I pause at the door, looking over my shoulder. “No. Only a few people know where I live, and if it’s any of those motherfuckers, they can suffer the consequences of showing up uninvited.”
“You know, it could be the wrong apartment. They might have a kid.”
My fingers brush over my mouth, sick at the thought of traumatizing a child. There is already enough of that in the world. “Fine.” I scoop a pair of basketball shorts off the floor, pulling them on, but my hard cock tents the nylon fabric. Hopefully, it won’t traumatize them too badly because it’s the best I’ve got at this moment.
The bell sounds again, my irritation spewing like shaken ginger ale, as I look through the peephole and find it’s not a small child, but an asshole. Cool metal presses into my palm as I rip the door open, growling at my intruder. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you, too, little brother.” The arrogant asshole claps my shoulder and squeezes past me.
“Most people, I don’t know, call before they come over.” I stand with the door open, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He chooses not to. Graham isn’t stupid. Just stubborn. All his wealth and power haven’t dented his entitlement. Admirable when he applies those devilish resources to others, but when he pulls that CEO shit on me?
“Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”
“Coming with you where?” My stomach already revolts against his demand, knowing where this is going.
“Casey is panicking over everything not being perfect today. I’m choosing to blame the psycho-bitch for fucking with her head. Anyway, it’s either I do it, or she won’t go to her show. There’s not a lot left to do, but too much for me without help.”
Eyes slanting at my brother, my arms fold over my bare chest, and my jaw works side-to-side. “Again, all of this could’ve been relayed with a phone call instead of you muscling your way through my front door.”
He raises a thumb. “A: I did call. Multiple times, in fact. You never answered. You never fucking answer.” That isn’t true. I answer seventy-five percent of his calls and all of Casey’s. He’s choosing to focus on the times I don’t. He ticks another finger. “B: If I didn’t come over here myself, you would refuse. And C: I didn’t muscle my way in. You opened the door.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s still open.”
He runs his tongue over his teeth and his hand through his hair—a trait we both get from our father—reining in his rising temper. I lift a brow, challenging him. Because dammit, pissing him off is almost as good as drugs and alcohol. It’s wrong, and I wish I could say I didn’t imbibe often. The truth is, for the last several months, I imbibe every time we’re in the same room, using my resentment toward him as the excuse. But it’s not the reason. He just happens to wear the younger face of the person I want to lash out at.
“You weren’t at work Friday.”
I’d say the change of topic is whiplash-inducing, but I know it’s not. It’s Graham’s calculating way of snooping.
Okay. Fine. It’s his way of asking if I am okay.
I suppose, given my reaction to him, it’s warranted. If Graham didn’t believe eye contact was a necessity of the world, he’d know why I’m agitated by his presence. One glance a few inches south would reveal the current cause of my irritation and blue balls.
And Poppy is in the shower right now. Drenched and bare, soapy lather sliding down her glistening body. Round, perky tits being caressed by her hands as she washes herself.
It could be my hands, but nooooo…
My damn brother had to make an appearance.
“Jagger!” His bellow snaps me out of my inward sulking.
“What?” My tone matches his, but it loses a bit of momentum when I realize he’s not in front of me anymore.
Regret drops my lashes, tilting my head toward the ceiling. I turn around, walking through my gallery, hoping to God he kept going toward the kitchen instead of where I think he went.
In case no one has noticed, Graham has no fucking concept of boundaries.
Anxiety knots in my chest when I find him in the living room, hovering over the coffee table, with a sheet of paper in his hand. “Care to put that down?” The demand is ground out through clenched teeth, hiding the fact I’m freaking out.
Poppy seeing the song I’d been working on this week didn’t bother me. I think I hoped she’d find it, even if she wouldn’t have a clue what it was about. But Graham?
The pushy asshole who doesn’t know when to let something go?
His eyes meet mine, but I can’t read him. I can never fucking read him. It’s like he mastered the art of RBF before he could tie his shoes. “What’s this?”
“It’s none of your business.” Dammit, I hate the way my voice is already starting to give away my nerves.
