Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
Renn
“It’s been fifteen,” I shout, holding the door open until Blakely and her suitcase get through it.
She uses a few colorful words to get the behemoth over the threshold.
“You could’ve just let me pull it,” I say, repeating the offer I gave her no less than twenty times since we left her room.
“I’m capable.”
“Barely.”
She jams her elbow into my stomach. I humor her by groaning.
Her cheeks are still pink from our conversation a few minutes ago. The rosiness makes me wonder what she looks like after an orgasm—something I’ve wondered too many times to count.
How could I not think about that ? Blakely Evans is a wild mix of beautiful, pretty, and sinful.
High, sculpted cheekbones. Delicate, soft shoulders. Dangerously wicked curves.
A gold fleck shines in her eyes when she’s turned on. She nibbles her bottom lip when she’s nervous. She smells like cinnamon and oranges and tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s feeling self-conscious.
Her looks got my attention many years ago, but her personality kept it. And if she wasn’t my best friend’s little sister, and if I was a man who wanted a girlfriend, I might risk asking her out. But it would be a risk because it’s Blakely. She might be the only woman who would turn me down. She’s also the only woman I’ve ever considered as the elusive what-if, too.
“ Oh my God, Renn ,” Blakely says, abandoning her bag in the foyer and hurrying into the suite. “This is incredible. ”
“I really hoped you’d be saying that in a different capacity right about now, but whatever,” I mutter loud enough for her to hear.
She looks at me over her shoulder and grins.
Damn her .
When Brock suggested that we fly to Vegas this morning, I was on board immediately.
Being around Blakely always feels like a vacation—like a break from reality. She doesn’t treat me like I’m anything special. With her, I’m not a professional athlete who can further her career with my contact list. She doesn’t give a damn that my family is one of the wealthiest in the country. Does she even know that ? I don’t have to worry about ulterior motives, or if I say or do something dumb, she will send it to the tabloids.
Or, worse, an attorney.
I lean against the wall and watch her take in the space.
“Have you stayed here before?” she asks, her fingers trailing along the wet bar. “Or did you just luck into this?”
“I’ve stayed here a couple of times.” Like the time I bought it .
She hums, strolling through the sitting room and past a spiral staircase that sold me on the property. I didn’t need, or want, a place in Vegas—or anywhere for that matter. But Dad kept chirping at me to secure a place to relax. “You need a getaway, son. You can’t be a wanderer forever.” And Gannon was on my ass about investing my money in real estate to diversify and hedge against inflation , whatever that means.
So I did the one thing that I could think of that would be taking their advice while also irritating the fuck out of them. I found a new hotel selling penthouse suites and bought one. In Sin City .
“Holy shit. Look at this ,” Blakely says, getting to the other end of the sitting area.
The far side opens into an airy atrium. The ceilings are high, opening to the loft above it, and it’s enclosed on two sides by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. A long white marble table sits in the center of the room. I have no idea its purpose because the kitchen is on the far side of the suite, but it came with the place.
Blakely stops at the glass wall and stares across the sea of buildings and flashing lights.
“Wait until it’s dark,” I say. “It’s even more impressive then.”
“I don’t know how it could be. Just look at that .” She motions toward the outside, eyes sparkling. “It’s like you’re in a castle up here. It’s incredible.”
Her excitement delivers a satisfaction that knocks me sideways.
When I first met Blakely, she was dating Edward fucking DiNozzo—a giant asshole who didn’t deserve her. We’ve played on the same team a couple of times. He’s the worst . I sat across from her at dinner that night, trying not to stare.
She was timid that evening, anxious even. It was like she was a woman dying to contribute more to the conversation but was afraid the world would burn down if she did. It was a challenge that night to get her to laugh. Granted, I wanted to make it happen to piss off a haughty DiNozzo just as much as I wanted to hear it for myself. But once she gave it to me—a bright, head-thrown-back giggle, I made it my mission to get her to respond like that as often as I could.
And it got easier every time we saw one another. Granted, it was only a few times a year. After she ended things with DiNozzo, being around her on my trips home was even better. She was fun, inquisitive, and so fucking sweet. We could sit and talk all night long and have it feel like an hour.
Things might’ve gotten interesting back then if I hadn’t been working halfway across the world. Now that we’re both in Nashville? Things could get interesting.
“Come on, cutie.” I motion for her to follow me. “There’s a lot more to see.”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll pull a chair up to the glass and sleep here. I’m easy to please.”
“Good to know. I’ll note that for later.”
She grins. “I thought you were waiting on me to beg.”
