3. Milo
3
MILO
I don’t know where my camel towing shirt is.
Yes, as in that camel toe.
Black, with the picture of a tow truck, a camel silhouette on the door, with the words “Camel Towing—When it’s wedged in tight, we’ll pull it out” across the front, it’s been one of my favorites since my brother Hux gave it to me a few Christmases back. Right up there with the “Bearded for her pleasure” one he’d given me the year before.
Both of which our mama, Miss Belle, hates. Although not as much as the one that features a candy cane and says, “It’s not going to lick itself.” She hates that one the most.
Then again, with seven kids, six of whom are boys, Mama got lucky that the worst thing she has to worry about is me wearing borderline inappropriate T-shirts in public. At least now. As teens we gave her plenty of trouble, but Gus, Huxley, Anton, Jace, Ewan, and I—plus our younger sister, Willa—all grew up to be good contributing members of society. Each one of us works for the family business, solidifying the future of the empire that our family has worked so hard on for generations .
Shifting my truck into park, I kill the engine, my mind consumed with where this damn shirt is. The thought that I hadn’t seen it in a hot minute hit me shortly after merging back onto the highway after dropping Brandt off and hasn’t left. It’s a long drive to and from the Atlanta airport—three hours each way—leaving me with plenty of open road to let my mind wander.
And it wandered to this shirt.
Not any of the really important things I need to focus on. Like naming a beer. Working with Rose Adler and Bronwyn Ainsworth, Hayes’s director of marketing, on a Christmas campaign for All Snowed Gin. Coordinating with Willa, her two best friends Sylvie Forde and Kenzie Wilder, and the rest of the committee on anything and everything Rhythm and Brews related. Getting Drafts and Dig In, our newest endeavor of a food truck night at Pour Decision up and running.
But mostly naming this beer.
Because this beer needs a damn good name. It’s a damn good beer. Light, fun…borderline whimsical. If a beer can be such a thing.
Slamming the truck door behind me, I glance at my watch, trying to math out if I have enough time to do a walk through the brew house before I head up to shower and change to open up the taproom.
It’s Wednesday, so the local knitters will be hitting us up at about five thirty for what they are now calling “Pints and Purls,” but the Rhythm and Brews committee will be at the library until seven, so my sister and friends won’t wander over until about seven thirty. Add in the few Hayes employees looking to grab a beer after work, and it’s nothing that Ben, the local kid back for the summer from Georgia Southern, won’t be able to handle if I’m a few minutes late getting down there .
When we decided to create Pour Decisions, our original thought was we’d open up Friday and Saturday nights, as a more low-key option to the only other watering hole around, The Giddy Up, a local honky-tonk out at the county line. What we hadn’t realized was how popular the idea would be and the sub groups of residents in Hickory Hills that would turn it into a meeting place.
Now we’re open evenings, Wednesday through Friday, and Saturday starting at lunchtime. Most of the time it’s either Brandt or me behind the bar, with the help of our siblings in a pinch. Getting Southern Brothers up and running was a dream come true. Having to open our taproom extra hours because it’s an in demand hot spot—well, words don’t cover that.
“Hot spot,” I say out loud, walking toward the brew house. “Hot spot.”
The name is easy enough to spout out, but something about it feels off. Doesn’t taste quite right. Maybe because nothing about a beer should be hot.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, stealing my attention. I pull it out, glancing at it quickly, the message from Mrs. Franco over at Little Slice of Heaven, Hickory’s Hills’s pizza joint, kick-starting my pulse into gear.
Mrs. Franco
Pizzas for Pints and Purls are almost done. Will y’all be coming to get them, or do I need to send Dan over?
Shit. I totally spaced that Holly Stillman said she was going to start ordering pizzas for Pints and Purls. She’d run the idea by Brandt and me last week, wanting to be respectful of our business, which we appreciated. We also had been kicking ourselves for not thinking of it sooner.
Mind sending Dan over? Just got back from dropping Brandt off, running a little behind
No problem! Expect him in about 15
Fifteen minutes?
I do an about-face, turning back toward the old, converted warehouse that houses everything but the brewing operation, picking up my pace. I can’t leave Ben all alone to open up and set up for something he doesn’t even know is happening.
All of this doesn’t leave much time for a shower, but that part isn’t optional. I can still smell the mash on me from mixing it up this morning, and while I think the strong, yeasty smell is perfection, not everyone does. It’s overpowering if you’re not used to it. And the last thing I need with a full house this evening is to be off-putting, or deal with my sister’s comments about it smelling like vomit. Maybe that’s why the new gal at Dye Hard went a little crazy cutting my hair; she was too distracted by the smell.
Plus, I still need to find my shirt.
The apartment is quiet when I open the front door. I don’t know what I expected—it’s not like Brenna was going to throw a rave while I drove her brother to the airport—but the feeling is unsettling, nonetheless. Like something is missing.
