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“Fifty percent in your case, since I don’t like your face.”
I hung up before he could say anything else. I’d made a deal with the devil just to spite two meaningless bitches I didn’t even know.
And I didn’t regret it one bit.
I grew up as an only child. My parents loved each other too much to spare leftover affection for anyone else, so I never had the pleasure of dislocating anyone’s jaw or nose for mistreating my sister. I’d always envied Row when he defended Dylan’s honor. There was nothing quite as therapeutic as throwing a few well-earned punches after a long, hard day.
Another thing that was long and hard right now: my cock, after being in close quarters with my best friend’s sister.
Violence was sex’s ugly cousin, the Sweet’N Low to its pure, untainted sugar. But it’d have to do for now.
I pushed open the door to the Alchemist, slipping into the loud, darkened room. I spotted Tucker behind the bar. He hadn’t changed much, save for getting more ripped and growing some stubble. He was mixing neon-colored drinks and flirting up a storm with a few leggy patrons. I found a place in the corner ofthe room, ordered a Peroni, and waited, watching him closely. Patience, I suddenly had. Bloodthirst too.
I grabbed my phone and sifted through some emails while I waited. Between junk mail, pleas from former clients begging me to un-retire so they could flash a fake boyfriend at a wedding or a funeral, and emails from potential investors was an email from Bruce’s secretary. I clicked on it, my heart staggering its way out of my throat.
Dear Mr. Coltridge,
As per your meeting with Bruce earlier this week, Mr. Marshall has expressed an interest in hosting you and your fiancée at his farmhouse on the outskirts of Dallas three weeks from today.
Mr. and Mrs. Marshall would love to have your fiancée and her daughter as guests, show everyone some Southern hospitality, and discuss business as well as examine if you fit the Marshall Corp family and its uncompromised values.
You will be provided with private accommodation in Mr. Marshall’s farmhouse should you accept.
Please let me know if the time and date suits you. If so, Mr. Marshall will see to your transportation arrangements.
Do not hesitate to contact me should you have any questions.
Faithfully,
Portia
Orgasmic triumph flooded me. Finally.
Marshall wanted to close the deal and wanted to spend more time together. I wasn’t excited to pay Dylan for three more weeks, but I was sure as fuck thrilled to see the end was near, for both our sakes. I quickly typed out my acceptance of the invitation and opened a text box with Dylan. She’d had a crap-a-licious day, but not through my fault, so I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to break the inconvenient news to her.
Besides, I’d already filled my quota of being a great fake fiancé for the year.
Rhyland: Just got word from Bruce. He invited us to his house for a weekend in three weeks. Save the date.
Dylan: Seriously?
Rhyland: I never joke about the prospect of becoming four hundred million dollars richer.
Dylan: I hate it here.
Rhyland: Tough luck, Cosmos. For the money I pay you, you should show up in a gingham dress with a homemade cherry pie, braids, two first names, and your knees ready to be scraped at a moment’s notice.
My breath hitched. Was that last description really necessary? No.
Could I think about something that wasn’t my cock inside her smart mouth? Also no.
Dylan: That is a shockingly detailed kink.
Dylan: I’m happy to report I do, in fact, own a gingham dress, know how to make a cherry pie, and give the best oral sex.
Dylan: As for the braids, I’ll have to charge extra for that. They make me look hella young.
My eyes rolled inside their sockets, my rock-hard cock muscling its way past my zipper, begging to break free. I’d thought eight years would dull out that incident when I almost took her in her tiny kitchen, but they hadn’t.