I feel my brows crinkle. That’s not what I was expecting. That’s…a lot. “He must be a saint.” Or a masochist.
She gives me a curious glance. “I’m surprised you can say that after the stories you’ve told me.”
“He was around you damn near every day and never tried anything with you. That makes him a saint.”
I feel her leg stiffen under my fingers. She shifts her head, turning her attention out the window. “Do you ever look back on something, now that you’re older and have more life experience, and realize that it was different than you thought at the time?”
My pulse picks up pace and this wave of unease swims through my veins. “Like?”
“Sometimes Miles would take me to parties,” she tells the window. “Once I had my driver’s permit, he’d drink and I’d drive us home. We’d do our own things. He’d hang out with his friends and I’d hang out with mine, but he’d always stay close since he was responsible for me. And because he was always close, I didn’t talk to a lot of guys. Didn’t flirt. I just drank Cherry Coke, kept to my circle of friends, and being a teen girl with a crush—I watched him. A lot. Then when it was close to my curfew, we’d head home.”
“Okay?” I start to relax. This isn’t heading in the direction I was worried it was going.
“Have you ever been around Miles when he’s drunk?” she asks, her voice going quiet.
“Once,” I say, peering at her out of the corner of my eye. “Christmas Eve at my grandma’s when we were teenagers. We didn’t know the eggnog was spiked. Nana has a little bit of a problem, but at her age, whatever makes her happy, right?”
She doesn’t laugh and that same disquiet creeps back in.
“So you know he likes to talk then.”
“Miles always likes to talk as long as it’s not about anything pertinent.”
She nods, almost dismissively. “There was one night he had more to drink than usual. We were driving home, and he was rambling like he always did. I hung on his every word like I always did. Then he stopped mid-sentence, turned to me, and told me I had no idea how good I was for his ego. That he knew if he was having a bad day, all he had to do was look at the way I looked at him, and it made him feel better.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head as if scattering the memory. “That made me feel really good at the time. Happy I could make him feel better. But when I think about it now… Now I don’t think it was a compliment. And I’m not sure Miles hung out with me because my sister asked him to.
“I’m pretty sure… He didn’t mean he enjoyed my company so much as he was saying he knew I thought he shit rainbows. And that’s why he spent time with me. I fluffed his self-esteem when my sister wasn’t around to do it for him.”
I don’t say anything right away, replaying her words in my head. It makes a lot of sense and clears up a ton of questions for me. Especially the one about him hiding something when it came to Em.
He used her.
I grind my teeth, getting angrier the more I think about it. It sounds like he may have led her on, strung her along, and fed into her crush and her hope by spending so much time with her. But careful to always remind her he was doing it for her sister, his girlfriend. Playing the martyr.
“Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I’m wrong. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”
I pull into the parking lot of her complex and find an open space. She’s wrong. It does matter. I can’t change what’s happened, and I can’t really berate my brother over every fucked up things he’s done five or six years ago. But what I can do is make sure she doesn’t have to feel that way when she’s with me. “I’m sorry, Em. You deserve to be treated with nothing but respect and adoration for the sweet, smart, funny, smoking-hot piece of ass that you are.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Leave it to you to say ‘respect’ and ‘piece of ass’ in the same sentence and make it sound totally endearing.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Speaking of gifts, have I ever shown you the chess set I got a few years ago for my birthday?”
I crinkle my nose. “Chess?” I thought we were going to play my new favorite game—Make Em Moan.
“Yes, chess.”
“I don’t like chess,” I say petulantly, pouting like a toddler who just lost his candy.
Em smirks at my expression. “For every one of my pieces you capture, I’ll let you take off one item of my clothing.”
“I’m not wearing your clothing,” I joke, but my voice is raspy with need, picturing myself stripping her bare.
She shrugs, grabbing the door handle. “If you don’t want to play…”
“Oh, we’re playing.”
