Page 8 of Casual Felonies (Wildlings #1)

RAMI

Thank God for the Pecan Street Festival. I didn’t want to go home after humiliating myself at Valentine’s, so I spent the better part of the day wandering—moping, really—through the various booths, buying art, more greenery, and some hand-thrown pots for the apartment.

I’d have stayed for the musical acts, but the cousins are about to show up for dinner, and they’d razz me till the end of time if I ducked out of the “celebration.”

The walk back to the condo takes a lot longer than the walk to the festival, so by the time I get home and set aside my purchases, I’m done.

“How’s it going, broseph?” Maya asks as I sink into the coma couch, despondent.

“What a fucking nightmare.”

“The festival?”

“No. My life.”

“Wait, are you sick?” Maya asks. “Your voice sounds terrible.”

Er…

“Nah. I just have a dry throat. ”

“Here, have a beer, cuz,” Maverick says, tossing a Shiner in my direction-ish.

Mav has a lot of great qualities, but aim isn’t one of them. I throw myself across the couch to snatch it out of the air.

“And hey,” he continues, “the gala wasn’t that bad. Though maybe next time let me handle the graphics.”

“Next time, cuz. But, seriously, I don’t wanna talk about it.” Mostly because I don’t wanna explain that my bad mood has nothing to do with the gala.

I mean, I don’t wanna talk about that , either, but everything that went down in Truett’s shop this morning is at least seven times more humiliating than what went down last night.

It was the hottest sexual encounter I’ve ever had in my life, yes, but now he knows without even fucking me that I’m a six-three bottom, and a subby one at that. I’m never embarrassed about my love of bottoming, but right now, I’m feeling weirdly vulnerable about it.

Like, I one hundred percent threw myself at him, and he took charge with that perfect fat cock of his. I can still smell the musky woody scent that surrounded me as I tongued his piercing.

I just wish he hadn’t been such a dismissive jackass at the end.

So yeah. I’m gonna sit here and let this ridiculous couch swallow me whole as I stare off into the fading evening sky and disassociate into a puddle of my failures.

Dramatic for someone with a floor-to-ceiling view of both downtown Austin and Lady Bird Lake, but here we are.

“Mav’s right, Rahm. You put on a really beautiful event,” Maya says loyally, stopping to catch a fly-by Shiner. “And besides, Brantley’s in good company. He was arrested by that same detective who keeps arresting Mav.”

Mav makes the vomit gesture. “Stupid Booney.”

I share a confused look with Maya, who stage-whispers, “ Boone Hitchens also happens to be that poor, beleaguered counselor Mav lusted over at summer camp.”

“Oh my God, how embarrassing.” I’d completely forgotten about that, but now a few other things fall into place. “Wait. Isn’t he the cop who once arrested you for jaywalking?”

Maverick sends me a disgruntled look. “Shut up.”

I laugh, but Maya holds up her hands. “Okay, okay. We’re supposed to be enjoying a rare night with all the cousin-roomies. I switched shifts with that bitch who thinks she’s God’s gift to bone grafts to be here, so no moping.”

Oof. Maya’s in her second year of surgical residency and that shit is competitive as fuck.

Our dads are pleased as punch that she was accepted to Wakefield Regional Hospital just outside of Johnson City.

It opened three years ago and is the most advanced research hospital in the country.

The campus is massive—separate buildings house cancer research, genetic research, pediatric diseases, various injury and surgical specialties, plus an emergency care department for locals.

She’d started off in stem cell research but got bored because “it was too easy.” Turns out, she prefers the challenge of putting mangled bodies back together over lab work, so her emphasis is trauma surgery with a focus on regenerative medicine.

As best I can tell, she’s trying to figure out how to repair and regrow limbs and organs with a person’s own genetic materials.

Before the gala, I hadn’t seen her in over a month.

“You’re right, sissy. I’ve missed hanging out with you, so I’ll try for a better mood, promise.”

Maverick slouches down next to me, scratching his chin. “Why don’t you ever say you miss me?”

“Because we live together, and I can’t fucking get away from you.”

Between him, Oakley, and Maya—who has a room here for when she’s around—the condo’s never quiet. We bought it with trust-fund returns, mostly to get a little space from our dads, but it’s become more than that. It’s Wildling Central, and it feels like home.

“Rude!” Mav laughs, knowing I’d give him a kidney if he asked. He taps my bottle. “Keep drinking until your mood improves.”

