Page 27 of The Bad Brother
Somewhere in his early thirties and well over six-foot with a frame packed with long, lean muscle, River’s boss was not what I expected. The closer he got, the harder it was to breathe because I expected old and grizzled, not…that. Dark hair and a firm angular jawline, shadowed by scruff. A generous mouth set under a nose that might’ve been considered aristocratic at one time before suffering multiple breaks. Instead of disrupting the composition of his face, it made it better. More masculine.
And then there were his eyes.
One blue and one green.
The condition is called heterochromia.
There was a very short, general unit on genetics in med school. That’s one of the few things I remember.
While River was introducing us, they shamelessly raked over me, lingering on my breasts just long enough to be considered indecent, before meeting my gaze with a knowing smirk.
Instead of offended, I was turned on.
And sitting there, staring at River’s boss while heblatantly ogled me, I realized that I haven’t felt that way in a very long time. Certainly not to this degree and not from something as innocuous as a simple look. Offering him my hand, I expected a jolt of electricity the moment we touched but then he looked down and saw the bracelet my mother gave me a few years ago and it all went to shit from there.
Get rid of her.
I’m sure he expected it to be as easy as that. That he’d toss out his command and storm off, believing he’d never have to see me again. Too bad for him that I’m not only desperate, I’m—as I’ve recently discovered—stubborn.
I never have been before. I’ve always found it easier to go with the flow. The only thing I insisted on was med school and I think the only reason my mother supported it was because she was sure I’d meet and marry a doctor—not actually become one. In every other aspect of my life, I’ve allowed her to dictate and lead. Pressure and manipulate.
How to dress.
Who to date.
Who to marry.
Ethan Pryce is a catch, Sloane. He’s rich, handsome, and comes from a good family. What more could you possibly want?
How about loyalty. Someone who cares about how you feel and values what you think. Someone who supports your career and is proud of your accomplishments.
Someone who’d never send you a video of your best friend giving him a blowjob while criticizing your own lack of skill and enthusiasm in the bedroom.
You suck me so much better than she does…
You hear that, Sloane… she’s choking on my cock the way you never would…
It’s not like I didn’t try.
I did everything I could think of to please him, even when I didn’t want to. Even when what he was asking me to do made me uncomfortable. It was just never good enough. I’m ashamed to say that it took seeing Ethan’s betrayal with my own eyes to finally understand the truth. The problem was never me and for the first time in my life, I know it.
Checking my phone, I note the time—11AM. I haven’t slept that late in… forever. Deciding that I refuse to feel guilty about it, I text Dr. Ragnar to let her know that my shit is together, as ordered, and that I have a place to live. Snapping a picture of the living room and sending it along with my message for good measure, I receive a reply almost immediately.
Ragnar: Excellent. See you tomorrow. You’ll be working the noon to midnight shift for the foreseeable future.
Relieved that something has finally gone my way, I decide to use my final day off to settle into my new place.
Lugging my suitcase up the stairs, I find a spacious sleeping loft with a gorgeous four-poster bed, flanked by a pair of matching nightstands.
Setting my suitcase on the bed, I start to unpack. Carrying a stack of scrub pants to the dresser, I open it to find a few pairs of expensive women’s underwear—La Perla. I own several pieces myself, bought at my mother’s insistence.
It’s your responsibility to keep Ethan interested. Honestly,Sloane, how can you do that when you wear bras from Target of all places?
Laughing a little to myself, I gather the abandoned underwear and set them on top of the dresser before dumping my scrub pants into the drawer. Curious now, I start to poke around in earnest. Telling myself it isn’t snooping because I live here, I quickly realized that the woman who lived here before me didn’t just leave behind a few pair of fancy underwear—she left behind an entire life.
Tampons and expensive shampoo under the upstairs bathroom sink. Face creams and pink razors in the medicine cabinet. In the nightstand next to the bed, I find a tube of hand cream—the same kind my mother uses—a hairbrush with long blonde hair still caught in its bristles, a pack of expired birth control pills, and a hot pink vibrator, the sight of it reminding me that it’s been months since I’ve had a decent orgasm.
Slamming the drawer closed, I make my way to the closet to find a Chanel blouse with a missing button in the back of it. A pair of scuffed Jimmie Choos kicked into its corner.
