Duched (Duched #1)

by Xavier Neal

  “No.”

  He momentarily presses his together clearly resisting the desire to argue with my decision. “Give me a moment. I'll have Swiss bring the car around.”

  I watch as he turns on his heels and heads for the doors in silence.

  There. Problem solved. I didn't wanna be a one night stand and now I won't be thanks to what I'm assuming is his last one. Hey, I'm all for women who wanna get theirs, who don't mind a moment of fun or aren't looking for more. I get it. I really do. But right now, I've got enough uncertainty looming in my near future without having to add possible permanent booty call to the list, which is only a fraction better than a one off. I know that's what he was going to try to counter with. Try to tempt me with the idea of just enjoying a fling for a few days. Having some fun. And while this has without a doubt been the most I've had in years with someone of the opposite sex, it's not worth hating myself for in the morning. It's not worth the idea of having to accept what would be the simple truth of letting myself fall for the bullshit he worked a little harder to sell. I'm not looking to be one of Duke Kellan Kenningston's state side sometimes. Not now. Not ever.

  Kellan

  “Why am I seeing an online report for you breaking the heart of some American actress?” Kris huffs from the other end of the phone.

  “Because you have nothing better to do than to read trash on the internet?”

  The snarky comment receives another grumble. “Kellan.”

  “What?” I snap into the phone. “I am particularly not in the mood to have this pointless discussion.”

  To my surprise, he asks, “Everything alright?”

  No. The same actress who could barely get me off now can't seem to bugger off. It was just one bloody weekend in the mountains for Christ Sake. No one falls head over heels in love in just one weekend. Why are you leering at me like that?

  “Kellan.”

  “I'm fine. The woman you are referring to is the same one I played strip poker with in the mountains. It was a meaningless weekend then and the only reason it has any meaning now is because of the wrench it has thrown in my relationship.”

  “Relationship?”

  Realizing my mistake in choice of words, I lean back in the conference chair I'm currently occupying. “I misspoke.”

  “What relationship?”

  “I meant....”

  What exactly did I mean? Brie and I aren't dating, hell we've only known each other for a few days, yet I can't seem to get past the tantrum she threw at the end of dinner two days ago. And not just because that was the last time I heard from her. You know, she's not the first woman I've crossed paths with who is easily blinded by the women who have or who are aiming to keep my mattress warm, but she's the only one I've come across that creates lumps of guilt inside of me over the subject. Ever since she demanded to be taken home knots of bitterness over past actions have been constricting in the pit of my stomach. I'm torn between the idea of this being actual shame or just indigestion.

  Kris finally breaks the long lull of silence. “You meant what, baby brother?”

  Hearing the taunting arise from the choice of endearment shuts my eyes.

  “That you've finally met your match? Finally met someone who doesn't take your past inability to keep your tool in your pants as casual as the others?”

  The smug tone in his voice clenches my teeth. “You're a bloody bastard, you know that?”

  “That's what big brothers are for,” he mocks as he laughs. “Wait until I tell Sophia, you've fallen in-”

  “I haven't fallen anywhere, with anyone, in anything.”

  “Your bed included, I bet.”

  No. I have yet to find the nearest bar and bury my sorrows in a pint and petite pair of legs. Truthfully? I'm still hoping for the pair of brown ones who captured my attention days ago to change their mind.

  “I'm hanging up now,” I declare and end the call before the conversation can further digress a direction it has no business going.

  Like I said earlier. No one falls in love over a weekend. Myself included.

  The conference doors open and Hugh strolls in with another brown box. Immediately, a look of irritation arises on his face. “Have you even started assembling the VIP donor packets?”

  My eyes shift to the mess waiting to be assembled on the floor beside me. “They're not going anywhere.”

  “But they need too,” Hugh whines. “Why did you volunteer to help if you're just going to sit in that chair and pout?” The box drops down on the edge of the table drawing my attention to him again. “And why are you pouting? You've been obnoxiously intolerable for the past two days.”

  “You're complaining about your friend not bothering you,” Dana questions as she enters the room with another box. “That's not...strange to you?”

  I casually wave my hand her direction. “What your lovely girlfriend said.”

  “And you're complimenting her as opposed to ridiculing me for caring about her.” His palms fall flat on the table. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you sick? Do you have the flu? Do we need to chopper you into the nearest hospital?”

  And people say I have a flare for the dramatic.

  “I'm fine.”

  “You're lying.”

  Dana immediately agrees. “He is most definitely lying. He's not fine.” When our eyes meet, her stare turns skeptical, and she states, “But he's not sick either. It's something else...”

  “This conversation is just going in circles,” I attempt to change subjects. “I'm going to get started on these bags. 150, correct?”

