by Meghan March
When Banner slams her shot glass on her table, she crosses her arms in front of her and adopts a serious expression.
“So he broke your heart . . . but did he break your ass?”
Thank God I’ve finished swallowing because I would have spewed vodka all over this silky duvet and the screen of my phone.
“Jesus, B. Really?” I open my mouth to protest that he didn’t break anything, but she keeps going.
“It’s an important question. And I’m already getting drunk and it’s not even ten a.m., and therefore I deserve an answer. Are you still a back-door virgin?”
Glaring at her through the Skype connection, I flatten my lips before I burst into drunken giggles. “I can still feel the twinge in my ass, if you really want to know the truth.”
Banner’s eyes get huge. “No. Way. You did it! My little girl has finally grown up and taken a cock where no cock has ever gone before! This deserves to be tweeted. We must memorialize it on the interwebs.”
Grabbing up her iPad, she types furiously.
“Uh, no way in hell are you tweeting that. It’s my news.”
I know I’m making a huge mistake as soon as I reach for my phone and minimize the Skype app in favor of Twitter. And yet I don’t care. It’s probably the vodka fueling this poor decision making. And I mean probably as in definitely.
“I’m not saying anything about my ass, but the world should know that having a big cock just means the guy is an even bigger dick.”
Pulling up the infamous @GreerOneBadBitchKaras Twitter account that helped my ad go viral, I compose a masterpiece of a tweet. A Twitter-piece, I decide to call it.
I mumble to Banner as I tap out my 140 characters of awesomeness. Damn, vodka makes me just as creative as tequila.
Size doesn’t matter if it just means you’re an even bigger dickhead. #BigDick #KissMyAss #NeverAgain #GreerOut #NoCavDo #FuckUVeryMuch
Reading it out loud to Banner takes three tries because I can’t stop laughing. And if there are tears sneaking out of the corners of my eyes, they’re totally from the laughter. I refuse to admit anything else.
“Do it!”
I hit TWEET before I can second-guess myself or attempt more creative hashtags.
My notifications blow up within seconds. Whoa. Apparently, ever since I hooked up with Cav and the press started linking our names, my Twitter following has really grown.
I check out my profile, taking a second to give a nod of approval to the picture Banner chose when she helped me set it up. Followers: 1.2 million.
Uh-oh. A niggle of doubt creeps through the vodka-driven safety cocooning me. The retweets and likes climb in number.
“Uh, Banner. Did you know I have 1.2 million Twitter followers?”
Her eyes round hysterically. “Say what now?”
“One point two million,” I say, repeating the words very, very slowly.
“Holy shitballs. Cav’s going to get the message, that’s for damn sure.”
The lock turns, and the door to the bedroom flies open and slams against the wall. I spin around to face the door, leaving my phone propped up on the pillow.
Creighton, my dear brother, is wearing an expression that would not only frighten small children, but armies of small countries.
Oops.
He holds up a phone, its screen facing me. “What the fuck are you thinking? Cannon and my PR team follow this asinine account on Twitter, and in the last two minutes we’ve gotten four calls between us that you’ve decided to exercise poor judgment. So again, I ask, what the fuck are you thinking, Greer?”
Searching my liquor-soaked brain for any kind of explanation, I lift the bottle instead. “This is good vodka.”
Creighton’s expression turns even more thunderous. He reaches out and yanks the bottle from my hand. “Enough.”
From far away, I hear Banner’s voice.
“Whoa, big brother. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. Wait, do you wear boxers? Briefs? What about that sidekick of yours? His are always shoved straight up his tightly clenched ass cheeks. You might want to round up an underwear-retrieval operation for him. It’s probably damaging to his health, and most definitely damaging to his scrotum. Scrotum. What a weird word.”
I’m too drunk to cringe at my best friend’s priceless monologue. Instead, I grab my phone off the pillow and point to the screen. “She has a valid point.”
“Hang up now. Delete the tweet. No more booze.”
Turning the screen back to face me, I wave at Banner. “I think the party just ended. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Okay, hope your ass feels better. Maybe you need a medium-sized cock next time. You can’t give up on anal yet!”
This time, I do cringe. That’s something my brother never needed to hear.
“’Bye.” I wave again and tap the screen to disconnect before looking up at Creighton sheepishly. “Can you maybe pretend you didn’t hear that—”
“Already bleached from my memory. We’re never discussing it again. Now, delete the damn tweet.”
Cannon’s voice comes from the main cabin. “It’s already been retweeted over seven thousand times. Can’t put this cat back in the bag, but you need to delete it anyway.”
“Seven thousand times?” Shit. Bad Greer. Bad vodka.
“Motherfucker. Jesus, Greer. You know how to get people’s attention. Now, come on. I can’t trust you alone anymore.” He snatches the phone from my hand and wraps his fingers around my wrist to pull me off the bed.
As I follow him out into the main cabin, he tosses my phone to Cannon. “Delete it. Do whatever damage control you can. Fuck, shut down the goddamn Twitter account.”
I open my mouth to protest, but snap it shut when both men look at me like I’m a particularly troublesome child. Which I suppose I kinda am. I suck.