That’s exactly the sort of advice I’d expect to get from Maverick.

His first name is actually Rune, which is super lyrical for a man who wouldn’t know a poem if it spread its cheeks and sat on his face.

We started using his middle name after the whole Bevo incident, and it stuck.

Mostly because he’s done nothing to dissuade us.

Funnily enough, my cousin Holmes—Mav’s identical twin—went into the Navy with our cousin Honoré.

Now they’re both in an undefined special-ops unit.

People like to joke that H and H should’ve been the twins, since Mav and Holmes couldn’t be more different.

But the way they practically read each other’s minds? Kinda creepy, if you ask me.

While Maya and I each take after one of our dads, Mav and Holmes are a perfect blend of Dad’s identical twin, Odd, and our Uncle DeShaun, who’s Black with a deep-brown complexion.

To be honest, I never remember how my uncles worked that out genetically.

“So, where is everyone?” I ask, not exactly disappointed by the small turnout.

“Sy’s on the way up, Oak’s getting in the last of his laps and will be down in a few,” Mav says, gesturing toward our rooftop pool. “Holmes and Honoré are coming in from Wimberley. Our buddies from Seguin said they’d try to stop by a little later.”

Great. ’Cause what I need is more witnesses to my abject failure.

Maya takes a sip, her gaze snagging on my head.

“Weren’t you supposed to get a haircut?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it. ”

“Why not, cuz?” Mav chimes in. “Startin’ to look a little shaggy there.”

Maya laughs into her beer. We’ve been teasing Maverick about his curly mop for months. To be fair, the dark curls—sun-tipped and beautiful—hit his shoulders and stretch halfway down his back when they’re wet.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mav rolls his eyes as the private elevator doors open.

Silas—Sy for short—steps out with his service dog Cupcake, a hundred-pound dark-gray Cane Corso. Sy, tattooed from neck to ankle, is definitely the scarier of the two.

They silently make their way past the broad foyer and down into the living room. Mav gets up, tossing his unopened bottle at Sy, who catches the beer with practiced ease and sits in the far corner of the couch, Cupcake at his feet.

Maya sends him a smile. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.”

“Did you see what happened at the gala?” Mav asks as he grabs a few more beers.

“I did.” Sy twists off the cap with an inked hand and takes a swig. “Sucks how it ended.”

“We’re trying to convince Rahm that it wasn’t that bad,” Maya says with a too-broad smile.

Sy’s brows meet in the middle. “But it was bad. Like, really bad. The judge refused Brantley’s bond.”

I throw my hands up. “See?”

Silas points his bottle in my direction. “Weren’t you supposed to get a haircut?”

Maverick laughs. “Careful, Sy. It’s a touchy subject.”

Maya’s mouth quirks into a grin, and she gives me a look that’s about to ruin my evening. This is the problem with having a brilliant sibling.

“And why is it such a touchy subject, Rahm? I thought you were looking forward to seeing Mr. Valentine. ”

“I thought you wanted me in a better mood.”

“I changed my mind. Teasing you is way more fun.”

Seriously, shoot me now.

I take my time and polish off my beer, ignoring her rolling, spit-it-out gesture.

Fine.

“Bastard kicked me out and told me to find a new barber.”

Maya’s eyes widen. “Oh my God. Why ?”

Ugh. I let my head fall back to the couch, trying not to remember the look that passed through his eyes when I told him I’d be good for him.

“I hit on him,” I moan to the ceiling.

Probably could’ve timed that better. Maya does a spit-take all over the expensive leather, and I jump up, looking for something to clean up with. Yes, it’s leather and stain-resistant, but still.

Silas somehow beats me to the kitchen and is holding out the hand towel I was after.

“Thanks, man,” I mutter, then set about cleaning up her mess.

Good thing you didn’t tell her about the blowjob.

“Seriously, why are you being so dramatic over a few droplets of beer?” Maya rips the towel from my hands. “Do you know how many bodily fluids I deal with on a daily basis?”

I shudder, which is exactly the response she wants.

“So, you finally made your move?” Silas asks, getting the conversation back on track as he returns to the couch.

I gesture broadly, beer dripping down my hand. “What do you mean, finally ?”

Maya tosses the hand towel at my head, and Maverick gets in on the teasing.

“Every time you get a haircut, we have to listen to you go on and on about Valentine’s just-rolled-out-of-bed sex hair, his beautifully square tattooed hands, the exact bottle of whisky—no E because it’s Scottish—that matches his bottomless eyes, and then you pull up his socials and show off his latest videos, which you refuse to be in, for some reason. ”

“He’s never asked,” I say, wiping my hands.

