Page 17 of The Bad Brother

E VEN THOUGH IT’S ONLY BEEN FOUR days, I wake up Tuesday morning, feeling like I’m twelve and it’ my first day at a brand-new school.

That’s to be expected, Sloane. You’ve suffered some very traumatic losses recently.

Any change in routine is bound to trigger your anxiety.

It’s barely ten o’clock. You have plenty of time to shower and get ready for work.

You can even go in early and stop by the cafeteria for some breakfast before your shift.

Real breakfast food would be nice. I’ve been living on expired canned goods and stale crackers for the past two days.

Thankfully, I can just swipe my badge and have whatever I take from the cafeteria deducted from my paycheck.

As long as I don’t get sick of cup o’noodles, I should be able to feed myself while I wait for payday.

Plan formed, I sit up, pushing myself to the edge of the bed to plant my feet on the floor. Making my way across the bedroom, I step into the bathroom and turn on the shower .

Deciding my hair can last another day without a shampoo, I pile it on top of my head, securing it with a few errant bobby pins that got left behind in the vanity drawer while I wait for the water to warm.

Sticking my hand under the spray and satisfied with the temperature, I step into the shower with an audible groan.

Whoever built this place didn’t skimp on the water pressure, bless their soul.

Retrieving my washcloth and a bar of soap I liberated from the hospital supply closet, I begin to scrub while the warm, pounding pressure of the water beats my muscles into submission, loosening the tension in my neck and shoulders while another sort of tension starts to build between my thighs.

Between planning the wedding, trying to be whatever version of the perfect woman Ethan was demanding at the moment, and my shifts at the hospital, I can’t even remember the last time I had sex, let alone an orgasm that didn’t leave me feeling empty and vaguely dissatisfied.

You do it all the time.

If not for masturbation, you’d never have an orgasm.

Dropping the washcloth, I lean my shoulders against the tiled wall of the shower and close my eyes.

Pressing my hand between my thighs, I let out a soft gasp when I feel the tips of my fingers skim along the slick seam of my pussy before pushing past it on a long, slow thrust. Fingers buried deep, I press the heel of my hand against the top of my cleft, concentrating on the delicious friction and pressure building in my core.

Pulling my fingers out to swirl them against my clit, I stroke them back in on a hard thrust that makes me gasp and stiffens my nipples under the pounding spray of the shower.

Reaching up with my free hand, I roll and pinch one of the stiff, swollen peaks, letting my mind wander while the sensations build to the point?—

Like somebody flipped a switch, the steaming hot water of the shower turns so cold it stings, like a thousand icy needles stabbing me, all at once.

Letting out a startled yelp, I yank my hand free and almost break my neck while I scramble out of the shower, trying to get away.

Standing, soaking wet and chest heaving, I stare at the still running shower like it just assaulted me.

What the hell just happened?

I’ve showered enough over the last few days to know that the hot water doesn’t just?—

“That sonofabitch,” I hiss out loud while I rip my robe off its hook and pull it on.

Charging down the hall and out the front door, I leave it hanging open, streaking down the stairs that lead to the bar like my hair is on fire.

It’s barely ten in the morning and the bar doesn’t open until noon but I’m not at all surprised to find the bartender River introduced me to—Cade—behind the bar with a middle-aged man in khakis and a polo, wearing a ball cap that says LONESTAR LIQUOR.

“Where is he?” I demand through clenched teeth. Clenched because I’m angry but also to try to keep them from chattering like a pair of those wind-up teeth you would expect a dentist to keep on his desk.

To his credit, Cade doesn’t say where’s who? or I have no idea what you’re talking about . Instead, he just gives me the kind of amused smirk that makes me want to cave his face in while lifting a hand to point his finger at an open doorway on the other side of the bar. “Down there. ”

Following the trajectory of his finger, I feel my cheeks start to burn when I spot a pair of older women openly staring at me—one of them is mopping the dance floor while the other is wiping down tables.

Shit.

“Excuse me,” I mumble on my way past them, acutely aware that I’m not only dripping water all over their freshly mopped floor, I’m also practically naked.