And I’m hammered. Instead of sinking into one of the leather chairs, I lie down on the couch and reach underneath for the blanket that’s always stowed there in these jets.
When I’m covered, I mumble, “Wake me up when we get home.”
Sleep has almost claimed me when Creighton says, “Oh, Greer. You’re not going home.”
Motherfucking bastard. I move my jaw from side to side, making sure that piece of shit Cannon Grove didn’t break it. It clicks just like it always has, but goddammit, it hurts like a motherfucker. Cheap shot. I wasn’t expecting him to swing rather than threaten.
My mistake, and it won’t happen again.
It’s not like I have a glass jaw, either. That prick hit really damn hard. Harder than I ever would have expected coming from a guy wearing a suit in the tropics. Valuable lesson, I guess. Don’t judge a guy’s punch based on his clothes. The next time I get a shot at him, though, I’ll take it. He deserves it.
I’ve already searched the house. Every single room. Greer is gone. Her purse and phone are gone too.
Watching her lean against her brother after he delivered the news isn’t something I ever want to repeat. Greer is a strong woman, and guilt lashes at me for being the reason she crumpled.
Fuck. After these last several days, I felt like we were building a new, more solid level of trust between us. But how solid can something be when you build it on a foundation of lies? If I’m being honest with myself, I knew this was all going to come crashing down sooner rather than later. But that doesn’t mean I have to accept it for what it is.
There’s a knock on the bedroom door.
“Come in.”
“Mr. Westman, would you like lunch while you wait for your plane?”
Cannon told Juan and Rea that I had to be out of the house as soon as my own jet arrived. Too bad the joke was on them. My jet subscription means that flights on short notice, especially international flights, can’t always be accommodated. The call I made today confirmed that fact.
“I’m staying until tomorrow, Juan. Jet should be here by nine a.m., and I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll notify t
he owners when the house will be vacated, and Mr. Karas as well.”
As much as I hate Karas being kept up-to-date on my movements, I don’t have much choice. At least this gives me the rest of the day to regroup. Notifications on my phone are piling up—something my publicist and her assistant usually handle. But today they’re constant.
I click on my Twitter app to find out what the hell is going on.
Having high numbers of notifications isn’t out of the ordinary these days because everyone seems to have an opinion they want to tweet and mention me in, but rarely do I read them or respond. I’m about to change my mind when I see the first tweet I’m mentioned in.
Trouble in paradise per the creative @GreerOneBadBitchKaras. But at least we know @TheRealCavWestman has a big cock. #CelebGossip #Breakups
What the fuck? It’s the breakups hashtag that pisses me off. Greer and I aren’t done. Not by a long shot. I click on Greer’s Twitter handle and see what she wrote.
Oh, Greer. That naughty, naughty girl. When I track her down, she isn’t going to sit for a week without feeling the sting of my hand on her ass. If she thinks this is the end, she’s in for a rude awakening.
What she doesn’t realize is I already know how big a mistake I made when I walked away from her three years ago, and I’m not going to do it again.
A hand shaking my shoulder wakes me up, and I blink at the harsh light of the interior of the jet. “Wanna sleep.”
“You can sleep when we get where we’re going.”
Groaning, I force myself into a sitting position and immediately regret the decision. My stomach flops violently, and I lunge for the door to the bedroom and the connecting lavatory.
Note to self: Don’t ever puke in a jet again. Ewww.
Creighton waits at the door with a bottle of water and a stack of napkins. “You going to be okay?”
Grabbing both the napkins and the water, I attempt to hide my misery—and shame. I’m a complete and total fuckup.
“I just want my bed.”
Creighton’s expression shifts into something unreadable. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“What?” I choke out after swallowing down a gulp of water.
“I couldn’t take you back to New York. The paparazzi are going to eat you alive after your little Twitter stunt.”
So I’m being stashed somewhere again. “Where are we?” My brain flips through the possibilities. “Nashville?”
Creighton shakes his head. “No. There are way too many paparazzi in Nashville these days. But you’re close.”
I come up blank. I don’t know any other places in Tennessee.
“Where?”
“Kentucky.”
Kentucky? It might as well be another foreign country for as familiar as I am with it.
“Why?”
“Because we’ve kept up Holly’s grandma’s house and it’s vacant. No one is going to come looking for you here unless you blast out your location to the press.” His expression hardens when he adds, “Which you better not do.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Didn’t think before you acted. I’m getting that loud and clear. I’ve also watched stock prices fall by three percent in the last two hours.” Creighton crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re an adult. A professional. When are you going to realize that your actions have consequences? Your money is at stake here too, Greer. You’re losing millions with every stunt you pull.”
“I’m not trying to pull stunts—”
“And yet you are. I don’t know what the hell happened to the sister who was worried more about her job than her social media accounts, but when you find her, let her know I’m waiting for her to make an appearance.”
It’s a low blow, and Creighton knows it.
“Maybe I decided it was time to start living? Maybe I realized that work isn’t the only thing I have to look forward to in life.”
