Chapter 3
three
SULLY
Sully
My dreams are turning…daring. I touched him.
My hand trembled over his muscles. That hard bicep, his defined chest and pecs.
So warm. So strong. I felt his heart slowly beating under my fingers.
Bathed in his intoxicating scent, I dove in and felt completely safe.
Because everyone else could smell him on me and knew I was his.
This weekend I’m at Rague and Ollie’s for a barbecue. I’m sitting under the large porch in the backyard near one of the patio heaters. I have the dark green forest behind me and the view of the cottage in front—which Rague renovated and expanded to build extra rooms when I moved in.
I lower the jacket zipper down my chest. Pink is purring on my lap, granting my body extra warmth.
Her eyes glow in the sunlight, giving her white fur an almost ghostly air, even more with the half-gone ear.
Ollie named her after his favorite pop singer because of her ballsy attitude and distinctive raspy meow.
As if on cue, she lets out a gruff, drawn-out sound.
She’s possibly smelling it too, the delicious scent of barbecue in the air.
I need to keep my mouth from watering. Dare, one of the triplets, just started grilling the steaks.
It’s going to take time before they are ready.
I toss a pretzel inside my mouth as I wait.
Ash and Ren are sitting in front of me, bantering as per usual, both holding a bottle of beer.
Four more months and I’ll be legally allowed to drink.
Not that I have never done it before. Where I used to live with my father, alcohol was the only therapy one could get—and the only disinfectant lying around.
“You coming to the shop next week?” Ash suddenly asks, his brown eyes directed at me.
“Yeah. Do I need to make an appointment?” He’s a tattoo artist, a very talented one, and I want to finally get the same ink Ollie and Lori got when they were my age.
A small triangle, each side symbolizing one of us.
The three of us against the world—even though technically, we have the brotherhood at our backs now.
“Nah. Your tattoo is simple, I can easily sneak you in.”
“Just be sure he sterilizes the tattoo bed before sitting. Ugh, the fluid a blue light would uncover,” Ren taunts him.
“My shop is sacred, buttface.” Ash flicks his brother’s forehead.
“Next, you’re going to tell me your dick shoots holy water.” Ren slaps the back of his head.
“At least mine is not a snobbish tool!”
“Pun intended?” Dare asks from the barbecue. His pet squirrel, Fred, is sleeping around his neck. He is the funniest little thing.
Ren ignores his question. “Mine has standards, contrary to your slutty whatever-hole-will-do.”
I know for a fact that they are both very popular with both sexes—but Ash prefers men.
“You are turning into a hoity-toity asshole.”
“Always been like this.” Ren sounds smug about it.
“I bet even in the uterus you had your snooty nose in the air.”
It’s funny how similar and different they look.
They both have blond hair, but Ash’s is longer and always messy.
He’s covered in tattoos, his nose is crooked, and he has a bad-boy air surrounding him.
While Ren looks like a frat bro—cashmere sweaters and straight jeans, perfectly styled hair and inner confidence—with a hint of dark mystery added by his mirrored sunglasses.
“I bet you were arguing even then,” Dare interrupts his brothers’ teasing remarks.
He is completely different from them with his brown hair, gym-rat physique, and ice-blue eyes.
All three have the same exact shape, but not the color.
I once caught a glance of Ren’s dark green ones while Ash’s are brown.
“Are Rami and Hunter coming?” I ask, looking at Pink jumping down from my lap to go to Ren.
“No. They are working on a case,” he lets me know. Hunter is a PI, and from time to time, he asks for his husband’s hacking skills. “Lori and Gabe aren’t either.”
“They are probably working on…someone,” Ash adds before taking a sip of his beer. He means vigilante style.
“They went to a wedding cake testing,” Dare corrects him.
Ash sighs. “Fucking hell. I can’t believe people still get hitched.”
“We know you are only in for the STD-kinda fun,” Ren jokes.
“I’m clean as a whistle, fuck you very much, Mr. Let’s-fuck-and-good-luck.” He sniffs back.
“I’m not against dating in the future.” That’s the first time Ren’s talked about a serious relationship. Just the other day we laughed about it.
“Who’d date you?” His brother sneers.
“Like your ugly mug could ever interest anyone for more than five minutes.”
“You know you look incredibly alike, right?” I tell them.
“The fuck we do!” Ash exclaims.
“Who’s more handsome?” Ren abruptly asks.
“Ahhh,” I make a weak stalling sound.
“Yeah. Who? The pretentious prick or the guy who can ink fabulous designs on your skin?” Ash leans over the table.
