Three
Wes
“So, how was it?” Natasha asks as I slide into the seat next to her at the Bell and Bear, a Limehouse pub run by an old mate of mine.
I reach for her beer and let out a little grunt of annoyance when all I get is the last mouthful at the bottom of the glass.
Gross and not remotely fortifying. Catching the attention of Adam, who’s working behind the bar tonight, I hold up two fingers and then sit back in my chair, comfortable in the knowledge that beer is on its way.
“It was bearable,” I tell Natasha. “Just barely.”
“It can’t have been that bad…”
“Okay, okay, the food was pretty great. But why do those fancy places always insist on smearing the plates with weird purees and garnishing them with little seeds that get stuck in your teeth?”
“I’d have no idea. You’re the blueblood, not me.”
“I’m not rich,” I clarify. “My parents are rich.”
“Wes, that’s the kind of thing only rich people say. I, meanwhile, will just have to continue waiting for a billionaire to come along and take me to all those fancy places,” she says dreamily.
Adam swings by the table and sets two pints of pale ale down in front of us. “You two need anything else?”
“All good,” I tell him.
“Whoa, wait a minute,” Natasha says, holding up a hand to stall Adam. “We haven’t all just come from a fancy French dinner.”
Adam arches a questioning brow at me but I just shake my head.
“What’ll it be, Tash?” Adam asks.
“Just some chips, thanks.”
He nods. “No worries. Won’t be too long.”
“Is that what you tell the people who write to you?” I ask after Adam heads back to the bar. “Just wait for a billionaire?”
She nudges me playfully. “Shut up. I know you think what I do is stupid.”
I shrug. “It earns you a living, doesn’t it? I just don’t want you giving up on your actual writing dreams if you get too busy with the column.”
Natasha writes a love advice column for an online women’s magazine. It’s kind of ironic because she has to be one of the unluckiest people when it comes to her own love life, but for some reason she’s actually really great at doling out advice to others.
“I’m still finding time for my essays,” she assures me. “I’m actually planning on entering one in a competition later this year.”
I offer a broad grin and bump her shoulder with mine. “Tash, that’s amazing. Have you written it yet? Can I see?”
She sighs indulgently and starts digging in her bag for her phone. “It’s just a draft so—oh, hang on, I have a new Dear Sophie email,” she announces, swiping at the screen.
Dear Sophie is the column she writes. Apparently there really was a Sophie once upon a time, but that was back when the magazine first started in the 1950s or something like that, and since then they’ve just kept using the original name for the column.
“I have ten quid on ‘my boyfriend doesn’t want to use a condom’,” I say, grinning into my beer.
“You lose,” Tash pronounces, her eyes gleaming.
Then she turns serious as she reads. “Oh, wow. Listen to this: Dear Sophie, I don’t know why I’m writing to you, I don’t even read your column (no offense or anything, it’s just not my thing), but I need some advice from an objective outsider and I feel more comfortable talking to you than to the weirdos on reddit (no offense if you’re on reddit).
So, here goes…I’m supposed to be getting married soon but I’m not sure if I should be going through with it.
Everyone keeps telling us how perfect we are together and on paper that’s true, but it doesn’t FEEL perfect, you know?
Lately everything with him feels like so much work.
We’re both under a lot of stress and for a while I’ve been putting these doubts down to that.
But I just feel like I’m wading through quicksand, and I’m worried this feeling won’t magically go away the second we say our vows.
I DO love him. I know that. I’m just not sure if I’m IN love with him anymore. And I’m sure he’ll deny it, but I think he feels the same way. He doesn’t even seem to want me physically anymore…
Every time I try to broach the subject, he brushes me off and tells me I’m just stressed and that everything will be fine once the wedding is over.
What do I do?” Natasha glances up from her phone and stares at me, her eyes wide. “Holy shit.”
I let out a hissed breath. “Jesus. What are you going to tell her? Or them, I guess I should say—they didn’t specify their gender, did they?”
Natasha shakes her head thoughtfully. “No. Just that their fiancé is male.” She gives a small shrug.
“I suppose I’ll just tell them that it’s normal to have doubts, but that it’s unlikely for their problems to magically disappear after the wedding day.
If they’re not happy with their life now , well… ”
I grimace and take another swig of my pint. “Well, at least this job’s not dull.”
She sighs and sets her phone down. “No, but I do worry sometimes about the impact my advice has. I’m not a licenced therapist. Far from it.”
I shrug. “You’re not claiming that you are. Anyone who writes to you could go see a professional if they really wanted.”
“New topic,” she declares, slipping her phone back into her bag. I decide not to comment that I still haven’t read her essay. I’ll get to it another time; clearly right now she wants to be distracted.
I drain the last of my beer and set my pint back on the table. “Sir Devon had a go at me about my new tatt tonight.”
Natasha’s brows shoot up. “Why?”
I groan, tossing my head back. “Who knows? I guess really hot ink affects his delicate sensibilities.”
Adam returns to our table to give Tash her chips. He doesn’t linger this time, though, instead just giving a brief nod before hurrying back to the bar, where the sole remaining bartender—Jess—is struggling to keep up with a sudden rush.
“Shit, I need a shag,” I grumble.
Natasha lets out a sputtering laugh and sets her glass down with a thunk against the wooden surface of the table. “That was a weird transition.”
“Huh?”
“One second, we’re talking about Devon not liking you’re ink and the next you’re whining about needing sex…” she trails off, her eyes travelling toward the bar. “Or was it Adam? Have you two—?”
I shake my head adamantly. “No. Sod off. That was one time, years ago.”
She holds her palms up. “Okay, okay. I was just wondering.”
“And please never mention ‘Devon’ and ‘sex’ in the same sentence again,” I beg. “I mean, I know my sister loves him for god knows what reason, but if that guy is capable of giving a woman an orgasm, then I’m the fucking pope. I’d probably be better at it than he is.”
Natasha’s face screws up. “Eww, are you suggesting trying to give your sister an orgasm?”
I jolt in alarm at her words, my beer sloshing everywhere. “What? No! Why would you say that?”
“Because—”
Before she can explain, I play my words back in my head and let out a loud groan. “That’s not what I meant. Jesus.”
I give an involuntary shudder and take a sip of my beer.
Clearly, I was caught up in my vehement protestations about Devon and didn’t filter my words properly.
The thing is there’s something Natasha doesn’t know.
Something that I will never in a million years admit to her or anyone else.
And that is that I do think of Devon and sex together.
A lot. Far more than is healthy. He’s pretty much the biggest twat on the planet, and yet my dirty brain doesn’t seem to care.
All it and my cock have ever noticed is his fit body, his tight arse, and those full, red lips that are simply begging to be wrapped around a cock. My cock.
Yep, worst brother in the world right here.
But it’s not as though I would ever actually act on these thoughts.
Fantasy is one thing; reality is a whole other story.
And if Devon hates me now, I can only imagine the skyrocketing of hostility if he ever got wind of some of the fantasies playing out in my dirty mind.