by Cara Dee
Is it okay to ask?
"How…how did you meet?"
"I caught her shoplifting in a buddy's convenience store down the street."
Good lord! "That’s… I don’t know what to say."
He laughs quietly. "Yeah, neither did I when she slammed her palm up into my chin and made a run for it."
At that, I have to see him—and know more. Supporting myself on my elbow, I flick my no doubt stunned expression between his eyes and the photos. "You're more than twice her size." Hell, I'm almost twice her size.
"Element of surprise." He smirks. "No one sees her little force coming—sometimes literally."
I chuckle under my breath and adjust the ice-cold bag along my jaw. "I assume you caught up to her."
"Well, yeah. Otherwise my fifteen years in the Marines would'a been a tragic waste."
He's seen battle, I'm sure of it. His muscled torso speaks of combat. A five-inch scar slashes across his left pec, and chest hair doesn’t grow there. Poorly performed stitches have left dotted marks behind.
"I offered her a place to stay and a job in my bar," he murmurs, eyes on the photos. "She was a runaway. Foster kid."
"Oh." I swallow uncomfortably, worried about what she must've lived through. I can't even picture it. "How old was she?"
"Seventeen."
Really. I clear my throat, my forehead creasing. "Wouldn’t it have been wiser if she worked in your friend's convenience store at that age?"
Ryan snorts softly. "That’s what I get for inviting a lawyer into my bed." He grins and rolls over onto his side, his mouth ghosting a kiss to my chin. "I didn’t give a flying fuck, Greg. I wanted to help her, so I did. She wasn’t on the books until she turned eighteen."
"Lovely." I kill my smirk—well, I try, anyway. "What else happened when she turned eighteen?"
That earns me a laugh and a look full of dark secrets. "I'm not completely depraved, little shit."
I shrug lightly and chuckle. "Are you telling me you didn’t want her until recently?"
"Ah, no. She was fucking gorgeous at seventeen, too." Exactly. "But the possibility didn’t exist until…" He thinks back on something. "Must've been a few months after her eighteenth birthday. She started walking around in skimpy tops and panties. Holy fuck, she drove me bonkers."
"To seduce you," I state. Angel certainly strikes me as a person who goes after what she wants.
"Yeah… I caved there somewhere. She'd already crawled into my head. Then she crawled into bed with me one night."
The image derails my thoughts, and I have to focus. Focus. This is me, indulging. Borrowing time. Pretending I can get to know them. Wishing I could have more. Be more. It's not about sex or visualizing them together…
"What did you do?" I probably shouldn’t have asked. He already told me he caved.
Ryan hums, his hand landing on my hip under the covers. "I fucked her stupid."
I shudder as heat spreads inside me. "You're a lucky man."
"I definitely am."
"She's lucky, as well."
"Mm." He shifts closer and drops a kiss to my neck. "Get some sleep, boy. Before I fuck you stupid, too."
"Christ." The desire builds up, warring with the fatigue. "I—"
"Quiet." He shakes his head and lands a final kiss on my forehead. "You'd take it, I know." Of course I would. I want him. "But it ain't right. Angel and I can't go back to the old arrangement." At that, I close my eyes in defeat, the lust dissipating like sand between my fingers. "We've grown to care for you, Greg, but we won't be part of your secret life."
Because they're better than that.
There's nothing I can say.
*
I wake up disoriented and in an insane amount of pain.
"Fuck." I groan and force myself to sit up, causing a bag of not-so frozen peas to fall down to my lap. The bandage is wet and my face is sticky from being smashed by plastic, but it feels like the swelling is going down. Small favors.
I blink sleepily, registering a dark bedroom. Streetlights illuminate enough for me to locate my medication on the nightstand, and I chase two pills down with a glass of water.
Ryan isn't here, but I can hear him. Angel, too. In the kitchen, perhaps.
Feeling too hot, I throw off the covers and move over to the edge of the bed where my feet hit the floorboards with a low thump.
The memories of everything that's happened over the past two, three days come rushing back, and I release a heavy breath and retrieve my phone from my pocket. Battery's about to die—hell. Several missed calls and fourteen messages. Good news travels fast.
My mother has texted a few times, worried and angry about what Mark's told her. I couldn’t care less, and I scroll past those messages without responding. It's enough I have to see her and my father for holidays and family dinners here and there.
Seth and Ted pass on get-well messages and confirm covering for me at work until I'm ready to return.
You won't even tell me where you are? I can't believe you, Greg.
I'm your wife, goddammit!
Evangeline wonders if she's fired.
I'm taking Abby to my mother's for a couple days.
I touch my jaw carefully and swallow hard. It's probably best for Abby to get away for a little bit. I don't want her to see me this way. As for Tess…I have to make things up to her—stat. She deserves better, though I don’t like her throwing down the wife card like that, when it pleases her.
The last message is from Mark.
What the fuck is going on with you?
That’s the million-dollar question, isn't it?
*
"He's alive." Ryan gives me his signature lazy grin when I appear in their kitchen after a trip to the bathroom. The painkillers have kicked in, so I manage a polite smile in return, though I suspect it comes off too pinched.
Angel turns away from the stove and offers the frostiest look I've ever received outside the second bedroom. With a slow once-over, lingering on my face, she dismisses me and returns to cooking.
Her shoulders look stiff.
I'm sorry.
Ryan kicks out the chair across from him, and I join him at the table that seats only two. There is no room for a bigger table, and they want to raise a child here?
"Sleep well?" Ryan opens the window that faces the back alley behind the bar and lights up a cigarette.
"Yes, Sir." The hood came off in my sleep, so I tug it up again. "Those aren't good for you."
"I'm well aware." He smirks faintly and takes a drag. "I'm down from a pack to two smokes a day."
I'm glad to hear it.
"Is he staying for dinner, Daddy?" Angel asks.
"I can go." Hiding the hurt—it's my fucking fault, anyway—I make a move to stand, but Ryan gives me a pointed look that throws that out the window.
"He's staying."
I guess I'm staying.
I wish I could read Angel—past the hostility. I wish I could fix it. There's no badass little biker babe in her appearance now, the pajama shorts, bare feet, pastel blue top, and lack of makeup making her look even younger and more vulnerable.
"I've been doing some thinking." Ryan's calculating gaze slides my way, effectively putting me on the spot. "Greg and I had a nice chat earlier about how you and I met, princess. So the way I figure, it's only fair we get to know him, too."
Oh, Christ. I shift in my seat, thinking of all the reasons that's a terrible idea. They won't understand. It's better they live with their assumptions and guesses.
"What good will that do?" Angel frowns.
Ryan lifts a shoulder. "You never know. Things change when all the cards are on the table."
Not for the better.
*
Maybe Ryan's immune to awkwardness, but I'm not. He chats casually in between mouthfuls of Angel's beef stir-fry while I suffer the chilled stares of Angel and pretend to enjoy my cup of insta-oatmeal. Her resentment toward me is worse than the fact that I'm sitting on the floor
right now.
When you only have two chairs, the dog takes the floor.
"I talked to Madison and Jameson," Ryan mentions. "Next time we're in Camassia, we'll do the Primal Pursuit."
"Holy shit, that'll be hot," Angel replies. "I hope Alex joins this time."
I haven't said much, but sue me, I'm curious. I squint up at them. "Is that a hunter's version of the board game?"
Angel rolls her eyes. Fuck.
"If the prey are submissive little whores, then yeah, I guess you can say that. It's a takedown event in the woods." Ryan winks at me, causing me to flush like a pathetic boy, and then he frowns at Angel. "Roll your eyes again and we're gonna have a problem, little girl."
She lowers her gaze, sulking. "I'm sorry, Master."
I stay quiet for the remainder of the meal, after which Ryan tells me to return to the bedroom.
I hesitate in the doorway. "The guest room, Sir?"
"No, ours."
It doesn’t make sense, but I obey. Angel once gave me a last kiss; perhaps this is the last play. They'll force some personal information out of me, and then they'll tell me to get the hell out of their lives.
He hasn’t told me I can get on the bed, so I stay standing on the floor and hope for the best. What I don’t do is spare a single glance at the wall of photos. I can't. The envy runs too deep, and I can't deny anymore that I want to be on the wall with them.
It goes against everything I deem healthy, yet…fuck, I ache for it.
"Part of this will be of your choosing, pet." Ryan enters the room and tosses a black kit of some sort on the mattress. Angel follows and rips away the covers and blankets, as well as the pillows. "We know you like extreme pain and marks by now."
I manage a small nod, nervous as hell all of a sudden.
Ryan moves closer and lifts my hoodie a few inches. "Remove your clothes."
I shrug out of the hoodie, careful not to yank off the bandages.
"How would you feel about a permanent mark?" he asks quietly. "It can be small, and you would choose the location."
Jesus Christ. I'm supposed to say no to this, there's no question about that. As I hesitantly step out of the sweat pants, I watch Ryan open the black kit and reveal some metal tool.
"This is nothing to take lightly, so it's completely up to you. We won't hold a no against you even for a second."
It's a branding iron, I realize. At least, I think so, and it would make sense because I know Angel has been branded by Ryan. She bears a small, private symbol below her left breast.
It can be something to remember them by.
Heat rises to my skin at the same time as my heart sinks. They won't go back to what we used to have, and I can't give them more. Maybe they'll keep coming to my aid when I need it, because they're genuine and full of heart. They care. But there are new lines drawn in the sand, ones they won't cross.
Not all stories have happy endings.
"Yes," I whisper, anxious as never before. I want it, though. Consequences be damned, I want something to remember them by that I can keep with me 'til the day I die.
"Are you absolutely certain?" Ryan comes to stand before me, a serious expression on his face. I nod once, firm in my decision. "All right, then. Lose the underwear and lie down in the middle. I'll set things up, and you can think of a location."
Letting out a heavy breath, I discard my boxers and end up on my back in the bed. Angel has begun to light candles around us, fairly tall ones positioned on the floor. On any other day, I can picture Ryan and Angel treating the bed like an altar for their love, a place to fuck like savages while wax melts around them.
Angel draws the blinds on the windows.
The sound of something being plugged into the wall lets me know Ryan's heat source is being prepared.
"Inside of my bicep," I decide.
Ryan's concentrating on the tools or whatever I'm supposed to call them, merely quirking a brow at my decision. Finished with the candles, Angel joins me on the bed and sits down on my right side.
"Where did you grow up, Greg?" she asks.
I look her in the eye briefly. All right, so it's started. First question's easy enough. "Berkeley."
"Did you like it there?"
"Well enough." Until I turned eleven, I'd say.
Ryan extends my arm and instructs me to face Angel the entire time. I nod in understanding, and then I see a small, bright light in my periphery, directed on my arm. A towel is slid underneath me, which catapults my thoughts into the nearest future where I'm sure I'll have blood seeping out. God. My stomach clenches.
"Tell me about your family," Angel says. "You have three brothers, correct?"
Most would probably find that fairly easy to answer, as well. I don’t. Define family?
"Three biological," I reply quietly. "I'm only close with two of them."
"Would that be the Seth and Ted Cooper also listed on your company website?"
Was she a private investigator in her former life or something? "Yes, Ma'am. My father started the firm, then handed it over to me when he retired."
"Following in your daddy's footsteps," she notes. "Are your parents divorced?"
"No."
On my other side, Ryan cleans my arm, and the strong scent of antibacterial gel hits my nostrils. Instinct tells me to turn my head, but I keep my focus on Angel—as much as I can.
She cocks her head at me. "You mentioned three brothers who are biologically yours. That implies there are others."
And there it is. I can't elaborate and keep it short. Well, I suppose I can, but there will be countless follow-up questions.
"I grew up in a polyamorous household." The words taste like acid. "My parents lived together with two other married couples who have children of their own."
Her eyes glitter with interest. "Talk about different. How was it?"