Rather than retreat and regroup, which would probably be the smart thing to do, I commit to my craziness and charge headlong through the doorway Cade indicated.

Clenching the hand railing, I navigate the set of concrete stairs as quickly as I can without risking my second slip and fall for the day.

About halfway down the stairs, I can hear soft grunts followed by a series of rhythmic thwack s.

Unsure of what I’m walking into but still committed, I fly down the rest of the stairs, landing in what looks like a large root cellar.

Cold, hard-packed dirt floor. Damp brick walls.

Drafty ceiling held up by thick, wooden beams. In the center of them, large dark splotches stain the floor.

Blood.

I’m almost sure that’s blood.

“Something I can help you with, Peach?”

Turning toward the sound of his voice, I spot him in the corner, stripped to the waist, moving and bobbing while delivering a series of lightening fast jabs to the large, heavy punching bag suspended from one of the rafters.

Momentarily stunned, because even as angry as I am, I can admit that the picture I found of him upstairs doesn’t do him justice, I just stand here and stare at him like an idiot.

Because holy shit .

Muscular, tattooed chest slicked with sweat. Wide shoulders. The twist and flex of his abs, every time he extends one of those long, powerful arms to connect with the heavy bag swaying in front of him. I have absolutely no problem imagining what it would be like to?—

You do not want this man, Sloane. He’s an asshole, remember?

Yeah—but he’s a hot asshole.

You’re just horny. You were in the middle of masturbating when this asshole turned the hot water off on you.

“Hello?” I’d have to be deaf not to hear the knowing condescension in his tone. Like he knows exactly the kind of effect he’s having on me and he thinks it’s funny.

Right.

Asshole.

Finally finding my voice, I clear it before stepping forward. “Turn it back on.”

Gaze still focused on the heavy bag in front of him, he gives it an asshole smirk along with another series of punches and jabs. “Turn what back on?”

Pushed even closer by indignation, I stack my hands on my hips and glare at him. “You know what ,” I practically shout.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he answers calmly, attention still focused on the bag in front of him while he jabs and dances around it. “So, why don’t you stop acting like a spoiled brat and tell me what I’m supposed to turn back on , so we can both get on with our day.”

Dropping my hands away from my hips on a quiet huff, I shake my head. “The hot water. ”

Another asshole smirk. Another quick combination of punches and jabs. “What about it?”

Frustration and instinct have me reaching into the pocket of my robe for one of my sour candies but I come up empty-handed.

Shit.

That’s quite alright, Sloane. You don’t need to use your grounding techniques to deal with this man. You got this.

“I was in the shower and someone turned it off,” I say in a pointed tone. “I’d like you to turn it back on. Please .” The last word is forced out through clenched teeth.

“ Someone , meaning me.” It’s not a question but when I don’t answer him, he finally drops his fists and looks at me. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”

Jaw still clenched, I shake my head. “I’m not?—”

“Yes, you are…” Insolence pushes at the corner of his mouth. “You’re accusing me of spying on you.”

“What?” Panic claws at my chest while I shake my head a mile a minute. “I never?—”

“How else would I know to turn the hot water off unless I was watching you in the shower while you…” His mismatched gaze drifts over me, lingering on the damp silk of my robe clinging to my breasts before moving lower.

Lifting his gaze to meet mine, he tilts his head, ever so slightly.

“What were you doing in the shower, Peach?”

The hinge on my jaw softens on a barely audible gasp.

Did he just admit to ? —

“This building is over a hundred years old,” he says, moving past me to snag a worn towel off the back of a folding chair. Scrubbing it across his chest before hooking it around his neck, he gives me a flat smile. “The furnace is finicky, so it’s bound to happen, more often than not.”

“I’ve showered more than once and the water temperature was just fine,” I tell him, my tone barely above a whisper because none of this has gone the way I expected it to.

“Like I said—” Lifting the tail end of his towel to rub it against his temple, he gives me a shrug. “old building. Finicky furnace. If you can’t handle it, you should move out.”

Before I can argue or maybe call him a liar, my new landlord mounts the set of cement stairs I nearly broke my neck on and disappears.