The Naughty Boxset Page 11

  She giggled at me again. “Wanna know why Michael is an asshole?”

  “He stood you up?”

  She shook her head side to side in a sloppy, wide, exaggerated gesture. “Noooooope. He was fucking my bridesmaid right before the goddamn wedding. And her name was Tawny! Who the fuck names their kid Tawny? Did her parents want her to be a slut? Because that’s how you get a slut. And she’s a slut. I mean, I’m sure there are nice, normal, non-slutty girls out there named sorry—I mean…Tawny—shit. What I meant was, sorry to all the non-slut girls named Tawny in the world for assuming they’re all sluts. But she’s a slut. She fucked my fiancé on my wedding day! Who does that? Tawny does that, because she’s a slut! Fuck you, Tawny, you fucking slut.”

  She stared at me, eyes swimming dizzily, and then grinned as if there was a joke I’d missed. “Did you hear what else I said? I said I wanted your cock inside me, and not Michael’s. I bet you have a huuuuuuuuuge cock, the hugest, the biggest, most beautiful cock ever, right? You do, I just know you do. And if I wasn’t totally wasted and supposed to be married RIGHT NOW, I’d be fucking you so hard you don’t even know. You—don’t—even—know!” She jabbed her index finger into my chest. “Did you get all that?”

  I sighed, struggling with myself. “Yes, Dru, I got all that.”

  “Well?”

  I frowned. “Well what?”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  She pointed at my crotch. “Have the hugest cock I’ve ever seen.”

  I wanted so fucking bad to show her what I had, because despite the situation, I was so hard it hurt. “Never had any complaints. But for now, I think you need to go to sleep.”

  “Alone.”

  I nodded. “Yes, alone.”

  “Good.” She flopped backward onto the pillows, and I tugged the blankets out from beneath her and covered her with them. I was on my way toward the door when her sweet, sleepy voice stopped me. “Know what sucks, Sebastian?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll remember this whole thing tomorrow, and I won’t.” She tried to point at me, but missed, and hit the bed beside her instead. “Or, at least, I hope I don’t remember this tomorrow. I hope you don’t either, ’cause I’m a fucking mess. I hope I wake up with amnesia. Can you give me amnesia?”

  “No. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not? I don’t wanna remember this. None of it.”

  “Because forgetting is a cop-out, angel, and you’re stronger than that.”

  “How do you know?”

  I flicked off the lights, hearing her fading. “I can just tell. Now sleep. You’re safe here.”

  “That’s cause you’re an orc, and nobody fucks with orcs. Except you’re a sexy orc. A damn sexy orc.”

  Shit was getting seriously interesting.

  I left her snoring, a trashcan on the floor near to hand, and went to my bedroom.

  I locked my door. Locked my bathroom door, stripped naked, turned on the shower, and told myself to stop thinking about her.

  But it was futile.

  I got into the shower and fought it as I washed my hair. I fought it as I scrubbed soap over my skin.

  She was all I could see. All I could smell. All I could feel. I could picture every inch of her naked, wet body, and I could almost feel her pussy tight and wet and warm sliding around my cock as I pushed into her, could almost hear that sexy playful giggle as I teased her—shit, shit…she’d be so wet for me, she’d feel like—god, like nothing I had ever felt before. I just knew fucking her would feel like nothing I’d ever felt before. The way she’d move under me, on top of me, the way she’d whimper and moan and beg for me to fuck her harder…

  My cock throbbed in my fist as I jerked myself thinking about Dru, picturing her wet skin against mine, her slick pussy swallowing every inch of my cock, which I knew for a fact would be the longest, thickest, hardest cock she’d ever had inside her, and I’d fuck her until we both went crazy with it—

  I came so hard I thought I’d go blind, emptying my balls in gush after gush, until I went limp and had to brace against the far wall to stay upright.

  I was a fucking bastard.

  Because I knew I’d jerk off to Dru again, and frequently.

  I just couldn’t touch her.

  You don’t fuck the heartbroken ones: they cling, and I don’t do clingy.