Fire shoots through my veins, and it takes every ounce of control I can muster not to lay her on that fucking table and tease her until she gives in.
“Keep it up,” I say. “I’ll have you doing it on your knees.”
Her flush deepens. The color staining her face and neck makes my cock throb.
“You wish,” she says, smirking.
Damn right, I do .
If Brock overheard this conversation, he’d murder me. No questions asked. And if I went through with it? He’d hurt me so badly that he’d end my career. There’s not a doubt in my mind about that either.
The worst part ? I can’t blame him.
I like to think I’m not as bad as the media makes me out to be. The headlines make it sound like I’m cold and callous, blowing through women with no care in the world. And while I never feel attached to any of them, I do remember they’re someone’s daughter.
But sometimes respect isn’t what they want.
And what they want is something I won’t give them. Any of them .
Keep it moving, Brewer .
“I’m staying in this bedroom,” I say, clearing my throat and pointing at a door on the other side of the table.
“Great.” Blakely fixes the knot of dark hair on top of her head. “Where am I sleeping if I’m banned from the chair?”
“I’ll show you. Let’s get your bag first.”
She follows me into the foyer. “I think I’ll let you carry it this time.”
“Gee, thanks for letting me. You’re so nice.”
She laughs. “I have lactic acid in my arms, okay? I’m not used to that much physical exertion.”
“That’s your fault. I tried to get it for you.” I grab the handle of her suitcase and point at the closed doors with my other hand. “Powder room. I have no idea if there’s food in the kitchen. Brock and Ella’s room is down that hallway.”
Our footsteps pad softly against the stone floor. It fills the suite with a warmth I’ve yet to feel here.
“After you,” I say, sweeping my hand across the steps.
She looks at the landing above our heads. “My room is up there?”
“If you want the giant bathtub, it is.”
“I do want that.” Blakely starts up the steps, looking at me over her shoulder. “Good luck with that suitcase. Bet you wish you gave me a downstairs bedroom now, don’t you?”
Her ass cheeks peek out from beneath her cover-up.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say, gripping the banister.
I think she’s going to cover herself. Instead, she pulls the back of the fabric up to her waist and gives me a full view of the curve of her cheeks. Her bikini bottoms barely cover anything, showcasing the roundness of her behind, the deep dip of her hips, and the soft glow on her skin left from the sun.
My cock pulses so hard that I grimace. Fuck .
“Careful,” I warn. “That looks a lot like begging.”
She gets to the top of the staircase and drops the fabric, hiding herself from me again. A coy grin slides across her lips. “Oh, that wasn’t begging, Renn. I can be a lot more persuasive than that.”
“I bet you can.” I yank her suitcase up with a thud. “Wanna show me?”
She feigns surprise. “That looks a lot like you asking me twice.”
“That’s called giving you a chance to get what you want.”
Her grin is full of mischief. “Do you even know what I want?”
I take a step toward her, watching gold flecks sparkle like stars in her eyes. “Tell me so I’m sure.”
She leans forward, giving me a clear view of her cleavage. Her bikini top has slipped. A line curves across her round tits, displaying a tan line just above her nipples.
My. God.
I’m not going to make it. I’m going to die a death by blue balls. No one will believe it. It’ll be the only true headline ever printed and the only one no one believes.
“I want a giant bathtub,” she whispers.
And I want to join you in that giant bathroom, you little tease.
“Go,” I say as she laughs. “Put some distance between us. Now .”
She giggles but does as I ask. She rounds the corner beside the wet bar that gives the main bedroom privacy from the staircase. As soon as she’s out of sight, I hear her shriek.
“ Renn !”
I smile at the sound, adjusting myself as I head toward the bedroom I use when I’m in town.
The view from this floor is amazing. It’s the best view in the entire suite, but also in the entire hotel. The loft is open to the atrium. But, with a push of a button, a wall descends from the ceiling, creating privacy and a shield against the morning sun ... or visitors below.
My cheeks split into a wide smile as I watch her enter the attached bathroom and squeal again. I knew she’d love it.
Her head pokes around the corner, eyes wide as saucers. “Okay, this tub is massive . And did you see the view from there?”
I chuckle. “I saw it.”
“I might live here. Seriously. I might never leave.”
“ Where are you ?” Brock calls from below.
Blakely jumps. Yeah, I forgot they were here too .
I jam a thumb over my shoulder and exhale. “I’ll see what they’re up to while you get situated. Was this worth staying with us? I don’t want to disappoint you.”
She hurries to me and presses a soft kiss against my cheek, careful not to make further contact. “You’re the best. Thank you, Renn.”
