by D. M. Burns
“And you look lethal.” He scrubs his smooth jaw with his oversized hand.
Our friendly status is snapping at his restraint. He’s not alone. I’m right here with him. The air between us is lightening rod tight exuding thunder and hail. It’s a sexual storm just waiting to move in. I’m anticipating a change in the weather forecast at any moment. But that’s okay, he can take shelter inside of me.
Those eyes of his ignite seeming to read my mind but I smile sweetly and sip from my fancy flute. He clears his throat, and someone slaps him on the shoulder from behind. When he turns around, Carson steps forward joining our sexually charged bubble.
Carson’s happy-go-lucky vibe is contagious demanding a return smile from me. The guy has on an identical look to Brogan’s. The only difference is that his business shirt is a deep royal blue underneath his black blazer. His hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck and he’s carrying around a Billionaire labeled bottle of vodka. I knew I liked this guy for a reason. Hands down, that’s the best vodka I’ve ever tasted.
“You’re late but I see why now. Holy shit, Brea… You look, well… Damn, girl.” Carson waves his hand up and down at me then looks back to Brogan. “This is a purchase worth every damn penny. Gorgeous. No wonder you were trying to barricade her in with your body. I don’t blame you, Bro.” Those bright green chambers come back to me.
“He’s been drinking for hours, Brea. You’ll have to overlook him.” Brogan grates out while casting a deadly glare at Carson’s forehead.
“It’s a New Year’s Eve party. Hell, yeah I’m drinking.” Carson chuckles. “Another year successfully fucking blessed.”
“Thank you, Carson. I’m sorry I was late, but it was because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it.” Brogan’s eyes come back to me in confusion, but I ignore that. I point at his vodka bottle and continue, “You’ll need to share some of that vodka with me after this. That stuff is yum.” I wiggle my champagne glass.
“You find me later on and it’s a shot-date.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder and Brogan’s face becomes granite. “I like a woman that knows quality. This is definitely a luxury too. It’s called Billionaire vodka for a reason. Tell me something.” He says. I giggle while taking in Carson’s rare drunken form. He’s a friendly type of guy but when tipsy it magnifies his personality. “What do you see in him?” Carson points at Brogan. This question hits me sideways. Has Brogan not told his best friend that we’re just “friends”? My eyes move back to Brogan for guidance.
“Get your god damn hands off her,” Brogan growls and he reaches out sliding his hand around my lower back. When his fingers scrape across my naked flesh possessively tugging me into his side my body breaks out into a blanket of goosebumps.
It’s not a friendly request issued out by Brogan, no. But Carson’s smile grows wider and he chuckles while stepping away. Holding his hands up in surrender causing the contents of his vodka to slosh all about. He was pushing for a reaction out of Brogan and got it. I giggle and shake my head at these two.
“You need to drink more.” Carson points at Brogan. “Cause you’ll need it here in a moment. In coming Creed.” What does that mean? Carson points his finger at something over Brogan’s shoulder then drops his hand and looks back to me. “Brea, I expect to see you before you take off.” I nod my head. Carson turns his vodka up taking a fair amount out of the bottle then saunters off.
“Brogan…” When I hear a feminine voice call out, I look over my shoulder to find a beautiful hourglass framed barbie looking at me like I just stole her bottle of Billionaire Creed vodka. That’s what Carson was talking about. Wow… “There you are. You left me all alone.” Her voice is a sultry promise of post-party sex-capades.
My eyes slide back to Brogan and his jaw ticks out, but his hand doesn’t move from my lower back. Instead, he turns us fully to the hate worthy woman in red. She’s the type of glamorous that causes mild-mannered country chicks like me to cut a ho. I’ll pray about that thought later but right now I can’t bring myself to feel bad about it, not at all. This witches eyes crawl over my body like I’m something she needs to take out behind the barn and bury.
“Natalie, this is Brealyn.” Brogan’s voice has turned chilling. A quiet mirror remake of his icy eyes.
