Page 2 of Loving Ohio (State of Us)
Chapter Two
Devon
I nhaling deep, I let the smoke fill my lungs as I watch Christian and Arya practically fuck right here in the tunnel, surrounded by staff and security.
I can still taste her strawberry lip gloss on my tongue. Wish I could taste it on his dick.
He's got one hand tangled in her bleach-blonde hair, the other riding up her skirt to clutch her ass while they devour each other, both hot enough to melt the fucking walls.
Flicking my cigarette onto the ground, I crush it beneath my heel and spin away, catching a staff member adjusting himself while he watches the show.
When he notices my attention, he blushes, ducking his head before quickly scurrying away, and I watch him go with vague interest, dropping my gaze to his ass.
Could be a good fuck to blow off some steam…
Between Arya sucking my face, Christian's general vibe, and Taylor's attitude, I'm in a constant state of blue balls.
A familiar feminine voice draws me out of my thoughts. “Littering is evil. Pick up your trash.”
Ah, yes. And there's that. The ex fuck buddy.
Turning slowly, I smirk at Salem, who's standing with her arms crossed as she eyes me like a piece of gum stuck to her shoe. Her delicate nostrils flare, the freckles dotting her cheeks vibrant against a summer tan. Such a gorgeous, deadly creature.
“Apologies,” I say, leaning down to pick up the smoke while I run my gaze over her long legs. “Wouldn't want your husband to lose his security deposit.”
Her stormy grey eyes narrow into slits, lips curling back before she stomps away, shouting at Christian and Arya to get a room. For a moment, I feel guilty, but I shove it aside as I pull on my moto jacket and grab my helmet.
Maybe what we had wasn't serious, but it was something . Easy. Mutual. A warm body to hold, a familiar hand passing the rolled dollar bill. Someone to snort a line with and forget the world for a while.
Granted, it was probably one-sided. Trading sex for drugs is a dick move, but part of me always hopes—just once —someone might stick around for more.
I thought Salem might.
Then she had to go marry my adopted brother, Logan, who thought I was his uncle his entire life.
Shit is fucked up.
Speaking of my brother , I spot him on my way off the fairgrounds with his head bent over a tablet, obviously doing some business-related bullshit. I skid to a halt, that guilt I'd just tamped down bubbling to the surface again.
Being only five years younger, Logan would look like me if we were actually related. But he doesn’t.
Where I’m all pierced skin and lean muscle, he’s scrawny, built like he belongs in an office instead of on a dirt bike. His hair is a lighter brown, straighter, too neat. His eyes— almost the same honey-gold as mine—are rounded and softer. The shape doesn’t match my own. Doesn't match our fathers .
The only thing we share is a last name.
I stand there, ink creeping up my arm, the smell of grease and asphalt clinging to me, while he’s all polished, suited up, and stiff as hell—dressed exactly like the man who raised him. The man I thought was my brother .
Turns out, Logan and I have nothing in common except the fact that we’ve both been lied to.
As I said—shit is fucked.
He glances up mid-sentence, his eyes searching for Salem like they always do.
Only, they find me instead. When our gazes collide, his jaw tightens, fury flashing across his features before he forces a tight smile in my direction.
Which I scoff at, pushing my way toward my Ducati parked near our RV in the campground.
That kid has some serious issues he needs to work out.
I can't say I blame him, though, because so do I. Our parents fucked us both up.
Sliding on my helmet, I climb onto my bike and start the engine, leaning back to glare up at the stars, at the emptiness within them, the lies in the glow of their flickering lights.
The night sky used to make me feel safe—the promise of something out there having my back, listening when I needed someone to talk to.
What a bunch of bullshit.
As I lower my visor, I lean forward and release the clutch, leaving the state fair in my literal dust.
I aim for the curving, winding backroads, where I can push the bike to its limits. The speedometer crawls higher and higher as the world and all its stars become nothing more than a blur.
Because they aren't real. They're just balls of floating matter.
And no one up there fucking cares.