  Not ever, but especially not with my seven brothers about to descend upon me.

  Which raised one very pressing question: Where the hell were all eight of us going to sleep? We hadn’t really fit four to a room back when we were kids; we were all big men who took up a lot of space now, and these rooms, while not tiny, were definitely not going to fit eight grown men, even if I did give up having a room to myself, which I wasn’t super excited about. Shit, none of us would be.

  What the fuck, Dad? I’d have help at the bar, sure…but still. What the fuck?

  5

  Dru

  * * *

  I woke up to a pounding headache and a mouth so parched I thought I’d swallowed sand.

  What the fuck—where was I? What happened?

  I couldn’t remember anything, at first. Which was a mercy, of sorts.

  I tried to fall back asleep, but, as a rule, once I was awake I was up for good, no matter how exhausted or still drunk or hung over I was.

  The bed underneath me didn’t feel right—it wasn’t my bed. It was too firm, and the sheets felt wrong, and the blankets smelled wrong, and the pillow was too thick and it smelled wrong. I wrenched my eyes open, stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, which was a mistake, since it was further evidence I wasn’t at home. This ceiling was flat white drywall with no molding to hide the corners. My ceiling at home in Seattle was much higher and was industrial chic, black painted metal rafters meeting exposed brick walls.

  I turned over to the side, and saw two minor miracles: a litre bottle of water, and two aspirin. Also, there was a note.

  Masculine handwriting, sloppily and quickly scrawled, but legible:

  * * *

  Dru,

  Bet you’re feeling like shit about now. Drink the whole bottle of water and take the aspirin, and then come downstairs. I’ll make you some breakfast.

  Just so you know, one of my brothers is here, and he’s the ugliest motherfucker you’ve ever seen, so be warned. He’s also a major douche-tard, so don’t expect manners from him, as he’s spent the last few years pretending he’s a badass. His name is Zane, and if you ignore him long enough, he’ll go away. Unlike me.

  Couple other quick things: I have a buddy in town who owns a dry-cleaning business, so he’s got your dress to see if he can work some magic on those mud stains. Second, I have another friend who owns a second-hand clothing shop, so she brought you some clothes. I got no fucking clue what size you are, so I told her what size your dress is and she guessed from there. Hope they fit.

  Lastly, I seem to have developed an odd case of amnesia regarding last night. Too much Johnny, probably. So don’t feel weird, since neither of us remembers shit about shit.

  Sebastian

  * * *

  PS: you’re fucking adorable when you sleep. You snore.

  * * *

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  FUCK.

  FUCK!

  I remembered everything. All at once, like a freight train of heartache and embarrassment.

  The video on Eric’s phone of Michael drilling Tawny from behind in the dressing room, minutes before he was supposed to say “I do” to me.

  Getting obliterated with Dad’s cop buddies.

  Literally jumping on the first airplane going anywhere, and offering the pilot all my cash to take me wherever he was going.

  Which turned out to be somewhere called Ketchikan, Alaska.

  Stumbling half-drunk, half hung over, and all pissed off into some shitty dive bar on the docks, and getting wasted all over again with the sexiest motherfucker I’d ever l
aid eyes on.

  Who had poured me scotch.

  Fed me delicious food.

  Carried me out of the mud.

  Undressed me.

  Put me in the shower.

  Put me in bed.

  And hadn’t taken advantage of me.

  Even though I had told him, I was pretty sure, that he probably had the hugest cock and that I wanted it inside me.

  And then—and then…he’d left me water and aspirin and a cute note.

  And gotten my dress dry-cleaned.

  And provided real clothing for me.

  And was going to make me breakfast.

  It was probably the hangover, but I could have cried at the thoughtfulness and care he’d shown me.