I pull away from Brogan feeling like he just gutted me. A slash for every syllable he spoke is deeply embedded in my stomach. Stepping forward, I extend my hand to her allowing me the much-needed breathing space from him. My heart is hammering out so violently that I’m sure I’m losing years from my life in the pace it’s set at. Something instead of nothing. The words echo out. Jesus. Brea, you’re a stupid-stupid girl.
“It’s very nice to meet you.” I fake smile wide and Natalie stares at my hand for a moment before she locks her dainty digit around mine.
Surprisingly, she smiles back as Damien joins the crowd and gains Brogan’s attention momentarily. Natalie takes that opportunity to jerk me forward increasing her grip on me. I quirk my eyebrow at her and pray for God to give me grace not to punch her barbie doll face.
“He’s mine. Go climb your ass up another money tree, bitch.” She whispers out at me. Her voice is even and smooth just like her cunning curves are in the tight red dress covering her body.
My eyes go wide at her venomous statement. Brogan has picked a winner here. Jesus. Does she even realize that this is a company New Year’s Eve party? What the ever-loving-heck? Did I miss the bus that dropped off the gold diggers? That’s what I get for showing up late or better yet, showing up at all.
“Excuse me,” I say. I jerk my hand back and move my butt away from that train wreck.
Turning up my glass, I kill the contents then slip my empty flute on a bar top in passing. When I turn the corner, I make my way to the coatroom and look around for the attendant but after a few minutes when no one comes I decide to help myself. I’ve got to get out of here.
Walking into the huge room my eyes frantically scan the multiple rows of clothing racks trying to draw out my new coat that my secret Santa of multiple personalities purchased for me. Don’t cry, Brea. Just find the dang coat and get gone.
He tried to tell me but no. I should’ve listened to him. I wanted to believe that I meant more-we meant more. Did I make all this up in my head? Did I dream it up like so many other things that seem to find me in my hellish dreams?
When a set of hands gently slide over the sides of my hips I jolt in place, but I know who they belong to. Those hands fit my body like missing puzzle pieces. My breathing gets caught in my throat and I whimper. The tingles work over every inch of my skin. Torching me just beneath the touch. Branding me as no other man can.
My heart hollows out. It feels like someone has bludgeoned me in the middle of my breastbone. Brogan came here with her but is hidden in a closet with me. The secret friend. Like I’m buried treasure he has stumbled upon. There should be no pleasure in his actions right now, but I find it soothes the multiple raw cuts inspired from meeting Natalie just moments ago.
“Friends, remember?” My voice is a betrayal to how I really feel. My insides are caving in. I want to lash out at him. Why her…? The confusion living in me is like cancer, spreading-deadly. “You need to get back out there, Brogan. I’ve got to go. I forgot that I have to meet Max.”
“You’re my beautiful lying butterfly.” He steps into me and his warmth covers my back. I bite my bottom lip and try to hold my tears in. I let out a haggard sigh. Pull yourself together girl.
“Sir, can I help you?” We hear a voice call out from behind us but neither of us moves an inch.
“Yes, get out.” Brogan’s voice is harsh but meant to be honored. “Now.”
When I hear feet shuffling, I soundlessly wonder how I’m supposed to move forward. How is this supposed to work? Was I delusional to believe that I could remain at The House of Creed? Around him? What I feel for this man is not friend zone related, not by far. Watching him with other women, dating and carrying on, will silently ki
ll me. A slow agonizing death of the worse kind.
“She’s beautiful but not genuine, Brogan,” I whisper. “You deserve far better.”
“I’m not looking for a wife and if I was, she wouldn’t come close to what I’d chose.” His hand flexes on my hip as if to insinuate that I hold some type of ownership over that title. Mr. Creed must be performing stand-up comedy now.
“So, it’s purely physical,” I rasp out. That thought is a killer too.
“Don’t.” His one-word command lands across my back painfully scorching me with the impact of a slashing leather belt from Satan himself. Jesus, this is hard.
“What do you want from me, Brogan?” His grip tightens on my hips, but he remains quiet, speechless.
“I want every-fucking-thing but can have nothing.” His voice is hoarse and low in texture.
