Something inside of him was snapping.
It was this damn house.
The fucking living room with all of the pictures.
The way that he couldn’t even look at the stairway without thinking about his father making them a slide down the stairs.
Or the Legos that used to be scattered in every single corner until his father tripped on one of Brock’s latest inventions, only to fall down the stairs and sprain his ankle.
Everywhere he looked, he saw happiness.
Until the memory shifted and he was that same little boy, playing with the same toys—alone. The blinds drawn, the laughter gone.
“Hell.” He wiped his face with his hands and cursed. It wasn’t her fault she was here.
But she was an easy target.
Because she made him feel things.
She was a tangible reminder of all he’d lost, all he’d never have. She was doing exactly what his mother had done in this house—cooking, cleaning, laughing, smiling—and it was fucking killing him.
Logically, he knew it made no sense at all.
Keep the old man happy, keep him alive.
But trauma had a way of stealing all logic and replacing it with survival.
He realized, as he blinked down at his phone, that’s all he’d been doing.
Surviving.
Not living.
Two missed calls from Bentley.
And three missed calls from his grandfather. For the first time in his life, he didn’t call back right away. Instead, he stared at the locked screen and waited.
For the apocalypse? For the sky to fall? For something.
His answer came five minutes later, when he dialed Bentley’s number only to hear the familiar Jay Z ring tone flood the hall.
“Does this mean I’m the prodigal son?” Bentley’s cocky-as-hell voice said. “Since I stepped over the threshold first.”
There was a loud thump, followed by cursing and laughter.
Brock stood and walked around the corner.
The twins were on the floor.
And they were drunk.
“What the hell are you both doing here?” Better yet, how did they get here if they were drunk off their asses? Brock’s thoughts suddenly turned dark and thunderous as he remembered who was upstairs. In a few minutes they’d be trying to seduce her into their beds. That’s what they did. And sometimes, they shared.
No chance in hell.
She was his.
His torture? Was that it?
“Admit it.” Bentley flashed him a smug grin. “You missed us!”
“Yes,” Brock said in a dry tone. “That’s why I kept ignoring your calls. It hurt too much to hear your voices.”
“You look like hell.” Brant sidestepped Bentley and eyed Brock with more clarity than felt comfortable. “How is it possible you look older and it’s only been a day?”
Brock groaned. “Seriously, why are you both here? Did you miss the part where this is my last vacation before I get tossed into a pit of rich women with fake tits and trust funds?”
“Commitment.” Bentley winced. “I’ll move to Canada before that becomes my fate.”
“He’ll find you anywhere,” Brant said in an annoyed tone. “Believe me. One time I was taking a piss in Costa Rica, and naturally Grandfather walks in with a prostitute and—”
Brock held up his hand. “I don’t think I need to hear the rest of that story.”
“Yeah, man, not in front of Sheldon,” Bentley snapped.
“Who the ever-loving hell is Sheldon?” Brock glanced around the room until his eyes settled on the open door, where the donkey he’d been calling Fred was hanging out casually in front of it. “Something’s not right with that donkey.”
“Sheldon!” Bentley charged the poor ass and started patting its head. Sheldon, clearly confused that he was a donkey and not a dog, cuddled closer to Bentley. “How are you, old boy?”
The donkey made a noise.
Brock’s mouth dropped open. “It talks?”
Bentley shrugged. “Sheldon used to be a magician’s assistant, he was part of the disappearing act. He can basically escape or break into anything. But he was too old to keep doing tricks. I won him.”
“Yes, Grandfather mentioned.”
“He’s very valuable. You have no idea how expensive it is to train a donkey.” He nodded seriously. “Hunh, Sheldon? What’s that, boy? You want to fetch?”
“Donkeys don’t fetch.” Brant sighed. “Though I wager ten bucks Sheldon has his own Frisbee.”
“Go home.” Brock opened the screen door. “Both of you, damn it.”