  Hugh nods and points to the unopened folder on my right. “In there you will find a list of items each bag should contain. The personally signed thank you cards are in the box Dana just brought in.”

  “We appreciate the help,” Dana sweetly says. “We weren't expecting Diana to go into early labor.”

  “It's not a problem,” I politely assure.

  And it's not. Stuffing tote bags for those running who donated over five hundred dollars will keep my attention away from the lack of response I'm receiving from a sexy art student who is convinced I'm nothing more than a pantie collecting playboy. Is it wrong to have hoped after spending two nights with me, she would see something else? We didn't even kiss until the second night! Damn near a record for me! Wait. That last little bit fit better with her side of the argument rather than mine. Ignore it.

  “Not a single complaint?” The suspicion in Hugh's voice forces me to turn around to open the boxes at my feet. “Is it contagious?”

  I roll my eyes.

  Don't laugh. He's not funny. He's an idiot.

  “It's a woman,” Dana says slowly, voice approaching. She doesn't wait for confirmation before accusing, “He's upset over a woman.”

  “Is this about the chick you took to dinner on Saturday?”

  “He took someone to dinner?” His girlfriend rushes to ask. “You didn't tell me!”

  “I didn't think it'd matter,” Hugh retorts at the same time I begin to unload the box of engraved gym towels. “He rarely has the same dinner date twice.”

  Why would I when the amount to choose from is abundant? Yes, I'm aware how that also fits in with Brie's accusation.

  “What happened? She throw wine in your face before she agreed to sleep with you? Cry in the middle when she realized she picked the wrong man to give her virginity to? Demand a two-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne and pâté after you failed to give her the big O?”

  I swiftly spin around in the chair and point. “I've never once failed to give a woman the big O.”

  Hugh victoriously smirks.

  Fine...That got under my skin, but it's not what you're thinking. It's not because I actually have come up short in that department. Believe me. Kris and I shared a beautiful tennis instructor who spent time one summer giving lessons on how to serve more than the ball.

  “She didn't sleep with him at all,” Dana deduces too quickly.

  My attention shifts
to her. “I liked you better when you were picking out pathetic art pieces.”

  “Hey!” She squeaks. “It's a masterpiece!”

  “It looks like a smurf sneezed on a piece of cardboard.”

  “Forgive him,” Hugh demands making his way towards me. “He gets rather grouchy when his cock hasn't been touched in a few days.”

  “Is that an offer?”

  His eyebrows lift as he leans against the edge of the table beside me. “You've never taken rejection well-”

  “I haven't had to become accustom to it like you.”

  “-but I've never seen you this level of pissy from some random woman not wanting to sleep with you.” The truth in his statement tightens my jaw. “Typically, you just move on. No extra thought given to the woman whose loss you believe it is. What's so special about this one? Beer flavored nipples? Double jointed? Gymnast?”

  I lean back in my chair. “How hard would your jaw drop if I told you I've already had all three of those?”

  There's a small gasp out of Dana, but her boyfriend shakes his head. “You haven't. I would've heard about the beer nipple chick. That's not just something that doesn't get shared over a drink or a late night with a bottle of tequila at a gentleman's club.” After receiving a nod of agreement from me, he commands, “'Fess up. Who is she and why do I love her for making you miserable already?”

  “You're as bad as my bloody brother.”

  “With all the hell and torment you've given the two of us over the years, did you really think we wouldn't strike back the moment the opportunity presented itself? I honestly never thought the day would come when Kellan Kenningston would fall in-”

  “Not. In. Anything.” I state sharply.

  “You so are,” Dana disagrees.

  “Just because Hugh was ready to wed you after one glance at those in a push up bra, doesn't mean all men are that way.”

  She scoffs, folds her arms, and snaps, “You know, sometimes you make it extremely difficult to like you. I'm starting not to blame her for not answering your calls or texts.”

  I tilt my head in curiosity. “What makes you think-”

  “Because if she were giving into every tactic you tried you wouldn't be taking your sweet time to stuff these bags. They'd be half way done already because you would hate the idea of keeping your prize for a hard day's work, waiting.” Dana's smile matches the one Hugh flashed moments ago.

  Is that a couple's thing? Do you just begin to resemble one another after a certain period of time in looks and mannerisms? How odd.

  “She's an art student. I met her at the showing. We had a minor issue at dinner and instead of discussing it, she demanded to be taken home. I've been calling and messaging since but...” I give my hands a slight toss in the air. “Nothing.”

  Might I add the amount in which I am doing both things is out of my nature. I called three times on Sunday and so far twice today. Throughout both I've made attempts to apologize, to provoke an argument, to tempt a snide comment, really anything I could think of to rally any sort of response, yet she's given nothing. She's turning me into the very person whose phone call I denied at dinner. However, we haven't slept together, making me more pathetic for being this desperate. You don't have to bother agreeing.