Turning around I wasn’t prepared for the impact of him. His eyes are wild and fighting an internal conflict. The war raging out is real and he seems to hate himself no matter what he decides to do, with me.
“Brogan, what about what I want? Do I get a choice? Don’t I get a say?” I slowly slide my palm over his jawline, and he clenches his teeth causing his cheek to flex under my palm. His chest rises and falls like an amped up junky hitting the climax of his high. “Because I choose you. You can have it all, everything that is me. Whatever you want. So, why are you doing this?”
With those whispered words he frames my face in both of his hands and those icy beams bounce between mine. The Wallstreet God is losing his calm. His lips become a whisper away. “What if you knew that your wants would destroy me? That to pursue them would ultimately fucking kill me. That if you partake in those selfish desires it would destroy what you love. What would you do, Brea?” My entire body locks up. What?
He’s seeking out understanding and I want to deny him. I try to look down because I don’t want him to see my truths. But his grip holds me in place, unrelenting. As a tear escapes from the corner of my eye, he steals it away. It’s a simple conclusion. I’d protect him at all costs. He knows it.
“Right… It’s much the same for me. I don’t have to be a mind reader to know what you’d do Brealyn. I know you don’t understand but find someone safe. God damn it…” He grits those words out. “Someone other than me.” He’s not cursing me, no. His words are tearing him apart. Both of us.
“Uhm, right…” Jesus, my chest hurts. My head hurts. All of me hurts to simply have him. “That’s what you want?” I ask.
“That’s what you need.” Brogan closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly and he places his forehead against mine. “Fuck.” He hisses that pained curse on my lips right before he brushes his mouth across mine. My molecules expand on contact and my hands grasp both sides of his lapel urging him into me, coat room occupancy be damned.
“Did you just curse?” He pulls back and I notice one corner of his mouth tips up slightly and he visibly relaxes by a fraction. It’s like this was a historical event that’s somehow lifechanging. My confusion over his question is evident on my face because I know that was not spoken out loud.
“There’s no way you could possibly know that. Wait… Hold on a minute… What? I’m so confused. How do you know that Brogan?” I ask as I jerk at his coat to get his attention and force out an answer from him.
He clears his throat and stands tall, taking a step back away from me while covering his hands over mine, gently urging me to release my grip on his coat. Brogan reaches behind me as I continue to stare at him in bewilderment. What the heck is going on? The next thing I know he’s draping my coat around my shoulders. How did he know which one was mine? Oh, that’s right. He bought it.
“Almost happy New Year’s, Southern Comfort. Have fun with Max.” Without another word, he turns around and walks out leaving me to stand there staring at his back.
Brogan feels like he needs to protect me and as much as I appreciate the manly gesture; I’m southern strong and last I checked, grown. For whatever reason, he just assumes that I’m okay with him trying to make these choices for me but that’s so far off the mark.
My country girl heart is already his and there’s no changing that. It’s not up for a majority vote ruling. This is not his boardroom territory; I decide. I had no control over that outcome anyway. My heart chose him without asking for my permission. And for the first time in my life, I know what I want, and that happens to be Brogan Creed.
I’m the Boardroom Boss Bitch over the decisions of me, not him.
chapter 30
channing
Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but let me explain somethings. I’m not the bad guy here, no. Granted, I’m also not a particularly good one either, far from it. Simply put, I’m the better guy - for her - Brealyn. She’s safe with me. Loving me won’t cost her a damn thing. Not her life nor that of any future children for that matter. Not that I can have any because I can’t. I fixed that little problem over ten years ago when I eavesdropped in on Grant Creed’s memories.
At the ripe young age of twenty-three, I barged into my physician’s office demanding a neutered lifestyle. Of course, the good old doctor tried to talk me down. Hell, he even attempted to refuse but when my intimidating six-seven brick-built physic is barreling down on you, you’ll find yourself doing exactly as you’re fucking told.
