Tell us the number of people you’ve had intercourse with.
Unholy fuck.
I rub my mouth.
She intakes a sharp breath.
I haven’t even told Jane my number, and she hasn’t told me hers. Now we’re about to announce this shit in front of security, her cousins, and brothers.
But based on the NDAs her sexual partners had to sign, I can estimate her number. Which is probably why this task exists.
To put me on the same footing.
Eliot squints at the card. He has trouble reading—it’s one of the first things I had to tell new bodyguards on his detail. His dyslexia screws with how he sees letters. In the booth, he whispers in Tom’s ear, and Tom whispers back.
“Really?” Jane snaps at Charlie and Beckett, the two oldest.
Charlie taps the card with his cane. “If Thatcher can’t complete this, then he’ll drown every time he’s with our family.”
“Around forty,” I announce my number. Suddenly. Just like that.
“Around forty?” Ben glares. “You can’t remember the exact number of girls you’ve slept with?”
“People.” Beckett calmly corrects his brother and lights another cigarette. He’s being inclusive.
I’m straight, and I’ve only slept with girls. But I don’t feel a need to emphasize this, so I just tell Ben, “I didn’t keep count. Around forty is my best guess.” That’s all I’ve got.
Tom rests his arm on his brother’s shoulder. “Higher than yours, Eliot.”
Eliot holds the back of Tom’s head in some kind of brotherly affection. Salt scalds my eyes, a glimpse of my childhood surging hard. And fast.
I see Skylar.
He’s cupping my head, his smile rising. “Thatch.”
I blink, and he’s gone.
My pulse jack-knives. A sheen of sweat built under my shirt. I take a measured breath, and I nod to Jane when her hand touches my knee. She’s silently asking if I’m okay.
I’m good.
She nods and turns to the booth. “My number is eight, and I want to footnote that it’d be even higher than Thatcher’s number if I felt safer with more one-night stands.”
I thread my fingers through my hair. Ignoring how my ribs constrict. Mention of her safety and sex reminds me of the Chokehold Incident—and my frontal lobe blisters, my knuckles craving to slam into a bag.
She should’ve never had to deal with that.
Her brothers go quiet, and a wave of concern flows towards Jane.
She sighs softly. “I didn’t mention this to gain sympathy. It’s just a fact.”
“It’s a sad fact.” Eliot pries the card off the table. Pinching the corner, he whips open a Zippo lighter. A flame licks the paper and eats through the gold lion.
We watch the card torch between his fingers, and Eliot never blows out the fire; it just dies in his hand. Nothing left to burn.
“Flip another,” Charlie orders.
Jane says, “You choose this time, Thatcher.”
I pick the card on the far right and flip.
Tell us your favorite part of Jane’s body.
My face almost screws up. I must’ve read this shit backwards or ass-fucking-sideways. Because in my head, there’s no way brothers would want to hear this shit about their sister.
Jane has her knuckles to her lips, analyzing the card like it’s a chess piece.
“She’s your sister.” My voice is stern. “You really want to know this?”
“It’s not for our pleasure,” Charlie retorts in a tone that says, you’re a fucking idiot.
I’m feeling pretty fucking stupid.
Eliot outstretches his arms. “‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.’”
“Hamlet,” Jane whispers to me.
Hamlet? I would’ve never guessed that he just quoted Shakespeare. But I’m starting to think that how I respond to the cards is telling them about who I am as much as my actual answer. In a tense beat, I mentally file through all of Jane’s body parts I love:
Her pussy.
Her hips. Love handles.
Stretchmarks.
Ass.
Freckles. Cheeks. Legs.
Arms.
Hands.
Breasts. Nipples.
Curve of her neck.
Brain.
I race down literally every inch of this girl. I love every part of Jane, but I can’t say that. They’ll just see it as a cop out.
Goddammit, hurry up and choose.
I land on safe non-sexual territory, and I answer, “Her heart.”
Jane smiles.
Beckett makes a what the fuck face. “So you’re not physically attracted to her?”
I shake my head, a hot breath coiled in my chest. I’m not seeing the exit sign inside this burning building. “You want me to embarrass your sister and say a body part?”
“Jane’s fine,” Tom defends. “Right?”
“I am,” she nods, but she’s tense as hell beside me.
I’m not shouting that I love her pussy. Not with Tony in earshot. Not so he can shit-talk to Epsilon about her body for the next however many months.
At the risk of pissing off Beckett, I never retract or backtrack. “I said my favorite.”
He looks concerned for Jane. Like her sexual needs aren’t being met. He has no clue.
I would love to carry her out to the limo and fuck her in the backseat for three hours.
Jane cups her hands. “His ass is my favorite.”
I kiss the top of her head, and after Eliot incinerates the card, they tell us to flip a third one. We decide on a middle card together.
Jane overturns it.
Eat the hearts of many rabbits.
Gut reaction, I almost laugh. “Real rabbit?”
“One pound each,” Charlie says in reply.
Tom drops a plastic takeout carton on the table. Gotta hand it to the Cobalts. They don’t fuck around. It also dawns on me that these cards are an elaborate, twisted game of Truth or Dare.
I can put down a 48oz steak no problem. Jane, on the other hand, isn’t as big of a carnivore. She eats burnt hockey pucks for burgers.
Jane mutters to herself, “It’s just a little rabbit. You like cooked goose.” I listen to my girlfriend’s pep talk while I pop the lid.
I grit down, the gamey stench of meat hitting my nostrils like a slap to the face.
Jane pinches her nose. “Is it raw?”
“It’s cooked enough,” Eliot assures.
Fresh road kill would smell and look better than what stares back at us. Blood drips off rare, greasy pieces of heart. Collecting in pools at the bottom of the carton.
Jane ties her hair back. “Where’s a fork?”
“Wait,” Ben says, anger hacksawing his blue eyes. He pivots to Charlie. “You said you’d throw out this card.”
“Oh fuck,” Sulli says too loudly, her voice audible from the bar.
“I said I’d think about it.” Charlie flips his phone in his palm.
Beckett places a comforting hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Thatcher and Jane aren’t vegan like yo—”
“It doesn’t matter!” Ben yells. “You should all respect my feelings on the consumption of animals. This didn’t have to happen!” He points at the hearts and then whips around on me. “Don’t eat it.”