  “I sent her flowers yesterday and chocolate covered strawberries today. Still nothing.”

  “What was the minor issue?” Dana asks with genuine concern.

  “Did you imply you had 16 centimeters waiting for her when you could barely make 15?”

  With a proud smirk, I smugly correct, “Try 21.”

  For those not on the metric system, proving once more how stubborn Americans are, it's about eight inches. Hugh being the American jerk who went to school in Doctenn often prides himself in his ability to drunkenly tell others they've got small cocks in two forms of measurement.

  “Bull.”

  “My dick hasn't shrunk since the last time you accused me of being an inadequate length to compensate for the fact you're not as long as you'd like.”

  “Fuck you. I'm-”

  “Excuse me,” Dana interrupts moving our attention to her. “Can I suggest something before you two start breaking out rulers?”

  I motion a hand for her to continue.

  “Talk to her.”

  Wow. She really is a ditz. There's an idea I hadn't thought of or that's even possible when someone doesn't answer their cell.

  “Swing by her place and make amends face to face.”

  The thought I've tinkered with begins to tumble once more.

  “Trust me.” She softly smiles. “It'll mean more than any present or half ass phoned in apology ever could.”

  Perhaps I'll give her one more day and then try that. Honestly? At this point I'm out of bloody options. Even if she refuses to go out with me again, at the very least I want to prove her wrong. I want her to know all of this isn't some drawn out attempt to sleep with her. I mean, of course it wouldn't bother me if things ended up there sooner as opposed to later, but I enjoy her company in ways that pale in comparison to those I've slept with. She's the first person I can recall having as much fun with out of bed, as I imagine I would in it. That must count for something...right?

  Brie

  Prince One Nightstand: Morning beautiful.

  I groan at the text and push the device to the opposite end of my nightstand.

  Every. Fucking. Morning. Same text. Relatively the same time. Does royalty not know the definition of sleeping in? This is a rare occasion in my life. My professor canceled class today meaning two extra hours of sleep before having to prepare myself to listen to teenagers whine about their flawed appearances and bias teachers. Puh-lease. They wanna learn about real bias teachers? Wait 'til they get to college where if you sit in the front row with a low-cut shirt you're given extra credit. Yeah. Not one of community college's higher points they mention in the brochure. No, I haven't always gone to Ashwin. I got all the basics I could and transferred over. Cheaper and smarter.

  For the next several minutes, I attempt to return to the land of sleep where Pierce Wyatt, the television star who plays a vampire cursed to save the world, was about to peel off his wet shirt and feed me grapes.

  I don't know why it was grapes. Not really what I was focused on...

  After failing miserably at that but successfully twisting myself in my sheets, I grab my glasses from the nightstand, wiggle on a pair sleep shorts and head for the kitchen where Jovi happens to be standing in front of the open fridge. I watch in silence as I approach the unusual situation.

  All of a sudden, Jovi lets out a long moan, tosses her head back, and mutters, “Oh my God...”

  For the love of all that is sacred please tell me Merrick is not on the other side of her on his knees.

  “These are so good,” she whispers and reaches in the fridge for something.

  Now just a few feet away from her, I ask, “What the hell are you eating?”

  Jovi squeaks and drops the chocolate covered fruit in the process.

  Ah...

  A guilty look flushes her light brown complexion. “Don't be mad at me...”

  “I'm not.”

  “But if you are-”

  “Again, I'm not. Have as many as you want. I refuse to eat em.”

  Prefer my fruits not coated in culpability.

  Jovi licks the chocolate off her thumb. “What did this guy do that is so awful it's making you protest perfectly great dessert?”

  Reminded me that the only way to not turn into his fling of the week is by actively avoiding him and all things related.

  “Talk to me,” she encourages at the same time she finds the fallen strawberry to throw in the trash. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Or maybe I can,” Merrick's voice unexpectedly joins the conversation.

  “Doubtful,” I mumble to myself.

  He greets her with a chaste kiss and questions immediately afterward, “Why do you taste like chocolate?”

  “She was e
ating the dessert of the man who disgusts me.”

  Both sets of eyes land on me in unison.

  “Disgust?” Jovi asks, leaning her back against the counter. “Three days ago he was just 'a moment'. Now he disgusts you? What happened? Did he try to...to...do something you didn't want him too?”

  Her inability to complete the sentence causes me to smile and her boyfriend's frown to harden. “He better not have.” His entire body stiffens in defense. “Is this something I need to handle? Does he need his ass handed to him? Do I-”