“Or the incredible friend who you will move in with next semester.” I can see my panicked face in Ren’s mirrored sunglasses.
“Ink sale.”
“Lower rent!”
My anxiousness rises as they shove me into a proverbial corner, until I exclaim, “Dare!” I point my finger at their brother, who came to the table to get a plate. They both pout, muttering something under their breath, but I’m just happy I was able to save myself.
“You’re all handsome.” Michael’s voice reaches us from the cottage backdoor as he and Raph make their way toward us.
“No, they aren’t,” Raph deadpans.
“Quit the jealousy act. They are.” His husband slaps him on the chest with a happy smile.
“The psycho has no taste,” Ash states, sending Raph the stink eye.
He doesn’t seem to notice it or care. His deep gaze is firmly on his husband. He keeps hold of Michael’s hand as his husband places the other on my shoulder to give it an affectionate squeeze.
Michael became a professor of forensic pathology, anatomy, and toxicology at the University of Chicago.
He also gives lectures all over the country and helps Sari at times in the Bear-Stone’s research labs.
I took his toxicology class last semester.
He’s an amazing professor, very objective and patient—especially with Raph, who waits for him every single time outside class, glowering at whoever goes near him.
Pink suddenly appears near my leg and hisses angrily at Michael.
“She still doesn’t like me,” he huffs.
“Keep her away from my husband if you want her still breathing.” Raph’s threatening voice makes me freeze for a moment.
“Pink would give you hell,” Ren states. Ash hums in agreement.
“Good. I like when they fight back.” Raph places a bag on the table and sits on one of the chairs, pulling Michael onto his lap.
“Leave the pussy alone,” Ash says.
“The fact that you don’t like her doesn’t mean you have to get rid of her,” Dare adds, placing the plate filled with meat on the table. The triplets’ personalities might be different, but they always have each other’s backs.
“He wouldn’t,” Michael interjects, trying to stop the discussion.
“I would if it hurts you,” Raph corrects him. I know he would.
The smell of the steaks makes my stomach growl, but I hurriedly go for Pink instead and hold her against my chest. Not going to give him another reason to turn all murderous toward my cat.
“Kids and pets always have to be protected,” Michael recites the first part of the brotherhood’s code. A list of rules Linda and Meg created when the brothers were growing up, which they have to follow, or… I don’t really know what happens if they don’t.
Raph’s somewhat malicious tsk makes me tighten my arms around Pink.
“Please don’t hurt my cat,” I murmur. My pleading tone is not for Raph—he doesn’t care about my feelings—it’s actually directed at Michael, who can make his husband do whatever he wants.
And he doesn’t disappoint. “Raph, if anything happens to that cat, I’ll sell your entire knife collection on Etsy.” Sounds like a threat to me.
“Piglet.” Raph gives Michael a proud, predatory smile. “What am I going to use in bed then?”
Sheesh. I’ll never understand their relationship. But I envy how perfectly they seem to fit. Like a locket that found its key.
“Get a room!” Ren jokes.
“In the next county would be better,” Ash grumbles as he pierces a juicy steak with his fork before dropping it on his plate.
“Not before you try…” Michael pauses before sliding a large metal tray out of the plastic bag on the table. Oh no! “My paella!” he finishes, lifting the aluminum foil from it.
The silence that falls—better yet, crushes—is filled with dread.
Michael is a terrible cook, and usually his dishes look like something had died and laid its rotten eggs over the plate. But I have to admit that today, his paella doesn’t seem that bad. For starters, there’s no mold-green film over the rice or burnt edges.
“Why is no one trying it?” He moves his gaze over us, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see the others are using the same tactic I am: avoidance.
“Raph?” Michael’s voice has turned pitchy. “Why aren’t you grabbing your fork?”
“You are on my lap, babe.” That’s a pretty lame excuse.
“Bullshit! You don’t trust my cooking skills!” Michael accuses him.
“Trust kills faster than a knife,” Ren retorts darkly.
“But not faster than Michael’s food,” Ash mutters too loudly.
I hear Raph snarling before sliding his fork among the rice, meat, and fish—with some effort—and lifts it to his mouth.
Michael’s eyes sparkle with anticipation as he asks, “How is it? Be honest.”
“Yes, Raph, be honest,” Ash jibes. I’m not afraid of Raph, but I won’t provoke him like Ash does. Sometimes he acts kind of suicidal.
“It’s like a rotten fish has slapped a festering pig with a hell-hot jalapeno in my mouth.” He snatches a bottle of beer and downs it like he is about to die of thirst.
“Another of your unsolicited, rude, and heartless opinions,” Michael growls.