  I worked on sitting up, which took a few minutes because moving was hard, and being awake was hard, and being alive was hard and everything hurt like hell, but most especially my head and my heart ached in different but equally excruciating ways. I twisted the top off the water, took four huge slugs of the still-cold water, and then chased the aspirin down with more water. Then finally took a good look around me. The room was spare, sparse. The bed I was on was nothing but a mattress and box spring on a frame, no headboard or footboard. Plain white sheets and a thick gray quilt. There really wasn’t anything else in the room except a side table on my left, which had the water on it, the note, and my phone, with my charger cord connected to a wall plug. He’d even plugged in my phone.

  There was a window, so I gingerly stood up and walked stiffly across the small room and looked out.

  Jesus.

  Ketchikan was gorgeous. The view from the window showed docks extending along the shoreline with boats of all kinds moored to them, and then the sea rippling with whitecaps and dotted with sails and fishing boats and a massive cruise liner off in the distance approaching the shore. Then farther to the left side of my view the hills were carpeted in green trees, a leaden gray sky above, and colorful houses climbing up into the hills, and a mountain off in the distance, white-capped.

  I’d picked a beautiful spot to run away to, that was for sure.

  I turned away from the view and noticed a pile of clothing on the foot of the bed: a pair of jeans, a pair of black yoga pants, two V-neck T-shirts—one black and one white—a hooded sweatshirt, a thick cable-knit sweater, an unopened three-pack of plain cotton underwear, a sports bra, two pair of thick wool socks, and a used but expensive-looking pair of hiking boots.

  My throat felt thick and hot, for some stupid reason.

  It was just clothing.

  But…he’d thought of everything. Even a bra and underwear, and had made sure the underwear weren’t second-hand. The bra, too, still had the tag on it, which had been scribbled over with a sharpie and a second-hand price handwritten on the back. I put on the underwear and the bra, both of which fit, although the bra was a little small. The jeans were exactly my size, so I put on those along with a T-shirt and the hoodie and, let me just say, being dressed in warm, clean clothing felt like a luxury after the events of the day before.

  My hair was a disaster, though. I discovered that after peeking into the bathroom. I finger combed it out as best I could, which didn’t do much for the tangles, but at least now it was kind of less fucked. I turned to leave the bathroom, and that was when I saw the damaged doorframe, and had a mental flashback.

  He’d reached for me, as if his self-control had finally fizzled out, had his hand on my naked hip, and I remembered feeling his hand being so warm and strong, cupping the generous curve of my hip like his hand was made to mold to my curves, and then he’d spun around and punched the doorframe so hard the molding had splintered, his fist leaving a crushed indent in the wood and plaster.

  Shit, the man could hit hard.

  I was delaying, I realized.

  I had to leave the relative sanctuary of this room, had to go downstairs and face Sebastian and his supposedly ugly douchetard brother.

  Enough of the sissy shit. It was time to woman up.

  So I tugged the hood over my head, pocketed my phone, twisted open the doorknob, and left the room. There were two other bedrooms in the hallway, both doors closed, the hallway opening into an expansive great room. The kitchen area was separated from the living room by an island counter with stools on the living room side, and the sitting area featured two overstuffed armchairs, a mismatched leather couch and loveseat, a battered coffee table, and a small flat screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the couch. Windows let in natural light, and revealed breathtaking views of the harbor and the green hills.

  Nothing expensive, nothing fancy, but comfortable, cozy, homey.

  At the other end of the hallway from the great room was a doorway, which I assumed led downstairs. The great room was empty, so I assumed Sebastian and his brother were downstairs. Heart thudding, I descended the narrow staircase, pushed through the door at the bottom, emerged inside the bar next to the kitchen—

  And into a tense, frozen tableau.

  Sebastian was wearing a pair of faded, ripped blue jeans and a plain white V-neck T-shirt, which was in no way equal to the task of containing his muscular bulk or hiding his tattoos. I could actually see a lot more of the tats now that he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, the sleeves of which stopped just above the bulge of his biceps and looked to be so stretched I was worried the stitching was going to pop. It was also stretched across his shoulders and chest, highlighting the breadth and width of his torso, and then draped down to cling to his slim waist.

