Page 42 of The Bad Brother

The Grilled Cheese Guy: You forget something, Peach?

Jensen.

He must’ve put his number in my phone before he left this morning, while I was still sleeping.

Still salty over being ignored, I contemplate returning the favor. Simply deleting his text and turning off my phone.

For about 1.5 seconds.

Me: The Grilled Cheese Guy? Really?

The Grilled Cheese Guy: You’d prefer “The Best Sex of my Life”?

Me: You’re delusional.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: And you don’t follow directions very well.

Me: Well, I guess I don’t like being told what to do, any more than you do.

Hitting send, I hold my breath, watching a trio of bubbles ripple across my phone screen while he types his answer.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: You didn’t seem to mind while that greedy little pussy of yours was squirting and coming all over my cock.

Rub your clit for me… I want to watch you touch yourself while this filthy little pussy squirts all over my cock.

Me: I’m busy. Did you want something?

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Yeah. An apology.

Me: Excuse me? What do I have to apologize for?

The Grilled Cheese Guy: You didn’t say goodbye. I thought I made my feelings on the subject clear.

Me: You looked busy

The Grilled Cheese Guy: And you looked jealous.

Asshole.

Me: Don’t flatter yourself.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: No need. You and your jealousy do all the flattering for me.

Conceited asshole.

Before I can tell him to go fuck himself, another text pops up.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: She’s just someone Cade called in for a job interview. I need to hire another waitress.

Reading his text, I feel the knot that’s been tied in my chest since I saw him smiling at her, start to loosen.

Don’t do that Sloane.

Don’t trust him.

Don’t get sucked in by another pretty face.

Me: Too bad. She’s cute.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Her name is Gemma. I’ve known her since she was climbing trees and catching frogs.

Don’t do that, Sloane.

Don’t trust him.

Me: Was there something else you needed? I’m late for an appointment.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: No. Just to tell you that I expect an apology when you get home. Enjoy your fancy lunch at the club.

Looking around, I halfway expect to find him watching me from behind a potted palm.

Nope.

No Jensen.

Just a bunch of snotty rich people giving me side-eye and whispering behind their hands. I suddenly remember that the last time I was here was for my engagement party with Ethan and most of these people were there, witnessing the beginning of the end.

Me: How do you know where I am? Did Cade tell you?

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Where else would a creeker go, all dressed up, on a Saturday? And why does Cade of all fucking people always seem to know where you are?

Me: Who’s jealous now?

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Me. I am.

Me: is that why you ignored me when I came downstairs?

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Yes. I took one look at you, knew where you were going, and got jealous. I’m still jealous.

Staring at his answer, my heart tries to run away again and it takes every shred of self-preservation I can muster, to rein it back in.

Don’t do that, Sloane.

Don’t trust him.

Before I can think of something to say that won’t make me sound needy or pathetic, he saves us both.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: You never answered my question. What’s with all the candy in your nightstand?

Even though the answer is embarrassing and I want to tell him fuck off for snooping through my personal space, I decide to answer him honestly.

Me: I have panic attacks sometimes. The candy is a grounding technique. If I manage to catch it in time, the citric acid is sour enough to overpower my panic and give me enough space to get myself under control.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: You have panic attacks?

Not anymore.

Not since I met you.

Me: They’re not as bad as they used to be .

A long pause. So long that I’m sure he’s going to leave me on read. Getting ready to shove my phone back into my bag, a text pops up.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Have I ever been the cause of one?

I stare at this question for a few seconds before I answer.

Me: No

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Would you tell me if I was?

Me: No

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Fair enough. How are you feeling?

He’s asking about what I told him last night. About the little girl I had to operate on. How I’m holding up after what I had to do to keep her alive.

Me: I’m okay. Zero panic. I stopped by the hospital on my way here to check on her. She’s still sedated.

Her parents were there too. Devastated but grateful. They kept thanking me for saving their children. It was horrible.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Are you sure you’re okay?

Me: Yes, I’m sure I’m okay .

Because of you.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: That’s good to know because we’re probably gonna fight about that willfull nature of yours when you come home.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Right before I fuck it out of you.