Bentley’s eyes narrowed. “Cursing a lot, I see. Under some stress?”
“He has bloodshot eyes,” Brant added in a cool calculating tone.
“Out,” Brock repeated himself. “Seriously, go torture someone else.”
“Grandfather wants to introduce Brant to a woman. He said I was next. I had both our asses packed before he micromanaged yet another one of us.” He smiled widely.
“The point is this.” Bentley pushed against Brock’s chest, moving him from the screen door and farther into the house. “We need to lay low for a while, and what better place to have some family bonding than here?”
“I can name at least ten.” Brock clenched his teeth, his hangover suddenly coming back with a vengeance. “Twenty. Hell, go out of the country!”
“Brock,” Jane’s voice carried through the house. “Brock!”
Bentley and Brant both stared.
“Are you hiding a woman?” Bentley shoved Brock aside and headed toward the sound of Jane’s voice. Brant followed.
He stomped after them, ready to use any means necessary to get them the hell out of the house.
He knew was fucked when Bentley opened his mouth.
“Look who we have here,” Bentley said in a husky voice. “Shoe girl…I’d recognize that arch anywhere.” His challenging glare to Brock said it all. It wasn’t playful and it sure as hell wasn’t welcome.
Bentley loved a challenge.
He loved taking what wasn’t his.
And Jane.
Jane was his.
Well, under his roof.
Damn it.
“What are you doing here?” Bentley continued his assault, moving casually around her, his eyes lingering on her ass before he finally locked eyes with her and smiled.
“Well…” Jane blinked over at Brock, then stared back at the floor. “Your grandfather hired me to clean the house and get it ready for…” Her eyes flashed. “For Brock, so I’m just going through all the rooms.”
Brant whistled then offered her a wink. “That’s a huge job. Do you want us to help you?”
The twins didn’t even know how to do their own laundry, let alone clean a toilet.
“Bentley,” Brock snapped. “A word?”
His brother’s response was a grin. “Go ahead; I’m waiting.”
“Alone.”
“Anything you say to me in private can be said in front of Jane. After all, she’s your friend, right?”
Brock had never hated a word more in his life. “Yes,” he managed to choke out as he took in her nearly see-through white T-shirt and ass-hugging jeans. “Friends.”
“You look frustrated,” Brant muttered aloud. “I wonder if it’s the pressure of running the company, the auction, no sex…”
“I knew he would crack one day,” Bentley added. “Good thing we came when we did, right, Brock?”
“A good intervention is hard to accomplish, but we’ll do what we can.” Brant smirked and then offered a wink in Jane’s direction.
They needed to go.
Both of them.
He rubbed a hand over his injured chest, which had gone from a stinging pain to a dull, roaring throb.
Jane eyed his hand, then her eyes narrowed as a sly smile spread across her mouth. “How’s your damaged nipple, Brock? I hope the clamp didn’t tear it completely off.”
Bentle
y’s eyes widened with shock while Brant started to slowly clap.
“It’s not what it sounds like,” Brock said defensively.
“Isn’t it, though?” Jane flashed him a giant, fake bright smile. “After all, you were the one who said to take care of the situation. I was just doing my job, right?”
“We should have come sooner,” mumbled Bentley.
“There was a mouse,” Brock said, not taking his eyes off Jane.
“The mouse tore your nipple off?” Brant winced.
“No, the clamp did that,” Jane said helpfully.
“So you were dressed up as mice?” Bentley blinked.
“Why don’t I go make dinner?” Jane interrupted. “And you can explain to your brothers why half of your nipple is most likely gone, and how you’re going to start being nice so the hired help isn’t tempted to set up traps in your bed while you sleep.”
With that she flounced off, leaving a whiff of vanilla and sugar behind her.
“I like her,” Bentley said in a low, lust-filled voice. “Any woman who threatens me is welcome on top”—he eyed Brock and kept talking—“or bottom. As long as I’m inside, I don’t give a fuck.”
