One Bride for Five Brothers

by Jess Bentley

  He was in my room. Naked in my room. Right there, in my space.

  I don't know why this is so exciting. I can't imagine what it means, but knowing that he was just doing that, touching himself in my room, shakes me to the core. I feel closer to him than ever before, knowing that he invaded my space like that. He’s only been there in my dreams before, and my dreams are slowly becoming reality.

  Chapter 33

  August

  It's almost noon when I key into the penthouse, armed with nothing more than twenty-six ounces of black coffee. As I stroll through the rooms, I’m surprised. There's no one here. Not a single half-dressed woman to be found.

  The apartment is nearly clean, with just a few wine glasses on the counter and a case of Beaujolais on the dining room table.

  Just what the hell is going on here?

  I find Kirkman on the second floor, in another control room. This one has the “motherboard” as they call it, a mixing board with literally thousands of knobs, dials, and sliders. It has to be fifteen feet wide.

  Kirkman is perched on the edge of a designer Aeron chair, elbows on the ledge of the mixing board with his hands holding the headphones snugly against his ears. His head bobs in time to some music that I can't hear and every once in awhile his fingers reach out to some of the knobs and sliders, adjusting things slightly. Four huge Apple monitors are situated around him in an arc, each with a different chunk of what I presume is supposed to be music on them.

  He doesn’t notice me for a few seconds so I just hang back, waiting for a break in whatever the hell it is that he's doing. When he reaches to the side for his coffee he sees me out of the corner of his eye and stops, clicking the spacebar on the keyboard and pulling the headphones off his ears.

  “What's up?” he asks me, squinting and distracted.

  “Um, nothing I guess. Just checking in,” I answer, taken slightly aback.

  If I didn't know any better, I would say this looked like a professional musician sitting in front of me who is doing actual work, instead of some entitled douche nozzle trying to spend all his money in a hurry or go down in a blaze of fiery glory. The comparison between these two personalities is striking.

  “Okay, cool,” he nods, turning back around. “Melanie talk to you?”

  “No,” I reply, ready to just turn around and leave. “Did you think that she would? It looks like your issue with the ladies is settled, for lack of a better term.”

  “Oh, yeah, she totally chewed my ass out,” he smirks. As soon as I see that familiar douchebag expression on his face I get the sudden urge to slap it off of him. “She was all, ‘remember Seattle?’ I figured you guys must have had a conversation or something.”

  “Actually, I never got around to it,” I admit. “But it's not like you were being subtle, Kirk. She was gonna find out one way or another. She keeps a close eye on you.”

  “Kirkman,” he corrects me again. “She was really pissed off. And apparently I'm supposed to be more considerate of her job or whatever. Which I guess means I am supposed to be more considerate of your job too, is that right?”

  I spread my hands in front of me.

  “Listen, man, I'm just trying to keep you safe for as long as you are here,” I explain. “I personally don't give a fuck what you do with your life. You can bang every piece of legal pussy from here to Seattle, for all I care. All I need to do is make sure they are on the up and up.”

  “Yeah, I get that.”

  “Glad to hear it. So, glad we got this worked out. I'll just be —”

  My phone buzzes my pocket, then twice more. That feels like three alerts. Without even thinking about it, I pull the phone out, sliding into my messages to see what's what.

  “You okay?”

  I glance up, startled.

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  He smirks. “What are you doing there, old man?”

  I tuck the phone back away, irritated. “I'll just be seeing you later.”

  He leans back, crossing his heels on the other chair and folding his hands behind his head. “Yeah, you got something going on,” he croons. “Something good? Something for me?”

  “Why would it be something for you, Kirkman? No. Not for you.”

  He shrugs. “That's cool… from the look on your face, I thought maybe you had something special planned. My bad.”

  “What look on my face?”

  His smile widens. “Oh, you know… that look. You know what I’m talking about.”

  I shrug.

  “You just look like a man who’s getting some naughty texts, is all,” he explains. “Am I right? That's what's happening.”

  “Well, if you're all set here, I want to take another sweep around the building and then get out of your hair.”

  He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms over his shiny shirt and smirking.

  “Who is she? Girlfriend?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not one of mine,” he sniffs. “Right? I snagged those girls here fair and square, August. You have to find your own.”

  “Not one of yours,” I sigh.

  The depths of this douche bag constantly take me by surprise. Every time I think he's out of options, he finds a new way to disgust me.

  “What's her name? Jenny? Kathy?”

  I don't answer, just squint at him, wondering where he's going with all this.

  “Martha? You look like a Martha kind of guy. Betty? Esther?”

  “I really don't know what you are talking about. I'll just be going —”

  He stands suddenly. “No, I'm actually interested,” he insists. “I don't know anything about you, man. Least you can do is tell me her name.”

  I shrug. “Actually… no idea.”

  His eyebrows go up. I think he waxes them or something. They're very neat. Two pointy rows.

  “You don’t know her name? How did this happen? You into some kind of freaky set up? You military types are pretty weird.”