What you can’t comprehend is that I’ve been preparing for this for a long ass time. Piecing that shit scene together from dear old dad’s memory bank didn’t require rocket science membranes on my part either. Losing the one I love for reproduction purposes is not in the cards for me, ever. So, that conclusion for clipping my ball sack became one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever made. I’ve never been one much for kids anyway. I like my freedom that’s laced with no restrictions. A baby-free lifestyle suits me perfectly.
My claim to fame in this Lone Walker game is the ability to see the future and riffle through your past memories like it’s an open photo album on display. My sight ability is subjective, and I’ve been known to change outcomes by wading in, but it takes a lot out of me to fuck with God’s mapped out plans. It’s not advisable and I try not to deviate his crash course of future fucked for life lessons at all costs. In most cases, half of you, assholes are deserving of what’s coming your way. So, I typically let that shit run its course.
Much like my baby brother, I’m King Kong strong. It’s also true, that I can set your ass ablaze in the blink of an eye. If given a reason, you’ll become a backyard bar-b-que, charcoal, and ashes. Dust-to-dust motherfucker. That’s not the full extent of my abilities but I’m going to keep my other talents to myself for a while. Offering up all my playing cards has never been my thing nor a smart move to make in this little thing called life.
Taking a deep breath into my lungs, the frosty cool air around me inflates my chest soothing my smoldering temperatures while coating my condemned soul from the inside out. It’s fucking refreshing. My red fiery spheres want to blare out with excitement. Setting the structures around me in a morbid scene that could only be compared to the blazing imagination for the gasoline flued streets of hell.
My pyrokinetic demigod attribute is the shit and as far as I’m concerned, it’s my most brilliant birthright. Just call me El Diablo in a custom-made suit. I wear the shit out of it like a bulky beast of sex coupled with sin.
There’s a name for every damn talent that my brother and I were gifted with by people who have none. Funny how that works. They place labels on us because they must compartmentalize and break shit down in their fragile little minds. It’s their way of being able to grasp things, that no matter how hard they try, they’ll never understand. Whatever. Place your warning labels on us if you must but bottom line, we were constructed differently.
Control is key though and I have a firm grasp on that aspect of my life. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve refrained from broiling Brogan’s deserving little ass. But that’s likely to change if he doesn’t back the fuck off and keep his hands to himself.
His games with Brealyn stop today. My patience for him grasping at straws where she’s concerned is over. The visits to her home, little soothing touches here and there, and the fire escape stalking are done. He’s had enough time to accept the futuristic facts. That woman is mine.
New Year.
New Direction.
New Brother.
The New York footfalls hustle around me with noise as the partygoers excitedly search and seek a midnight companion for lip-locking pleasures. I know what awaits me though and she’s exiting the Sky Lounge’s front doors right now. The wind slapping at her golden hair whipping it around her porcelain face. God damn, she’s beautiful.
My smile appears demonically with that insider’s information playing out in my mind. Fully aware that I’m about to get everything I’ve rightfully earned and then some. It has me whistling a triumphant tune. Tick tock goes the clock.
My gift for patience is a virtue. Because believe me, I’ve fucking paid my dues over time. The perfect plan. The perfect preparation. The perfect timing. It’s all a fucking waiting game. That was the story of my life up until right now.
Always blocked out by Brogan Creed’s barricade of financial fame and wealth. Shadowed off into a comfy corner. But it wasn’t really his fault nor mine for that matter and it took me a few years to figure that out. We didn’t ask for this shit. We were born into it.
I was just the unlucky fuck who Grant Creed knew nothing about. The son turned brother that was left behind with no one to blame for the lost years or love. Don’t feel sorry for me though. I’m a self-made, resilient little son-of-bitch. It’s a glorified aftereffect of a shit situation turned to triumph. A happy ending to a horrible start in life.
Luckily for me, I’m not a bitter asshole, no. You probably think that’s bullshit but it’s not. Truthfully, I was an angry little asshole teenager who used his fists to call the shots. Considering my abilities, that was a never-ending winning streak. What can I say? Growing up in Stars Orphanage only to run away as soon as humanly possible to the streets of Chicago required me to be a ruthless little bastard, literally.