Page 6 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)

Drew

Christ, my head’s bloody pounding. Those bitter martinis were a mistake.

Well, maybe just the last few. Every throb is a nail driving into my temple, barbaric and incredibly sharp.

Could’ve been an actual stick, knowing how I can get after a few.

Not that I didn’t deserve it; I can be an arse. I just… can’t help it.

This is my world. Everyone else? Just tenants in my daydream. Characters I’ve allowed to exist in the margins, all aching to have a taste of me.

What a fucking night.

I know I’m not the prettiest drunk out there, but at least I made it back to St. Paul in one piece.

Who doesn’t vomit after a night out?

All for a good cause. As if I give a fuck about Celiac’s. Not my fault those poor bastards can’t eat gluten. What a dreadful existence—no beer or bread. No wonder they needed the joy of money. Do they choose to feel normal or to be tempted by a hoppy ale?

Or would they end up feeling as miserable as I do right now?

I pull the silky black curtains shut, blocking out the reminder that it’s morning. The worst time of the day. People always get rattled when you wake up and toss back a Bloody Mary, as if that’s some sort of crime.

If I’ve learned anything in my thirty-nine goddamn years on this planet, it’s that people are pathetic prudes. Always judging, too afraid to indulge in life’s greatest pleasures. Clutching their pearls instead of taking what they desire.

Not a fucking problem for me. I don’t have any shame. Not an emotion that I’m capable of. I sleep like a baby every night. Skip church every Sunday. If God exists, he can strike me down this moment. But he won’t. Never has and never will.

My very own father taught me that there is no bloody Lord, no almighty above that protects you from evil. My old man used and took what he wanted from me until I snapped back with my teeth and sent me off to Vermont.

The weak sit there and take it; the strong indulge in what they can conquer.

The penthouse reeks of vomit and liquor. A snobby reminder that I probably should’ve stopped at my fourth martini. However, restraint isn’t one of my virtues.

Somewhere between drink three and meeting Charlie’s little boy toy, I decided I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot across the ice.

Austin Schmidt.

A new lad to conquer.

I hadn’t expected for him to look so fucking fit.

In an All-American kind of way. Wearing a perfectly tailored suit, his pouty eyes basically begging for me to tear it off of him and give him a proper fuck.

Spread his muscular peaches. I know I can fuck him better than Charlie.

I can do anything better than my baby brother.

And fucking pussy? That’s my specialty. Doesn’t matter if it’s between a woman’s legs or buried in a man’s arse—if it’s tight and begging to be stretched, it’s mine.

Drives me nearly insane when a bloke groans for me, voice breaking down while I’m deep inside him, their whole body giving up to me one thrust at a time.

Begging me to go faster with my prick. That’s the sort of sound that makes my blood boil.

I fuck to win. I don’t give a rat’s ass if they got tits or not.

Once I’m inside, they’re mine. I’m not stopping until they are creamy and filthy.

Properly marked by a man. And if Charlie’s already had them?

Even better. I’ll make them forget his name by the time I’m done—sear mine into their memories instead.

Charlie reckons he’s untouchable. Off-limits. But no one’s safe from Drew Evans. I take what I want, when I want it. No matter the cost.

Fuck—my head throbs again, a nasty pounding behind my eyes. I need some pills.

I stumble into the bathroom, bare feet slapping cold marble. Had it custom done when I moved in. Polished black and white. Real fucking posh. Better than anything back in Manchester. That place is shite now. Reckon it’s run by gangsters. Mob bullshit without the fit lads.

If you’ve got the cash, why not blow it? God knows how long I’ll last. I’m here for a good fucking time, not a long one.

I pop the bottle cap, shake out a couple of paracetamol, and toss them back dry.

Bitter chalk taste spreading on my tongue.

My reflection in the mirror looks like hell—rumpled black hair, bloodshot eyes—but there’s still that smirk.

The one that’s carried me through every fight, every glorious conquest, every time I’ve taken something that wasn’t mine.

It’s time to get sober. Time to get my head straight.

I prop myself against the counter, waiting for the pills to kick in, but all I can see is him. Can’t shake the little bastard out of my head.

The first glance of him is seared into my memory. Nothing could wash it away, not even a dozen drinks. Those pouty eyes, dying for someone to rescue him from my boring brother. Strip off that polite little shell and show him what it feels like to be with a real fucking man.

Get his heart going, tie him up. All four limbs. Gag his mouth. He’d bloody love it—whether he knows it yet or not.

Charlie hovered around him all night, thinking he could protect him and lock him away. It was pathetic. He could threaten me all he wanted to.

Warnings don’t work on me.

Charlie could lock Austin up in some forgotten castle in the arse-end of Scotland, and I’d still find him.

Doesn’t matter how high the walls or how thick the bloody gates.

There’s nowhere he could stash that boy that I wouldn’t sniff him out.

I’d cross oceans, cut through blizzards, burn down half the Highlands if that’s what it took.

I’d turn over every stone, every bed, every locked room until I had him.

And when I did, I’d make sure he knew—no one hides from me.

Not for long. Not ever. Not while I’m alive.

I saw his scars. Nothing physical, but I could tell Austin’s a broken lad, whether he knows it or not. It takes someone properly fucked up to put that right. Not some golden-boy wanker like Charlie, thinking a plaster and a pep talk’ll make it all sunshine and rainbows again.

I rattled him. Saw it in the way he went quiet, mouth hanging but nothing coming out. Didn’t fancy his first taste of me—perfect. Desire’s always sweeter when it’s laced with a bit of loathing.

I know his sort. He’ll tell himself I’m trouble, that I’m nothing like sweet, safe Charlie. And he’s bloody right.

I’m better. So much fucking better. I’ll ravage him and build him back up the way I want.

First thing to remember. I have to play the long game. Can’t go charging in like some lovesick rookie. Nah, I’ll let him stew. Let him think about me when Charlie’s not looking. When he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why the hell I’m in his head. Fucking his brain crazy.

Or I could walk into Charlie’s flat right now and take what I want. But where’s the fun in that? I need to torture Austin, make him crave me and drive Charlie fucking mad. Make Austin go mental for me.

So I snatch up my mobile, thumbs a-flying, shooting off a text to a mate over at the Lumberjacks.

Tell him I’m offering to 'demo' this new conditioning programme we’ve been running with the Ice Devils. Total bollocks. No one gives two shits about stretching drills. But it’ll get me a badge and through the doors, right into their little training sanctuary. Right under Charlie’s eyes.

Catch Austin all wrung out, sweaty, and vulnerable when Charlie is off working his form. Praise him. Help him work through those sore muscles.

Nice work out there, I’ll say, offering an authentic cheeky grin. Just a single compliment. Harmless on the surface. I’ll give him another, then another, watch the stiffness in his shoulders loosen just a bit. Praise is a hell of a drug, and I know the amount to dole out to a T.

Then I’ll offer to help him stretch. Nothing dodgy. Just me, guiding him into position, my hands on the backs of his legs, move them up the curve of his spine. Talking about muscle recovery, keeping it professional in tone, all while my fingers slither for a few seconds too long.

He’ll think it’s nothing. But his body will remember it—my touch, my voice. My praise. How gentle of a lad I can be. How loving, so much more than my thick headed twin.

The key to success is patience. He'll shatter once his brain has been reconditioned. Make every pleasant feeling start with me. Show him that he’s with the wrong brother. That there’s only one obvious choice.

So, you best hold him tight, Charlie.

Because the hunt is on.