Page 117 of These White Lies

The upcoming charity party gives us an advantage. A public setting, with plenty of eyes and plenty of cameras, means—I hope—there is less chance of her killing me outright.

Brady hates the idea of using me as bait—honestly, I’m not a huge fan of it either—but even he has to admit it is our best chance of settling this.

“Are you fucking kidding me with this amateur shit?” Brady mutters under his breath.

A quick look confirms he’s as disgusted by the men as I’m amused. The two bodyguards look like they’ve stepped out of central casting for a cheesy boxing movie.

One of the men steps forward, lifting his chin in challenge to Brady.

“I’m here to talk to Ray.”

“He expecting you?”

Brady doesn’t answer, and the wannabe Vin Diesel squares his shoulders. “I asked you a question.”

Over the last two days, Brady’s temper has been at a breaking point waiting for his father to respond to his messages, and I’m worried this is the excuse he’s been looking for to throw a real punch at a human.

Yesterday, Brady took me with him to the gym he owns because he couldn’t sit still anymore. He boxed for hours, sweat glistening over every hard line of muscle. And when sparring with James Bloom didn’t bleed the fury out of him, he punished the heavy bag until I thought the bolts in the ceiling would give.

After everyone left and it was just us, I stripped out of my clothes, looked him dead in the eye, and repeated his own words back to him. “I volunteer as tribute.”

His heavy muscles were slick and trembling with raw power, and instead of it being a turnoff, the sight of him in the ring, powerful and unstoppable, had my body on fire.

What happened after wasn’t slow or pretty. It was hard, rough, and consuming—and the best sex of my life.

Thankfully now, before Brady can attack, the double doors are thrown open, and we are greeted by a man who bears a strong resemblance to Brady… only older, with a buzz cut and a lifetime of hard living.

“My boy!” Ray throws his arms wide in greeting.

The two guards step back, but Brady makes no move to reciprocate his father’s gesture. In fact, his lip curls, and his posture becomes ramrod straight.

Ray’s eyes flit past us to the hallway, and his shoulders droop a little. “No Sera?”

“No,” Brady grinds out. “This isn’t a social call.”

Disappointment flickers across the man’s face, but it’s gone so quick I think I might have imagined it. “Oh well, another time.” He turns back to the suite, his open satin kimono billowing around him.

He is not what I was expecting.At all.Following him farther into the room, he gestures to two large, kidney-shaped sofas facing each other as he goes to the kitchen island and uncorks a bottle of tequila before splashing some into a short glass.

He looks up and gestures with the bottle. “Want some?”

“It’s a little early,” I say, when it’s obvious Brady isn’t going to respond.

So, this is Brady’s father. Brady clearly inherited Ray’s broad shoulders and muscular build as well as his strong jaw and green eyes. However, years of drinking and partying, have marked Ray’s face, including his nose, which has clearly been broken numerous times, and his cauliflower ear.

There are deep wrinkles around his eyes and grooves beside his nose, running to his mouth. I know from what Brady has told me that his father is only seventeen years older than himself, but he looks more weathered than his age. Ray is still a handsomeman, and as he stands, feet braced wide waiting for us to speak, I get the sense that the two men’s personalities aren’t that far off either.

Not that I’d ever say as much to Brady.

But it’s obvious. These are two men confident in their roles in life and who don’t care what anyone thinks of them.

“Do you want to get dressed?” Brady’s voice is deceptively even, but I can hear the irritation laced through the words.

Ray’s gaze darts to me, and then he grins, propping one fist on his hip just above his satin boxer shorts, pushing back one of the open sides of the short kimono, and lifts the glass to his mouth.

After taking a healthy swallow, he smacks his lips. “Naw, I’m good. You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart?” His eyes have the same mischievous twinkle I’ve seen in Brady’s, and I know his flirting is harmless. He is only looking to get a response from Brady.

Yep, these two are extremely similar.