  He was also barefoot and, holy mother of fuck, what was it about a man who was barefoot in blue jeans? So cliché, I know, but shit, it was so goddamn hot.

  The tats, though. I actually licked my lips, looking at them. Each image was distinct yet bled and merged with the others on each arm, extending across the back of his shoulders and down each arm. There were a lot of totems, animals, skulls, playing cards, pop culture images twisted somehow into a whole menagerie of images with their own stories.

  Facing Sebastian was another man, this one a little shorter than Sebastian by maybe three or four inches, making him about six feet to Sebastian’s six-four, but Jeeeeesus and holy hell, the man was built. I mean Sebastian was ripped, but this man…god, he was on a whole other level of massive. He had the same essential build—broad shoulders, a wide chest, tapered waist—but this other man took the image and ran wild with it. Arms thicker even than Sebastian’s, nearly as thick as my thighs, a chest you could use as an anvil, the man was just…insanely muscled. Yet it still wasn’t bodybuilder bulk…he was lean, hard. Everything about him just screamed DANGER. His head was shaved to the scalp on the sides and had only a thin scruff of brown fuzz on top. He had only one tattoo that I could see, a screaming eagle on his left biceps, the eagle clutching a trident in one talon and a flintlock pistol in the other, with an anchor superimposed in front of it. I recognized the logo, but it took me a minute to put it together; Sebastian’s note had said his brother Zane had spent the last few years “pretending to be a badass.” The logo was that of the US Navy SEALs.

  Damn. Probably not “pretending” to be a badass then, I’d guess.

  Sebastian had also said Zane would be the “ugliest motherfucker” I’d ever seen, yet, powerhouse warrior’s physique aside, Zane was every bit as sexy as Sebastian. Craggy cliff-side jawline, deep-set dark eyes, high cheekbones, a wide expressive mouth… Yeah, Zane Badd was fucking hot as hell. But where Sebastian was hard, gruff, and rough looking yet with an intoxicating patina of warmth and charisma, Zane just looked…scary. His eyes were cold, dark, wild. Sebastian had that same wildness in his gaze, but Zane’s eyes were just flat out icy. The man had seen and done some truly hellish things in his life, and it bled into his overall aura.

  Neither man had seen me yet. They were standing face to face in the middle of the bar, a few scant inches between their massive chests, eyes blazing, fists clenched; they were both pissed. Close to blows, it looked like, to me.

  “I had no fuckin’ cl
ue Dad was gonna put any of that shit in his will, Zane! How the fuck could I? I didn’t even know he had a goddamn will, much less that he’d been having heart trouble. He just up and died, in the middle of a shift. He was dead before he hit the fuckin’ floor, and I didn’t hear shit about the will until yesterday. So don’t come barging in here acting like I knew something you didn’t.”

  “That rat of a lawyer faxed me a copy of the will, Bast. You got ten grand none of us got. Explain that shit, then.”

  Sebastian seemed to be seconds from blowing his top and attacking his brother. Who, from the looks of it, was every bit as close to going in after Sebastian in turn. And given the absurd size and power of both men, I wasn’t sure this bar would survive if they started fighting.

  But what was I going to do? I was half their size, didn’t know either of them, and was intruding on a clearly personal argument.

  “If you saw the will, and if you saw I got that ten grand—which I haven’t seen a fuckin’ dime of, by the way—then you saw what Dad said in his will. Because I was always the one to step in around here. I took over the kitchen when Mom died. I took over the paperwork so Dad could semi-retire. I ran this place, Zane. Me. All of you guys ran off to chase your dreams and I stayed here to run the bar with Dad. Nobody even asked if that’s what I wanted. So then Dad gave me a few extra bucks as a minor reward or some shit, and you’ve got the balls to act jealous? Fuck…you.”

  Sebastian punctuated the last word with a hard shove, sending his brother stepping backward a couple steps.

  And Zane? Well…he didn’t take it well. Obviously. His fist flew, cracked against Sebastian’s jaw and twisted him sideways.

  And then it was on, both men rushing at each other, spitting curses and swinging fists.