“Then fucking act like a responsible adult. I have a pregnant wife and a multi-billion-dollar empire to run, and I can’t keep chasing after you to clean up your messes.”
Ouch. Another direct hit.
“Look, I’m sorry. This . . . hasn’t been the most normal time in my life. Everything shifted and I can’t keep a grip on it.”
“Then how about you lay off the booze while you’re plotting world domination with Banner. That’d be a start.”
I nod. I have nothing further to say because he’s right. I’ve fucked up royally, and I have no explanation for my actions other than emotional terrorism and alcohol.
“I’m sorry.”
“Come here.” Creighton pulls me in close and hugs me hard. “You’re my baby sister, and I want nothing but the best for you. We’re going to clean this up, and then we’ll find you some decent guy who isn’t going to cheat on you or lie to you. Maybe even someone you can build a life with. I know you’re looking for the same thing I was, Greer. Our childhood was fucked. Our sense of family was completely screwed up. But when you find the right person, that shit all fades away and the future becomes a hell of a lot brighter.”
The idea of my brother finding me a guy straight up terrifies me, but I decide to keep my own counsel on this one. Besides, I don’t want to talk this close to his face because I just puked up a lot of vodka.
“Thank you,” I say instead, aiming my words at his chest. “Consider the stunts done, especially if you can get me to a bed where I can pass out for the rest of my natural-born life.”
Creighton squeezes me tighter before releasing me.
“You got it.”
Holly’s gran’s house is cute and welcoming, but I don’t spend much time poking around before I head up the creaking stairs and spot the bed Creighton directed me to. I climb under the covers fully clothed and force my brain to quiet. I just want sleep and to forget this entire day.
It can’t be real. None of it can be real.
“What the fuck do you mean, she’s not here?” My voice is low, humming with rage. I’m fresh off the jet and determined to find Greer and set things straight.
From the way his face pales, I’m scaring the shit out of the doorman, and I couldn’t care less.
“I mean that Ms. Karas hasn’t been in the building in several days. I’m under orders to keep collecting her mail and locking it up until further notice.”
Where the hell could she have gone? Or, the better question is—where the hell did her big brother stash her this time? To find an answer to that, I have to dig deeper than this doorman. I have more resources at my disposal than Creighton Karas gives me credit for, and it won’t take me long to find her.
I walk out of the building, heading for my past.
Dominic Casso holds court in the same building now as he did when I was a kid. Ma would take me there sometimes when she was dropping stuff off.
Everyone knew she was the mistress and I was the bastard son. Why the man couldn’t manage to produce a kid with his wife, I have no idea, but my suspicion is he didn’t spend enough time in her bed to get the job done. As far as I know, I have at least one half sister and maybe another half brother, but Dom has never confirmed or denied it. Probably because I never asked and I don’t plan to.
The small brownstone sits on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, and I’m surprised he’s never upgraded. Then again, Dom didn’t get to his current position by being flashy or stupid. No, he’s calculating and ruthless. Information doesn’t flow from him unless he wants it to, and anyone who steps out of line is knocked back with the force of his will—or the back of his hand.
I’ve often been on the receiving end, and one time in particular stands out clearly in my memory . . .
“You had one job. One fucking job.” Dom’s tone was quietly menacing. “Watch her. Protect her. Never let her know you fucking exist.”
His fist slammed down on the desk, and the bronze paperweight in the shape of an apple-sized globe jumps with the force. He killed a man with that paperweight once. In front of me. I was fifte
en, just being brought into the family business. Dom had decreed it was time for me to earn my keep and stop living on the money he paid my ma.
“But you couldn’t even do that. You just had to cross the goddamned line.” He grabbed the paperweight off the old wooden desk and tossed it back and forth between his hands.
Would he lob it at my head? My boxing lessons from Franco gave me good odds that I could duck quick enough, but I didn’t want to bet on them.
“No explanation?” He scowled at me. “You’ve got nothing to say for yourself?”
I never let my expression change during his tirade. Nothing I could say would change what I’d done . . . disobeyed the king.
“Open your fucking mouth, Cavanaugh, and say something. Did you fuck the girl?”
Now he was edging closer to my personal line. He might be the king, but I wouldn’t let him say a damned word against Greer. I’d snatch that paperweight out of the air and hurl it back at him before he realized what was happening.
“Watch what you say about her.”
Dom reared back in his seat as if shoved by the vehemence in my tone. “What did you say to me?” Rarely had I ever talked back to him, and his shock was clear.
“I said, watch what you say about her. She’s a lady. She deserves your respect.” I expected my low words to yield threats of violence, not a look of approval. But my relief lasted only a moment.
“Glad you understand that she’s out of your league, boy. You’ve got no business letting her know you exist, let alone pretending to be part of her world. You’re the fucking maintenance man and she’s an heiress.”
He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. Greer was too good for me. If she didn’t have a problem with it, why should I?
“She doesn’t seem to mind.”
Dom slammed his fist on the desk again. “Well, I fucking mind, and when I tell one of my men to take on a job, I expect him to do that job exactly the way I say. You do not overstep the line, boy. That’s a good way to lose your place and your life.”