  “No, she just… didn’t tell me yet. She says we know each other,” I shrug, hearing how strange that sounds when I say it out loud. I glance at the face of my phone, wondering if I should investigate this further.

  I definitely should.

  “Oh, I get it,” he smiles, nodding knowingly. “You're baiting the trap. Smooth. I'm impressed.”

  “Yeah, baiting the trap,” I agree, wondering what he's talking about. I hope he’s not talking from experience… but then, he probably is. He’s probably always trying to lure women into his ‘trap.’

  “Nice,” he smirks. “Well, if you want my advice, you can't ever go wrong with the cum shot. Ladies love that shit. Just don't do it in the studio, man, that's gross.”

  “Wow, Kirkman,” I cough. “You’re sending videos to these girls you’re picking up? Fantastic. I’m surprised that hasn’t gone viral yet. Melanie’s going to be so impressed.”

  He shakes his head, shrugging. “No, man. You’re using Instagram, right? You don't have to worry about that.”

  “I do have to worry about that. it's my job, remember?”

  He raises his hands, smirking insufferably.

  “No, old man… listen. If you're sending messages to some bird on Instagram, direct messages, I mean… those videos expire. They can watch him once, maybe twice and then they're gone. It's totally safe.”

  I shake my head. This is news to me, but for some reason I don't want to admit that.

  “Okay, I see you didn't know that,” he smiles. “It’s true. And the thing about the cum shot is true too. Girls love it. It talks to their primal energies, you know what I'm saying? Send it to her.”

  I can't help but be intrigued, and I edge toward the door, acting like I'm ready to go.

  “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Why don’t you let me see what you’ve got going on there?” he suggests. “I can give you some pointers. I would love to see what somebody like you gets up to.”

  I just glare at him.

&nbs
p; “Yeah, okay, never mind,” he chuckles, sliding his hand through his spiky hairdo. “Well, let me know. Offer stands.”

  I should leave, but I’m kind of curious. Obviously Kirkman has a lot of experience in this arena.. His suggestion seems vulgar, but he definitely has the numbers to back up what he’s saying.

  “So… I just send her a video? Just out of the blue?”

  He rolls his eyes dramatically.

  “No, man… definitely don’t do that. You have to build up to it, just like in real life. You gotta build a whole story. Tell her what you want to do to her. Tell her how it's going to go… you know how it is. Give her some fairytale to latch onto, then boom… hit her with the money shot.”

  “The money shot, right.”

  He shrugs, dropping back into the chair and turning his body back to the mixing board.

  "Yeah, man… one time I was chatting up this chick in Paris and I got her so turned on she actually flew to Iowa to catch me on tour. She was that ready for me. Tracked me down in my hotel room and everything.”

  “You really don't understand the point of personal security, do you?” I say wryly.

  He waves his hand in the air, brushing the thought out of the air.

  “And you don't seem to understand the point of sexting, August.”

  “Which is?”

  “To stop sexting!”

  I let my hands rise and then fall helplessly.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “To get the pussy in real life, August!” he explains, his words slow and enunciated like I'm an idiot. “The whole point of this exercise is to get a girl so wound up that she can't help but fall at your feet the next time she sees you. It's a means to an end.”

  “Oh… yeah. I guess that does make sense,” I admit.

  “Pussy is what makes the world go round, August,” he informs me as he fires up the sound board again. “You are overcomplicating things. Just get in, say what you gotta say to get her legs spread, chalk it up to a win.”

  As soon as I see he’s got the headphones back on I back out of the room, closing the door behind me. Something about talking to that guy leaves me feeling oily.

  But I have to admit, it makes it all a lot more clear. I hadn’t understood what the endgame was. Just saying dirty things on Instagram seemed sort of pointless, as well as creating needless security holes I hoped I wouldn’t have to fill. But if what he is saying is true, the videos are even more discreet than the texts.

  And if the other things he is saying are true, then I need to think about my end game. Do I want to meet her in real life?

  Chapter 34

  Dahlia

  On my day off, I decide to clean my house.

  I'm not good at this. I might be slightly better at it than Bunny’s family, but I am not really good at this. I watched TV shows when I was a kid like reruns of the Brady Bunch and Sabrina The Teenage Witch and stuff like that and everybody's house was always spotless. It drove me crazy! Nobody ever had dusty fingerprints on their credenza, or cabinets that were stuffed with a mishmash of things that didn't even go together. Everybody had spaces that were always perfectly put together.

  But cleaning also feels kind of good. I'm not on a schedule, not really concerned about what order I get everything done in. I could actually get less than everything done and nobody would probably care. I know my dad wouldn't really complain. In fact, probably no one will even notice. Just me.

  When I was in college, Bunny used to tease me about being a ‘directionless overachiever.’ That's what she called it. What she meant was that I like to be very good at things that didn't seem to matter to anybody. It wouldn’t get me a better grade, but I still wanted to make sure my PowerPoint presentation had really nice transitions between the slides. That sort of thing, where I would get too hung up on details.

  And in the end, she was right anyway. None of the extra little bits that I did made any difference when I ran out of money. I just couldn't afford to go to school anymore, overachieving or not overachieving. It all sort of fell down the drain the same way.