Staring at my phone screen, I feel something warm and thick slide down the length of my spine to pool between my thighs.

Me: Your delusions are showing again.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: It’s not a delusion, Peach. It’s a fact.

Me: A fact I have no say in?

The Grilled Cheese Guy: That’s between you and your pussy, Peach.

Me: You’re a smug, cocky bastard, you know that, don’t you?

The Grilled Cheese Guy: I’m not cocky. I’m confident.

Me: Confidently delusional.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Tell that to my cock and the bedsheets you soaked last night.

Do you know what that means, Peach?

It means your pussy belongs to me.

Me: I have to go.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Alright, Peach, just one last question… exactly how wet are you, right now?

How wet am I?

So wet, it feels like every part of me is on the verge of melting into a warm, gooey puddle.

Me: Not at all.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Liar

Me: Dry as a bone

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Bonus question: How many times do I have to make you scream my name before you admit that soaking wet pussy of yours belongs to me?

You’re not leaving.

You belong here.

You belong to me.

My phone buzzes again. Not Jensen this time.

My mother.

Mom: Saundra Pierce told me you’re in the lobby, staring at your phone. What are you doing?

Shit.

Double, triple checking to make sure it’s Jensen I’m texting, I tap out a quick message.

Me: I really do have to go. My mom is waiting.

Adding an eye roll emoji, I hit send.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Have a good time.

Even though it’s the perfect out, I suddenly find myself unwilling to end the conversation.

Me: Weird thing to say considering you know where I am.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: Order the bananas foster. Their table side flambé is always a good time.

Yup.

Jensen is definitely a creeker.

Me: Almost every person here was at my engagement party. They all know what Ethan did to me. I’m not sure table side flambé is going to make things better unless I knock the waiter’s cart over and start a fire.

I watch those bubbles dance again, for what feels like forever before his reply pops up.

The Grilled Cheese Guy: See you when you get home, Peac h

My phone buzzes again while I’m reading his message.

Mom: Sloane! What on earth are you doing out there???

Shit.

Me: Sorry. Checking on a patient

Mom: Stalling isn’t going to make this any easier, Sloane. You may as well get it over with. The sooner you show your face, the sooner we can start the business of rectifying this whole embarrassing situation.

Embarrassing situation.

Being cheated on and robbed by the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with was just an embarrassing situation. One that’s my responsibility to fix.

Leave it to my mother to put things in perspective.

If not for the fact that my job is literally hinging on this lunch with my mother, I’d walk out the door, get in my car and never come back.

Me: I’m on my way.

Dropping my phone back into my purse, I square my shoulders and cross the lobby to the tuxedoed ma?tre d who recognizes me with a murmured, it’s so nice to see you again , Ms. Merrick.

Seconds later, I’m running the gauntlet that is the Clearwater Country Club—botoxed trophy wives, day drinking and gossiping over barely picked over salads, almost every one of them, stopping me to tell me how sorry they are that things with Ethan didn’t work out and that perhaps it’s for the best, needling me with their fake sympathy in hopes of watching me fall apart so they’ll have something juicy to spread .

I’m handling it just fine until I find myself, face-to-face with Ethan’s mother.

“Sloane, darling,” she says when she sees me weaving my way through the crowded restaurant toward my mother’s table.

“I’m so relieved to see you.” Her tone lilts just enough to tell me, and the clutch of social climbing gossips she’s lunching with, that relieved isn’t at all what she’s feeling.

“I’m so sorry things ended the way they did, dear,” she simpers up at me while reaching out to pat my hand with one of her manicured claws.

“Hopefully, once things are settled, you’ll find the lesson in your heartbreak. ”

Ah, yes— the lesson.

Because the fact that her son recorded himself coming in my best friend’s mouth while my mother toasted our engagement and then sent the video to me while I was busy saving lives is the sort of lesson I should learn from. Because what Ethan did to me is somehow my fault.

My fault.

My responsibility.

Fuck that.

“No need to be sorry, Monica,” I say, pulling my hand out from under hers with a sugary sweet smile. “I’m not heartbroken, in the slightest.” Aiming that same sweet smile around the table in equal measure, I shake my head. “As a matter of fact, I’m the one who’s relieved .”