She reaches for my face, tracing her hand along the side of my cheek and offering a simple nod.
“I have to tell you something.” Ayla’s voice is low, somber, and her eyes are locked on me. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, but it falls out of place.
“Can it wait?”
I roll to my back, pulling her over on top of me, watching as she straddles me and guides my swollen cock inside. Her hips roll and she gathers the blankets around us when the air conditioner kicks on, but I like what the cool air does to her skin, the way my hands leave prints where I touch her. My hands frame her hips, guiding her as she rides, back arched. She looks so beautiful like this, bathed in late afternoon light, her hair in her face as she wears my scent and a lust-drunk smirk.
“Rhett, you home?” A man’s voice followed by the slam of the front door sends Ayla scrambling off me, pulling the covers with her.
“Who the hell is that?” she whispers, her body flushed and nipples pointed.
“My brother.” I don’t try to disguise my annoyance. Climbing out of bed, I slip a pair of shorts on and tug a t-shirt over my head before heading down the hall. My brother is kicked back on my sofa, laser focused on the screen of his phone as he scrolls through his dating app—the one he developed and sold in a multi-million-dollar deal eight months ago. “Ever heard of calling?”
Locke waves me off before darkening the screen of his phone and shoving it in his pocket.
“Just got to town,” he says. I haven’t seen him since Damiana’s funeral last month, and even then I was blown away by the fact that he showed up at all. I never know when I’m going to see him. He never calls or texts, he usually just shows up unannounced. Sometimes he stays a night or two, other times he stays a month. “Aren’t you happy to see me? Come on.”
He rises and gives me a high-five and a half-shouldered hug.
“You know you missed me,” he says, flashing a dazzling smile that matches the diamond encrusted timepiece on his left hand. His dark hair is cut low on the sides, long on top, and his expensive jeans are the antithesis of our working class upbringing.
“I’ve got company,” I say.
His smile fades and his eyes move toward the hall, focused on something in the distance.
I turn, spotting Ayla leaning against the wall, fully dressed and tragically void of my seed.
Goddamn it, Locke.
“I’m going to head out,” Ayla says, gently padding across the room to where her bag lies on the floor in the entry, where she dropped it seconds before mauling me a half hour ago.
“Ayla, you don’t have to leave,” I tell her.
“Yeah, don’t go just because of me,” Locke says.
“I need to finish unpacking anyway.” She gives a casual smile, stepping into her shoes and tucking strands of finger-combed sex hair behind her ears.
I move to her side, keeping my voice low. “Not sure how long he’ll be staying. Might have to come to you next time.”
Twenty-Three
Ayla
* * *
That man.
The bulk of my stay in LA was spent thinking about Rhett. No, not thinking. Obsessing. I’ve never known a man so intense, and I’ve never felt the kind of euphoria I feel with him—with anyone else.
I determined, over the course of several sleepless nights, that what we have ... whatever it may be ... has to be real. I couldn’t be dreaming it. When you’re dreaming, you don’t feel pinches. You don’t feel anything because it isn’t real. With Rhett, I feel it all: the gaping void when I walked away, the bittersweet longing when I knew I couldn’t text him, the bloom of warmth when I recalled the way he felt inside me, and the rush of blood to my head when I thought about seeing him again.
It wasn’t until I was on my flight back to New York, when the flight attendants were preparing the cabin for landing, that I made a decision.
I could see him again.
I could tell him the truth.
But not until I told him how I felt about him first.
So that’s what I did. I went to him. I told him I liked him. And just as I suspected, he confessed that he was starting to like me too. If he knows how I feel—that I genuinely care for him—maybe he’ll understand when I finally confess everything.
And next time, I won’t let him talk me out of it. I won’t beat around the bush. I’ll come out and say: I’m Bryce’s sister. And I’ve known who you were all along. Just like that.
My phone blows up first thing Wednesday morning.
* * *
Rhett: WHERE DO YOU LIVE?
* * *
My heart skips, and my blood runs cold. This is too soon, and I need to more time. I have a plan, and this sure as hell isn’t part of it.
* * *
Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
* * *
Nothing like an extremely generic, subject-changing question to buy me some time.
* * *
Rhett: JUST GOT DONE WORKING OUT. WANT TO BRING YOU COFFEE. THAT’S WHAT YOU DO WHEN YOU LIKE SOMEONE, RIGHT?
* * *
Me: I’VE ALREADY HAD MY COFFEE TODAY. THANKS FOR THE OFFER.
* * *
I smack my clenched fist against my forehead. I’m such a bad liar.
* * *
Rhett: THEN I’LL BRING YOU SOMETHING ELSE. JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU LIVE.
I don’t respond right away. Flinging the covers off the bed, I begin to straighten up the guest room, and then I stop. What am I doing? He can’t come here. My cheeks warm, and my armpits tingle—a telltale sign that I’m nervous as hell.
* * *
Rhett: I WANT TO FINISH WHAT WE STARTED YESTERDAY. YOU LEFT ME HANGING.
* * *
Me: I WASN’T GOING TO FUCK YOU WITH YOUR BROTHER DOWN THE HALL. I’M A LADY! ;-)
* * *
Rhett: LOCKE’S GOING TO BE STAYING WITH ME FOR A WHILE, SO WE’RE GOING TO NEED A NEW PLACE TO FUCK… SPEAKING OF FUCK… WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU LIVE?
* * *
Again, I don’t respond. I don’t know how to get out of this, and I should because I’m a writer and writers are supposed to be creative. I reach for a notebook on the nightstand and a pen and I start scribbling a list of excuses, all of which are lame and all of which he’ll see right through. I cross out idea #4, which consists of telling him I’m on my period and that we can’t screw anyway but we could do dinners and movies and whatever else—anything to keep the focus away from beds and apartments for a little more time. That could’ve bought me at least a week, but it’s probably too early in the relationship to start discussing Aunt Flo. Idea #2 isn’t any better, telling him I’m having the place sprayed for bugs (gross) and I’m staying with a friend.
* * *
Rhett: ARE YOU A HOARDER? YOU’RE A HOARDER. WRITERS ARE ECCENTRIC. IT MAKES SENSE. YOU’RE TOTALLY CRAZY. I KNEW IT.