Brock slammed him against the nearest wall. “Touch her and I swear I’ll kill you in your sleep.”
Bentley held up his hands and smirked. “I knew it.”
Brock released him. “Knew what?”
“You like the maid.”
“She’s…” What? Not a maid? But she was. Not that it mattered. She was Just Jane—sweet, spicy, beautiful Just Jane, and that was the real problem.
“She’s sexy.” Brant peered around the corner. “So what if she’s the help? She’s a person. A pretty, right-in-front-of-you person. According to the press you’ll be marching toward an arranged marriage in three weeks. Why not enjoy her now?”
“Good idea. I’ll just screw the maid and then marry someone else; why hadn’t I thought of that?” The temptation to run over both of his brothers with a car had never been so strong. What the hell were they thinking? Were they always this insensitive?
A feminine cough interrupted their fight. “I just, um, was wondering if you guys wanted to eat indoors or outdoors.”
“Indoors,” Bentley answered, and he had the decency to look ashamed at being caught talking about her like she was a piece of meat. “Thanks, Jane.”
Her smile was forced as she nodded and turned on her heel and left.
Chapter Nineteen
Jane pounded the chicken with the mallet over and over again, picturing Brock’s face with each whack.
Why was she so upset?
It wasn’t like he was wrong. She was the maid. It was her job, it was what she did, but he’d made her feel…low, dirty, like her job didn’t mean anything. Like by sleeping with her he’d be doing her a favor.
The arrogant prick!
Slam.
Pieces of chicken went flying.
Slam.
How dare he joke about sleeping with the maid?
Slam.
“Jane.” A warm hand cupped her shoulder. “You’re scaring Sheldon.”
She glanced up into Bentley’s emerald green eyes. “We have another dinner guest?”
“No, the donkey.”
“Fred?” She frowned.
Bentley’s expression mirrored her own. “Did you re-name my pet ass?”
“The list said his name was Fred.”
“What list?”
“The one on the fridge with all the names of the animals.” Jane pointed over her shoulder. “At least that’s what I assumed it was. Next to each animal is a name. Why else would it be there?”
Bentley pulled down the laminated piece of paper and burst out laughing. “My parents put these together.” He chuckled harder. “They’re approved of words to say instead of swearing. So if you want to say ass you say, ‘don’t be a Fred.’” He grinned. “Instead of saying suck my…” He grinned shamelessly. “You can say suck Mr. Feathers.”
Jane read the rest of the names—really read them. The list was like a kid’s glossary for saying naughty words.
“It all started when Brock learned the word ‘shit,’” Bentley said with amusement. “And things quickly went downhill from there. We turned it into a game, and well, now you know.”
Jane tried to keep herself from smiling at the thought of a young Brock strutting around the house screaming “shit” at the top of his lungs.
“He’s not always an ass, you know,” Bentley said in a gentle voice, his hand covering hers on the countertop.
“No?” Jane swallowed against a lump in her throat. “Just most the time, then?”
“He bought you shoes,” Bentley reminded her. “Really nice shoes.”
“Actually, you bought me shoes.”
“After he made me.” Bentley removed his hand and offered a wicked grin. “But hey, if you want to switch brothers I’m all for it.”
“Excuse me?” Jane sidestepped him to grab the butter out of the fridge.
Bentley laughed. “I’m kidding.”
Jane rolled her eyes.
“Sort of.” He shrugged. “Okay, so maybe like ten percent kidding? But apparently you only have eyes for the ass.”
“Fred?”
“Brock.”
“You understand how I’d be confused, though, right?” She teased while Bentley flashed her another one of those grins, the ones she was one hundred percent sure he practiced in front of the mirror.
“Need any help in here?” Something about the way Brant walked into the room was calculating, like every step he made was for a purpose he already had in mind, a plan. His smile was equally as charming and dangerous as his twin’s. “I thought I heard the words ‘ass’ and ‘shit’, so I figured either we were talking about Brock or we were talking about Brock.” His grin widened. “It’s one of my favorite things in the world—brother shaming.”