~*~
It’s raining as I reluctantly drive home. Em has school in the morning and I have to work, so we decided to adult and get to bed early. This is, of course, after a round of the best game of chess I have ever played, and an episode of Daredevil, in which I found out more about what makes Emerson moan than I did about what Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson were doing to clean up Hell’s Kitchen.
That’s okay, though. That just means we’ll need to watch it again.
I smile, cutting the ignition. I need to Google the founders of chess and Netflix and send those people a huge muffin basket of appreciation. Because of them, I just had one of the best evenings of my life.
Chess. Who knew?
I duck my head and make a run for my door. The rain is falling hard, pelting against my skin in ice-cold drops. My fingers are slow to get the key in the lock, but I manage on the third try.
Inside, I move through the house, shucking my wet layers as I go—jacket, t-shirt, shoes. As I set my phone on the nightstand, it beeps, alerting me to a text. I grin at the screen when I see it’s from Em. The chess queen.
Her: I can’t sleep.
Me: Probably because you haven’t tried. I left ten minutes ago.
Em: Remind me again why you did that?
Me: Because we’re adulting.
Her: Adulting sucks.
Me: I whole-heartedly second that.
Her: If I showed up at your door right now, what are the chances you’d turn me away in favor of adulting?
Zero.
There is a zero percent chance I’d turn her away. Being responsible is not nearly as fun as making her come. Sleep is overrated anyway—at least when compared to having orgasms. I’m about to tell her that when my doorbell rings. Oh, thank god. I drop my phone on my bed and hurry to the door. She’s probably soaking wet and I cannot wait to strip her down and lick the raindrops from her skin. Maybe I’ll warm her up in the shower. And then in my bed. But I am definitely going down on her.
My cock is already hard with the thought as I pull the door open. I blink several times, confused. It takes my lust-hazed mind longer than normal to comprehend my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.
That it is, in fact, Roselyn Metz—no, Roselyn Fitzpatrick—standing on my stoop, umbrella in hand.
I don’t move, instead rooted solidly in place, still confused. I peer past her, looking for Em. Why would Ems bring Rosie?
She wouldn’t.
She wouldn’t bring Rosie to my place.
What the hell is going on?
“I need to know if I screwed up.” Roselyn says. The strain in her voice snaps my attention back to her.
“What?”
“I think I might have made a mistake.”
Part three in the Love Sex & Other Games serial coming August, 2016
Acknowledgements
First, I want to thank caffeine, without which, part two would not have been written.
Also, thank you to my sister and editor, Dawn. I know you’re already aware of this, but you’re the best. I love you and appreciate all you do for me.
To my niece, Becca, thank you for CPing and continuing with your hilarious comments. It makes the editing process so much fun. Love you!
To Daryl, thank you for another awesome cover. It’s still my favorite.
/> A very special thank you to my mom for getting my children out of the house and giving me a few hours of writing peace. You have no idea how much that helps. Or maybe you do. I love you.
To Beth Michele, again, thank you for encouraging me to follow what felt right in my heart. I think I needed that little nudge and I’m so grateful you gave it to me. Love you!
Thank you Kristy for liking my books—and being very vocal about it, allowing me to join your blog, and for messaging me while you read so I can see all your thoughts as you have them. That is the greatest thing ever! I am so thankful I know you. Seriously. I love you to itty-bitty pieces.
And to all you readers, bloggers, and book lovers, thank you for being you. Thank you for reading. And thank you for allowing me to share my stories with you.
About the Author
Cheryl McIntyre is the author of the bestselling Sometimes Never series, as well as the Dirty series, Infinitely, Dark Calling, Villain, and HARD. She resides in Ohio with her high school sweetheart, their two sons, one daughter, and one fur son.
You can follow her author page on Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter—though she has not yet mastered the art of tweeting—on Amazon, BookBub, tsū, Instagram, Pinterest, or on her website. You can also join her newsletter to receive information about new releases and current sales.
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Love Sex & Other Games: Part 2 Page 4