Oh wait, that’s right—my loud and obnoxious best friend. How could I forget?
“Brenna?” I call out, considering for a moment that she isn’t as loud as Brandt, who always has either the TV or the stereo on. I swear, that guy is afraid of silence.
The lack of response tells me I’m all by myself, which is probably better. I don’t have time for a distraction at the moment. I need to find my shirt, shower, and head down to Pour Decisions. And let’s be honest here, finding my shirt might get cut short. Because I am on borrowed time, and I don’t have a spare second to rummage through the pile of laundry that?—
Laundry.
A light bulb sparks above my head, the realization hitting me. Brandt did a whole bunch of laundry before he packed. Including some of mine, none of which made it back to me. I can only assume that where it did end up was in his room.
Bingo.
Without another thought, I climb up the metal stairs that lead to his room. The door is ajar, and I don’t think twice about pushing it open.
Then I see her.
I freeze, jaw slack, mouth agape, my heart stopping as I take in the scene in front of me.
The purely erotic scene in front of me.
My eyes dance down the naked form in front of me, drinking in the most perfect pair of tits I’ve ever seen. More than enough to fit in my hand, begging to be squeezed, with dusty-pink nipples that are calling my name, my tongue already aching to tease them. Head thrown back in passion, clearly lost in her own pleasure, a soft whimper escapes, the teal vibrator between her legs moving just enough to show off a bare, glistening pussy. One that makes my mouth water.
My dick stiffens in an instant, my whole body wanting nothing more than to join her. To make her make those noises again. To turn those soft whimpers and moans into all-out screams. Preferably with my name attached.
I’m so turned on it isn’t funny.
So turned on I could jackhammer concrete with my dick.
But just as quickly as I’m overcome with lust, does the realization of what I’m looking at hit me.
Of who I’m looking at .
Brenna.
“Oh fuck!”
The words are out of me faster than I can think. Before I can stop myself and only say them internally. They’re also a lot louder than I intended.
“Ahhhh!”
Brenna shrieks, her whole body jerking as she sits up, sending the vibrator flying. It hits the ground with a thud, the soft buzzing the only thing filling the air. She and I both scramble—her to cover up and me to get the fuck out of the room as fast as I can.
“Milo…I…”
“Oh my God, Brenna, I’m sorry, I…”
I move backward, awkwardly trying not to look at her, while covering my erection like a thirteen-year-old boy walking the halls of junior high. It's a weird shuffle, my feet like cement blocks that won’t lift and can only move an inch at a time.
“I didn’t think you were home, I?—”
I start to respond, to cut her off and explain…something. I don’t even know what. Because there’s no explanation for this. No way to make it right that I just walked in on my best friend’s baby sister getting herself off.
And I liked it.
Really, really liked it.
As in, this will fuel my own self-love moments.
No, no, no. This is Brenna…
“I should have knocked. I’m sorry, I…I have to go.”
I twist, trying to make a break for the door. I need to get out of here. Need to put space between me and a very gorgeous—and very naked—Brenna Rawlins. Who, despite how sexy she looked in that moment, is still a sister. A baby sister at that .
I also need to give my dick some relief. Thinking of anything other than her.
Good luck, dude…
Taking a step, my foot gets caught in something, making me stumble. I flail my arms, trying to keep my balance, but it’s no luck, and ass over teakettle I go.
“Milo!”
Brenna rushes to me, helping me up. I huff out a breath, ready to thank her. As if this wasn’t embarrassing enough.
That is, until I look up and am face-to-face with her breasts, which are still calling my name. It’s taking everything I have in me not to reach out and swipe one with my tongue. But that would be wrong. So, so wrong.
My dick surges, a whole new rush of lust coursing through me. Fuck, is she stunning. Has she always looked this good?
“Oh, shit!” Brenna exclaims, letting go of me. She must have realized where my face is and that she’s still just as naked. Hopefully she didn’t also realize I was half a second away from motorboating her.
The two of us scurry away from each other, Brenna landing back on the bed, hastily wrapping the covers around her. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, simultaneously thankful that she’s covered and disappointed that I can’t get an up close look.
Seriously, I need to go.
“I’ll…I’ll catch you later!”
This time I make it out the bedroom door without tripping, moving down the stairs faster than I've ever moved before. I don’t bother looking at the time, knowing that I’m late. But there’s nothing I can do about that now. Because on top of smelling like mash, I’m hard as fucking granite and worried that no amount of jacking off is going to change that .
Worse than that, I’m sure not anything will ever erase from my mind just how magnificent Brenna looked in that moment. That no matter what, I’ll always see her, hear her, when I close my eyes. That I’ll never be able to forget the way she’s making me feel right now.
Or that I don’t want to forget.