Bentley flipped him off.
“Not you.” Brant rolled his eyes.
Jane again tried to focus on the dinner. It was nearly impossible to have a solid thought in her brain when she had the twins talking and flirting with her.
She’d have to be either dead or insane not to notice how devastatingly handsome the men were. Charisma rolled off them in waves, but they weren’t intimidating.
Not like Brock.
His mere presence nearly stilled her breath and had her wishing for more time to look at him and just study his features—which sounded so lame in her head that she wanted to slam her palm against her own cheek.
He was a jackass.
A privileged jackass.
“What’s going on in here?” Brock’s low voice rumbled through the kitchen.
His dark wavy hair looked like he’d just spent the last five minutes running his hands through it: mussed and sexy. She had to avert her eyes before her thoughts went into dangerous territory.
“Look.” Bentley snatched the sheet from the fridge and handed it to Brock. “She found your swear sheet!”
“That’s a load of hairy ants and you know it!” Bentley yelled. “How dare you goat my cock!”
Jane giggled behind her hand.
“That isn’t even on this sheet,” Brock said in a strangled voice as he ran his fingers through his hair again. The simple action was so sexy she had to look away.
“Made it up just now. Sounds dirty, right? Goat my cock.” Bentley shrugged and maneuvered his way over to Jane, sliding his arm around her body. “What do you think, Jane? What would a lady’s response be to that question? Hmm?” He leaned in too close, his eyes focused on her lips. “Would you goat my cock?”
Uncomfortable, she ducked away from him and returned to preparing dinner while Brock leveled his brother with a glare that would have left her trembling, though she wasn’t sure if it would be from fear or excitement. Maybe both. “All right, no more talk of cocks or asses. I’m trying to make dinner. Why don’t you guys go set the table or something?”
Everyone froze.
She glanced at each of their panicked expressions, finally landing on a thunderous Brock. His fists clenched and unclenched as a muscle twitched in his jaw.
“Sure thing.” Bentley and Brant quickly exited the room while Brock stayed.
He wasn’t saying anything, just staring her down like she was able to read minds.
Finally, she set down her knife and sighed. “What? What did I do this time?”
Brock’s eyes narrowed. “There won’t be any setting of the table. We’ll eat in the living room.”
“Fine.” Jane was too tired to argue and needed him to leave. Just being in the same room as him made her want to launch across the floor and beat him with her fists, and kiss him senseless. Something was seriously wrong with her. “We’ll eat in the living room.”
Bentley poked his head around the corner. “Are we using the china or—”
With a growl Brock turned on his heel and barked out. “Don’t set the table.”
“But—”
“I said”—Brock pounded his hand against the nearest wall—“we aren’t setting the fucking table.”
The next twenty minutes went by painfully slowly.
The twins helped her serve the food, but the meal was deathly silent except for the sounds of forks scraping against plates.
Brock was the first to finish.
He stood with his plate and stomped into the kitchen. The sound of running water filled the air, then the garbage disposal, then nothing.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced once he was back in the living room. He headed down the hall and then a door slammed.
Twice.
“He’s always been dramatic,” Bentley yawned, visibly relaxing as he set down his plate and leaned back in his chair. “Sorry, Jane.”
“Don’t be.” She hid her own yawn behind her hand. “He’s not my problem, nor my responsibility.”
“Hah.” Brant’s eyebrows shot up. “Brock has never been anyone’s responsibility.”
Jane frowned. “What do you mean?”
The twins shared a look before Bentley spoke. “He takes care of people; they don’t take care of him. Hell, the last time someone took care of him”—he lowered his head—“was when our parents were alive. He’d skinned his knee after falling off his bike, and our dad helped patch him up. It was the last time I saw Brock cry or show any sort of emotion other than irritation and anger.”
The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1) Page 9