  With my headphones on, cleaning seems to go by pretty quickly. I work from the back of the house forward, making sure the linen closet is organized, with the towels folded and stacked precisely. I like it when the towels are all the same shape and they all line up really neat.

  See? Absolutely nobody cares about that.

  Aretha Franklin is just belting one out in my ear when my phone chirps suddenly, interrupting the song. I pull it out of my back pocket, thrilled to find out I have a new series of text messages. They come quickly, one right after another, and I open Instagram to get the messages.

  I'm thinking about you, it says. Thinking so much about you.

  Are u thinking about me?

  I blink several times, thrilled to see these words.

  Yes, I answer. I am thinking about you too.

  What are you thinking about? he asks.

  You first, I counter.

  Good, he answers. I like to go first.

  You saw what I'm working with, didn't you? Did you like it?

  I smile to myself. I remember it vividly, his beautiful cock. I never thought that it would be so beautiful, but it is.

  I did like it, I tell him honestly.

  It's in my hand right now.

  I want to fill your fingers too. I want you to make me hard. Can you do that?

  Yes. I want to, I tell him.

  I want you to wrap your fingers around me. Pull on me a little bit. I want to watch you lick your lips before you get on your knees in front of me.

  My breath is quick and hot. My hands tremble as I blink at the phone. The messages are coming so fast, it's like a roller coaster. It's thrilling. I shift my weight to one side and feel my panties gush with wetness.

  I want to feed you my cock, he says.

  I bite my lip, hard. I hold my breath so I can’t moan.

  I want to slide my cock across your tongue, feed it to you, fill your mouth.

  Shuddering, I drop slowly into the dining room chair. My thighs clench together and I roll back and forth, trying to relieve the pressure that's building in my pussy.

  Oh my God, he texts. I'm so hard for you. I'm so hard right now, I could cum.

  Yes, cum, I write back instantly.

  I will. For you. I will.

  I will too, I type back slowly with my left hand as my right hand plunges between my thighs. I rock against my hand, trying to find my center. The phone clatters to the dining room table as I shift my weight, riding my hand against the dining room chair, shameless and desperate, pushing myself farther until I come, breathless, overwhelmed.

  My heart beat pounds in my ears for a long time as my body slowly comes off the high. It's a long time, sort of dreamy state. I eventually remember to be embarrassed, then remind myself I'm alone. Nobody can see me. There's no reason to be embarrassed. Still, it doesn't seem quite right to be doing this in my dining room, by myself, just staring at my phone.

  And yet, would I have done it any other way? I barely know what's happening to me. I'm so turned on that I’m not even acting like myself, and I can't wait to find out what's going to happen next.

  Chapter 35

  August

  Her lips are pink and wet, parting slowly as her tongue slips out to moisten her lower lip. She watches me cautiously, her gaze a challenge, her posture confident and direct.

  Far off, a ringing. A series of chimes. She comes closer. Her lips move, but I'm not sure what she's trying to say to me. She is smiling, though, so I don't think I need to leave. I can stay. I think it's all right.

  In slow motion, she shakes her hair out of its braid. It falls over her shoulders in sparkling waves, moving at the end like tentacles, like it's in a breeze of some kind. The ends move and move, stroking her shoulders. I almost feel that.

  I don't go anywhere, but she comes to me. She falls on her knees in front of me. Her smile is welcoming. Her tongue is pink and
wet, begging for me. Her fingers slide up my thighs, taking my cock at the base, squeezing. She squeezes until I'm hard, directing me toward her open mouth, sliding the head of my cock over her curving tongue. It's so hot, so impossibly hot. She tells me she wants more. She tells me she wants all of it. Her lips close over my cock, sucking and licking at the same time, swirling around the head, her fingers drumming on the sides of my shaft, beating out a rhythmic chime.

  A chime.

  Slowly I realize that my phone is ringing in real life. It's not just a dream, and not something that I should be ignoring. I force myself to wake up, to leave behind the beautiful creature with my cock in her mouth. With a groan, I roll over and pick the phone up off the nightstand. Melanie Howard.

  Shit.

  “Good morning, Melanie,” I grunt into the phone, hoping that I sound more irritable than sleepy. “What can I do for you?”

  “You could do your job for starters, August,” she hisses, her voice grating on my nerves immediately. “Remember your job? What am I even paying you for?”

  “You're not paying me. Kirkman is paying me.”

  “Whatever! I thought you were supposed to be an expert or something. How does this keep happening?”

  “Okay, calm down,” I start, push myself to a sitting position on the side of the bed. “What are you even talking about?”

  “He's trending again, August. Somebody has more pictures! How do they even get them?”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I'm sure!”

  I stand up, arching my back to stretch before opening my laptop and checking my aggregator.

  Holy shit, she's right. How did I miss this?

  Apparently, late last night, somebody started posting more pictures of Kirkman. I've got thirty alerts from different sources: Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Google. And it's still pretty early. This could totally blow up by lunchtime.

  “Are you see what I'm seeing?” she continues. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard.