Man Candy

by Tia Siren

  “It’s not bullshit, Con,” Wesley said calmly, picking up the report and smoothing it out on the table with the back of his hand. “I had the lab run the report twice just to make sure. Like it or not, you have a five-year-old half brother.”

  “I still don’t believe it,” I growled. “DNA reports can be wrong.”

  “Like I said, I had the lab run it twice because I knew you wouldn’t believe the results otherwise,” Wesley said with a long sigh. “The report is not wrong. Hell, you can tell by looking at him that he’s your brother.”

  Wesley opened the folder that was resting on the small table between us and flipped through it. There were two tumblers of Jack Daniels whisky on the table between us. I picked up the one closest to me and drained it dry. Then I held it up so the flight attendant could see that I needed another. I really needed another.

  The flight attendant, a blonde with blow-job lips and big tits whose name I couldn’t recall until I saw it on her nametag—Patsy—sauntered over with the bottle of Jack and refilled my glass.

  As she poured the whiskey I let my hand slide up the back her thigh and up under her short skirt. She wasn’t wearing panties. I caressed the curve of her tight ass and dipped the tip of my little finger into her cooch. She was warm and moist. She just looked down at me and smiled.

  The last time I used the corporate jet, Patsy and I fucked like mile-high rabbits in the sleeping quarters at the rear of the plane. I had planned to give her the same pleasure this trip, but then Wesley ruined everything by telling me about this kid that was supposedly my half brother.

  “Thank you, darlin’,” I said, watching her sashay away. I put the tip of my little finger into the whiskey and swirled it around.

  “Con, focus,” Wesley said, waving a hand in front of my face to get my attention from the girl’s ass as she walked away. “Can you please stop thinking with your dick long enough to address this? This could be a real problem for you.”

  “Fine, whatever. Go ahead.”

  From the file, Wesley brought out a photograph of a little boy with dark hair and dark eyes. He was looking at the camera with a big smile on his round face. The old man holding him was smiling, too. The old man had ghost-white hair and a bushy white beard. He was wearing a plaid cowboy shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a straw hat pushed back on his head. He looked like an old cowboy who’d just come in from the roundup. He had his cheek resting against the boy’s head.

  The old man was my father, Jefferson Davis Blackstone, one of the richest men in Texas. He died of a heart attack eight months ago at the ripe old age of seventy-five. He was fucking a hooker in the back of his Cadillac when his ticker stopped. He was on the way to a charity event at a children’s hospital. Reckon the rotten apple doesn’t fall very far from the crooked tree.

  “The boy’s legal name is Jefferson Davis Blackstone, Junior, named after your father. They call him Jeffie. He’s been living in Galveston with his mother, a woman named Pearl Ramirez, since birth. Have you ever heard the name? Ever hear the old man mention anyone named Pearl?”

  I stared out the window at the dark night sky and twinkling lights below and shook my head.

  “Pearl was a secretary at Blackstone Oil in Galveston. I assume that’s how they met.” Wesley pulled out a sheet of paper covered in columns of numbers. I barely glanced at it.

  “Your dad put his name on the boy’s birth certificate and did everything but marry the mother. He bought them a house in Galveston and set her up with bank accounts with regular deposits from his personal holdings.”

  “So the company wasn’t supporting his whore and their bastard child,” I said after taking a sip of the whiskey. “That’s one good thing, I suppose.”

  Wesley gave me the look he always gave me when he felt I was being a dick—which was most of the time. “God, Con, how can you be so fucking cold? He’s just a little boy.”

  “Someone has to be cold, Wesley,” I shot back. “My old man would have bankrupted this company if I hadn’t taken over when I returned from college six years ago.” I shot back the rest of the whiskey and shook my head. “What was wrong with that old bastard?”

  “That old bastard, as you call him, was one of the nicest, most compassionate men I’ve ever met,” Wesley said. “Unlike you, he cared about people. He wasn’t a self-centered prick who only thought of himself.”

  “Careful, Wesley,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “You work for me now, not my old man. I’m a self-centered prick who would fire his best friend if he had a reason to. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “You wouldn’t fire me, Con,” Wesley said, meeting my gaze without an inkling of fear in his eyes, “because I’m the only friend you have.”

  I waved at him like he was a pesky fly. He still didn’t shut up.

  He said, “Everybody loved Jefferson Blackstone. Very few people love his son. And it’s your own damn fault.”

  My blood began to boil, as it always did when someone intoned the virtues of the great Jefferson Blackstone. I leaned forward and growled at him.

  “All I know is the old bastard was never there when I was growing up,” I said, spitting the words at him. I held out my fingers to tick off all the ways the old man had disappointed me.

  “He wasn’t there when my mom died of a blood clot when I was six. He wasn’t there when his second wife was beating the shit out of me for spilling Kool-Aid on the fucking carpet when I was nine. He wasn’t there when I broke my back riding the horse he gave me as a token gift for my thirteenth birthday.” I wiggled my fingers at him. “Should I go on, Wesley, or do you get the picture?”

  “I get the picture,” he said, holding up his hand. “He was building this company and was never there for you. I get that. But, that does not change the fact that you have a half brother who now has a Dallas lawyer suing for half of everything you own.”

  The flight attendant was standing at the bar, waiting, giving me the eye. I wanted to shove her into the bedroom and take my frustration out on that sweet ass of hers, but Wesley wasn’t done getting on my last fucking nerve.

  “Why is this coming up now?” I asked, forcing my attention back to the topic at hand.

  “When your dad died, he left the boy and his mother set up so they wouldn’t want for anything,” Wesley said, closing the file and resting his hands on it, probably so I couldn’t sling it across the plane. “She got a monthly allowance and the boy has a trust fund that will make him a very wealthy young man when he turns twenty-one.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Pearl Ramirez died two weeks ago,” Wesley said, his eyebrows raised. “Complications from diabetes.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, meaning it. “And the boy?”

  Wesley took a deep breath and opened the file again. He took out a thick document and turned to a page he’d marked with a pink Post-it. He set the document on the table and slid it toward me. He tapped a finger at a short paragraph containing my name.

  He said, “When the boy’s mother died, that activated a clause in your father’s will. The clause concerns the legal guardianship of the boy.”

  I read the paragraph without touching the document. “In the event of the death of Pearl Alice Ramirez, biological mother to Jefferson Davis Blackstone, Junior, all parental rights and guardianship of Jefferson Davis Blackstone, Junior, shall be assumed by…” I looked up at Wesley. He looked like he was about to bust from holding back a smile. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Guardianship shall be assumed by Conner Blackstone,” Wesley said, spinning the document around and tapping the finger to my name. “You’re the boy’s legal guardian now, Con. Like it or not, he is now your responsibility.”

  I sat back and blew out a long whiskey-scented breath. Wesley closed the file and his mouth, knowing this was news that was going to have to sink in for a moment.

  The flight attendant came back with the bottle of Jack to refill our glasses. She pu
t her hand on my shoulder and asked if there was anything else I needed. We both knew what she meant, but I just shook my head. Not even a blow job from those lips would have put me in a good mood.

  I know. I had no right to complain. I’m Conner Blackstone, the thirty-year-old billionaire CEO of Blackstone Enterprises, a company that produces more oil and beef cattle than any other privately-held company in the state of Texas, if not the world.

  I have more money than I could ever spend, more cars and houses and stuff than I could ever use, more women than I could ever fuck, and a little brother I could never love because he reminded me of my old man and all the baggage that came with him.

  I fell back in the plush leather seat and rested my cheek on my fist. I stared out the window at the darkness. “So what now?”

  “The boy is in the care of his aunt for the moment,” Wesley said, “but the attorney expects you to take custody of him as soon as possible. If you refuse to assume custody, then you’ll be sued for half of your inheritance. We’d fight, of course, but odds are we’d lose. The kid is your father’s son and is entitled to his birthright, whether you like it or not.”

  “Great,” I sighed. “Why couldn’t the old bastard just keep his dick in his pants?”

  Wesley glanced over his shoulder at the flight attendant and gave me a knowing smile. “Why can’t you?” When I didn’t answer, he tapped his knuckles on the table. “I’ll talk to the kid’s lawyer in the morning and buy us a couple of weeks. In the meantime, why don’t we get away for a little rest and relaxation? You look like you could use it.”

  I gave him an apathetic shrug. “What are you thinking?”

  “The fall season at Big Sky Ranch starts next week,” Wesley said. “Why don’t we go for opening weekend? Get a massage or two. Eat some fresh-cut steaks. Fuck some cute tourists. Ride the range like real cowboys rather than corporate dandies? Like we used to when we were kids.”

  “Not a terrible idea,” I said with a heavy sigh. I hadn’t been to Big Sky Ranch in years. It was a working cattle ranch south of Amarillo but was open to tourists in the spring and fall to help allay the costs of running the place year-round.

  I called it a “dude ranch” once in front of my dad and I thought he was going to deck me.

  “It’s not a fuckin’ dude ranch, boy,” I remember him saying. “I grew up on that ranch. That’s where I learned all the things I needed to know to be a man. You wouldn’t last a day working a saddle there, so watch your mouth.”

  The ranch covered 75,000 acres and had a main house that was over 38,000 square feet, with twenty-five guest rooms, a five-star restaurant, an indoor pool, a theater, a game room, a gym, and all the amenities you’d expect at the finest hotels in New York City.

  There were also bunkhouses for the twenty or so employees that lived there year around, and room for another thirty or so that came in to work just for the tourist seasons.

  Guests could ride the horses, help round up and brand cattle, shoot guns, learn to rope and ride, and play cowboy and cowgirl, all for just two-thousand dollars a day.

  “Con? What do you think?”

  I shot him a quick glance as I pushed myself out of the chair and smiled at the flight attendant. Maybe a blow job would make things better after all.

  “Make the arrangements and we’ll go on Monday,” I said, giving his shoulder a pat as I passed by. “And we’ll worry about dad’s little bastard later.”

  I knew Wesley was probably shaking his head in disgust behind me as I walked toward Patsy with my hands unbuckling my belt, but I didn’t care.

  All I could think about at that moment was shoving my cock deep into Patsy’s pretty mouth and coming on her pretty face.

  Dad’s little bastard, the lawyers, the entire world outside this plane could kiss my rosy red ass.

  Conner Blackstone was in charge.

  And there wasn’t anything that was going to change that.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER THREE: Miranda

  While Scotty read the twins the story, the false promise of a cell phone still ringing in his ears, I took my cell phone outside to sit on the tiny patio out back of the apartment.

  The patio was a six-by-six-foot slab of cracking concrete that held two rickety lawn chairs I’d found on the side of the road. I usually sat out there late at night, after the twins were asleep and Scotty was god knows where, just taking in the warm night air and staring up at the stars.

  “Hey, Wanda Jean. Sorry about that,” I said with a long sigh. “I was getting the twins to bed. What’s up?”

  “I have amazing news for you!” she said, doing her best Oprah impression. “How would you like to accompany me to Big Sky Ranch & Spa for a month of fun, sun, and manual labor?”

  I felt the breath catch in my throat. “Wanda Jean, are you saying I got the job?”

  “I just got off the phone with my friend at the staffing agency,” she said excitedly. “I told her that you were getting your degree in physical therapy in the spring and would make an amazing masseuse for the fall season that starts on Monday!”

  “Monday?” The breath I’d been holding whined from my lungs like air escaping from a balloon. “That’s in three days.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, first of all, I’m not getting my degree in the spring because I can’t afford the tuition. And second of all, I don’t know if I can find someone to watch the twins on such short notice.”

  “You’ll have the tuition to finish the courses online if you work at Big Sky for a month,” she said. “The pay is amazing and the tips are incredible. You’ll make more money in a month than you would make in six months at the freakin’ Red Lobster!”

  “But the boys. I don’t have anyone to watch the twins.”

  “Leave them with Scotty,” she said seriously.

  “Wanda Jean, Scotty can barely keep himself alive. Do you really think I’d leave the twins in his care?”

  “Miranda, stop making excuses!” she yelled. “When I told you that I would be working at Big Sky as sous chef again this year you asked if there was any job you might do. I told the staffing lady about you and she said they were all full except for this one masseuse position, which pays twice as much as housekeeping or waitressing.”

  “I know, but—”

  “There ain’t no buts here, girl,” Wanda Jean said, her thick Texas accent drawing out the words like a melody. “You took all those massage classes when you were in school. You could be a masseuse with your eyes closed and you know it.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And you need the money. I know you do.”

  “But the twins…”

  “Didn’t you tell me that the twins had an aunt somewhere close by?”

  “Not that close by. Helen’s sister lives in Lakeview.”

  “That’s perfect! Lakeview is on the way to Amarillo, which is where Big Sky is located,” Wanda Jean said merrily, as if she’d just had an epiphany. “Call her and ask if you can drop the twins off for a month on your way.”

  I blinked at the night sky. I could see the twinkling red light of a plane high above. Helen’s sister had told me several times that she and her husband would be glad to take the twins outright. I would never give up custody of my little brothers, but if she would just keep them for a month, that could be the answer to all my prayers.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call her tomorrow and see if she can keep the twins. Scotty will just have to survive here for a month.”

  “I need to tell the staffing lady that you’re definitely coming,” Wanda Jean said. “She’s going to hire someone else if you can’t do it.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Call her back and tell her that I’ll take the job.”

  Wanda Jean squealed into the phone. “Awesome! Okay, we can drive up together. It’s about seven hours, so we’ll need to leave early Monday morning to drop off the twins and be in Amarillo by Monday afternoon.”

  �
�Sounds great,” I said. I thanked her profusely and hung up the phone.

  I sat with my eyes closed for a moment, just listening to the sound of my own breathing.

  For the first time in a long time my heart was beating in my chest and it wasn’t from anger or frustration.

  It was because, for the first time in a long time, I had something to actually look forward to.

  Big Sky Ranch & Spa, here I come!

  CHAPTER FOUR: Miranda

  Oh my god, what an exhausting ride! Four hours in the car with the four-year-old twins screaming from the backseat would have worn anyone out, but I thought poor Wanda Jean was going to just open the door and leap from the car by the time we dropped them at Helen’s sister’s house in Lakeview.

  Wanda Jean stayed in the car, smoking a much-needed cigarette, while I took the twins inside and got them situated. Honestly, I would not have been surprised if Wanda Jean had taken off without me. I was used to the twins’ noise, but in her words, “It was like driving for four hours with your head in a blender!” I was pretty sure Wanda Jean would never have kids.

  The last two hours of the trip were heavenly. Wanda Jean and I rode with the radio blasting and the windows down and the wind in our hair. We drank Cokes and ate peanuts and chatted like two girls who didn’t have a care in the world. There was no one barking orders at me or tugging at my pant leg or threatening to fire me if I didn’t get the fucking shrimp out to table three. It was one of the best times I’d had in a long time.

  “Did you Google the place like I told you to?” she asked as we veered off Interstate 287 to take the exit to Goodnight, Texas, the nearest little town to Big Sky Ranch & Spa.

  “I did,” I said excitedly, as if I was going there to relax rather than to work my ass off. “It looks amazing.”

  “It is way more than amazing,” she said. This would be Wanda Jean’s third season working at Big Sky, which, in her mind, made her an authority on the subject. “You will work your ass off, but there’s lots of downtime, too, and they let you ride the horses and use the pool and eat for free. And if you’re lucky, you’ll get laid every night you’re there by a different cowboy!”