And the whisky is a 1969 Gordon McPhail, asshole.

“It’s not like he’d say no to you,” Sy says, far too reasonably.

I stop wiping my hands and send him a glare. “Why are you suddenly so chatty?”

Silas sends me the smile that causes most people to find the nearest exit, and Mav, who knows exactly what Silas is doing, clinks bottles with him.

Fucking traitors. I am definitely not telling them about the blowjob. Or the rough hand job. Or the way Valentine licked me clean.

And definitely ixnay on the piercing. Which will haunt my masturbatory dreams for the rest of my life.

“I thought y’all were supposed to have my back.”

Mav smacks my head. “We do have your back. And the price of having your back is that we get to chirp at your egotistical ass from time to time.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Mr. Fucks His Way Through Hollywood.”

He tosses his curls and takes another swig.

“Don’t think we’ve forgotten that you got kicked out by your hot barber,” my sister says, messing with my overgrown hair. “Why would you hit on him? Do you know how hard it is to find a great barber in this city?”

I run my hand over the back of my head, grimacing at the overgrowth. “He had seen the whole gala disaster and started making fun of me the second I walked in the door. I thought I could, I don’t know, take back control?”

My brain helpfully supplies the soundtrack of me telling him exactly how I’d take it for him: like a good boy. It felt good to do in the moment, but now my face and throat heat as I check to see if this couch can swallow me whole. No dice .

Sy sends me a super weird look. I think he’s going for supportive, but empathy isn’t his strong suit, so it’s hard to tell.

“What? Like none of you’ve ever wanted to fuck someone to feel a little better about yourself?”

Before they can answer, the elevator opens, and it’s Oakley, fresh from his swim. Cupcake whimpers and wags her butt, so Sy releases her to go say hi. Oakley, who makes the massive dog look like a puppy, bends down and gives her scritches while talking to her in a baby voice.

“Who’s a pretty princess?”

Oak’s a fucking tree like his dad, and even more handsome. While Uncle Thane lives in the gym and is as hard as a rock, Oak’s a big bear cub of a guy. He’s got heavy muscles with a beaut of a belly, a beard any man would give his eyeteeth for, and a chest full of dark fur.

For a guy just a few semesters off a PhD in something called Complex Psychopathy and Clinical Systems, he’s also shameless, wearing tight light-blue swim shorts that stretch across his massively muscled thighs and ass while dripping all over my special-order flooring.

“Before you say anything, we ran out of towels outside,” he says, his voice in the basement. “Also, why are we holding this inside? The weather’s fantastic, the Pecan Street Festival folks are setting up the concert stage on Congress, and there’s that whole outdoor kitchen area we hardly ever use.”

This is the roommate who actually remembers to put his dishes in the dishwasher, and never once have I come across his dirty underwear between the couch cushions—ahem, Mav —so I really should unclench about the floor.

“Rami’s gala was a hot mess express, and he got rejected by a boy,” Maya provides, ever-so-helpfully. “So we’re moping inside.”

“Oh damn. That’s right—saw the news. Sorry, Rahm.” A line appears between his brows. “Wait. Who the hell’s rejecting you ? ”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” I moan, and then take another drink.

Before any of us think to do it, Sy is there, handing Oakley a towel from our hall closet. Mav is—unsurprisingly—still eager to give me shit, and he scoffs at my fussiness.

“Oh, c’mon. You have to tell Oak who rejected you. That’s the best part.”

“Shut up.”

Maverick turns to Oakley. “Queen Rami was rejected by none other than Hot Barber, and now he has to go find someone else to curate his glorious cowlicks.”

Oakley’s brows raise as he runs the towel over his unfairly thick chest hair. “Truett rejected you? Seriously? Two beautiful one-night kings like yourselves?”

“Wait.” I point my—huh, empty—beer bottle at him. “How do you know Truett? More specifically, how do you know he’s a one-night king ?”

Leaning down to give Cup another scritch behind her ears, Oak lifts a meaty shoulder. “I think we exchanged hand jobs at Mardi Gras.”

What the fuck?

That’s it. I can’t handle all the cross-conversation, mostly aimed at roasting my ass. I’d planned on ordering some pizzas, but I need to get the hell out of this living room and try not to imagine Valentine laughing his ass off at my entire pathetic existence.