Awful. I open my mouth to answer, only to snap it shut when I hear Ryan switching on his Bunsen burner. I tense up out of reflex, to which he strokes my arm in comfort. It's going to hurt. Might as well do my best to let dreadful conversation distract me. So I mutter my way through a matter-of-fact explanation about my childhood. I tell Angel—and Ryan—about Mom and Dad, one kindergarten teacher and one environmental lawyer, and their friends, Ben, Annie, Hank, and Marie. Six open-minded adults who share everything from marital beds to child rearing. They started out as friends the same age, all equally spiritual and alternative, for lack of a better word; it was one magic healer away from being a hippie community.
I'm the eldest. Ben and Annie's two daughters come next, then Hank and Marie's son, then Mark. Seth and Ted are the babies in the family, though everyone's in their thirties now. I confess that Mark and I used to be best friends, along with Victoria, the second eldest of us.
Everyone was—or is—accepted for who they are, and it never mattered if you were gay, straight, or something in between. Ben and Annie were Buddhists, Mom has always been highly spiritual, and Hank is a staunch atheist. But with love and acceptance as key ingredients, the discussions never became too heated. There was no one true way.
"That sounds so cool," Angel muses.
Ryan chuckles. "Greg wouldn’t agree."
Angel raises a brow at me. "Your family essentially cultivated what the world needs more of."
"Certainly." I'm not arguing that. "I found comfort in my own odd sexuality long before I learned what society finds acceptable. But does it matter? The world isn't ready."
Ryan leans over and kisses me on the forehead. "I'm gonna start now. Keep talking when you can, all right?"
I suck in a breath and nod jerkily.
"What's odd about being bi?" Angel scrunches her nose.
"I'm not bi," I grunt. "Well…technically, I suppose, but it's more difficult for me to get attracted in the first place—motherfucker!" I go rigid as fiery pain shoots up my arm, and I screw my eyes shut. "Ahh!" It doesn’t stop, it won't stop. Oh, fuck. Oh, goodness. A white-hot blade slices through my arm—at
least, that’s what it feels like—and Angel rushes forward to gently cup my bandaged face.
"Shhh, sweetness." She peppers my face with soft kisses. "Tell me more about your lack of attraction."
I have to lock my jaw into place so I don’t crush my teeth and ruin the position the doctor had them aligned to. Oh, Jesus Christ, the pain shifts to another area, and the agony grows.
"It's nothing," I grit out, unable to open my eyes. "It's just rare—fuck." The blade leaves my skin, no doubt so Ryan can reheat it under the flame. "It's—" I let out a panted breath. "It's pretty much everything or absolutely nothing. It's overwhelming or complete indifference."
I remember the first time Ryan and Angel invited me to their home.
For a solid hour or two once I left their apartment, I was crying my eyes out in my car only because they excited me. They awoke me in a way I haven't ever experienced.
The pain returns, causing my back to arch. I let out a hoarse cry and dig the back of my head into the mattress, muscles clenching, throat and lungs burning.
"Take it for us, brave boy," Ryan murmurs. "What caused the rift between you and your brother?"
Bullying, secrecy, and— "Jesus, Ryan!" I growl. Panting, I try to breathe through the pain, but then a mindfuck joins the party when Angel engulfs my soft cock with her mouth, shucking the ability to breathe out of reach. The shock sears through me at the same pace as the blazing fire.
"I think you mean Sir, baby." Ryan grins—the fucking Sadist—into a quick kiss to my nose. "What's your color?"
"Charcoal," I bite out.
Angel giggles with a mouthful of cock, which just works. Desire flares up and pumps through my system as if it has its own heartbeat.
"Green," I amend in a groan.
It's a bit of a blur after that. Angel gets me hard and deep-throats me like she was born to suck cock, and Ryan tortures me with a blade of lava. Between bouts of pleasure and immense suffering, they drag truths out of me that I would've wished to keep to myself.
"We were bullied," I moan hoarsely. "The younger siblings more—ahhh, fuck, more so than the rest of us." So I started to intervene wherever I could. I got into trouble with those who picked on my brothers; my grades took a nose dive, my parents were disappointed in me, and I was often called into the principal's office.