protection?”
“Troy! What the heck is wrong with you? Why would you ask that?”
“Fuck,” he hisses. “That means you didn’t. Go to the pharmacy today, Ab. Get a morning after pill, then go to see the doctor for a screening on… you know. We’ll deal with whatever comes of it.”
“You are insane! And way overstepping your bounds. I do not need a doctor. I do not need a pill. I will not go to the pharmacy, and I will not discuss my private life with you. I just said it’s not what you think it is.”
“You slept at a dude’s house, Abby! What else can it be?”