“You’re very welcome. Happy birthday.”
She takes her suitcase and wheels it into the closet.
This will be one long weekend.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love Blakely’s affection. Coming from a large, tactile family, hugs and kisses are par for the course. Except with Gannon. Fuck Gannon . But outside the family? I don’t trust anyone’s touch … or agenda.
Usually . Blakely is an exception.
“Renn!” Brock shouts.
“Hold on, dammit,” I shout back, shaking my head. Give me a second so you don’t see me hard over your little sister, please and thank you very fucking much .
I descend the stairs and then head toward the kitchen. Brock is opening a bottle of water when I enter.
“I thought you forgot how to tell time.” I take a bottle too. Maybe this will help cool me off.
“Sorry. Ella was really mad.”
“Bet you hated that.” I take a long drink, my adrenaline beginning to ease. Ella bounces down the hallway. “Hey, El. What’s the plan tonight? Don’t the two of you have something you want to do?”
“Kinda.” She laughs. “But not anymore. I’ll talk to Blakely and see what she wants to do. She ruled out tattoos and piercings, so those are a no-go.”
Brock and I exchange a curious glance.
“Nice suite, Renn, by the way,” Ella says, poking her head through the doorway. “Where’s Blakely?”
“Upstairs.”
She pivots on her heel and heads that way.
“That girl is a ball of energy,” I say.
Brock chuckles. “You have no idea . She just bit the fuck out of me.” He clasps a hand over his shoulder. “Not complaining but fucking hell . It hurt.”
I laugh.
“So about tonight …” He yawns. “I just want to make sure my sister has a good time and is safe. She’s been stressed over this birthday, and I want her to start it off on the right foot.”
“Stressed? About what?” I ask, taking another swallow of water.
He shrugs. “I tried to follow along. But all I got was wrinkles, calcium pills, and a sperm bank.”
I cough, water spewing across the kitchen. My words from earlier echo through my brain. “I have an idea … You can have a baby and tell my mom it’s mine.”
“Are you all right?” Brock asks, concerned yet curious.
“Yeah.” I suck in a breath before coughing again. My voice is raspy, my throat burning. “I’m fine.”
“Okay …”
I sputter until I can breathe easily again. Just as I recover, Ella comes bopping by again.
“We decided on dinner, and we’re leaving in an hour, boys,” Ella says, heading back to her room. “Brock, can you grab my luggage? I need to shower. And do one of you two think you can pull your magic I’m famous card and get us a reservation?”
“I’ll do it,” Brock says. “I’ll grab your suitcase, and you can tell me where you want to go.”
“Thanks, babe.”
“See ya in an hour, I guess,” he says to me.
Judging how long “fifteen minutes” is in his book, will we even see them again tonight?
“See ya,” I say.
I empty the water bottle and then toss it in the garbage. I need to stop with the single-use plastics . I also need a shower—and a blow job, but that looks out of the question.
Irritated, I head toward my room. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my texts.
Ripley: You didn’t wind up with my sunglasses in your bags, did you? The ones with the gold frames that I wore to the concert.
Me: Nope. Did you ask Tate? It would be a very Tate thing to wind up with your glasses.
Ripley: Funny. He said the same thing about you.
I roll my eyes, bumping my room door shut with my hip.
Ripley: Remember Carly from the Beau McCrae after-party?
Me: I’m bad with names.
Ripley: Of course. Let me try again. Red hair. Ginormous ass. Black leather skirt. Hung out with us for a while.
Oh, yeah . I grin.
Me: Turns out I’m great with adjectives.
Ripley: Well, she wants your number. Said she hit you up on Social but didn’t know if you’d ever see it.
Me: I never check that shit. It’s a sea of sharks.
I move away from the text app and open Social instead.
Ripley: I figured.
My eyes bulge at the number of unread messages in my account.
Me: The last time I responded to a girl on Social, it cost me a cease laughing emoji
“There was nothing funny about that,” I mumble, hitting my profile picture. I find my followers list and click it. My stomach swirls as I type in Blakely’s name.
Ripley: So, Carly? Yes or no on the number?
Blakely Evans follows you.
“That’s my girl.” I open her profile page, entirely too satisfied by this revelation. “ Holy fucking shit . Why have I never looked at this before?”
Each picture provides a deeper insight into her world.
I sit on the edge of my bed and swipe through her posts. Blakely with Ella. A stack of books—romances, maybe. A cup of coffee. Blakely with Brock when they were younger, posted with a story about Christmas morning.
Ripley: Don’t ignore me, asshole.
Me: I’m busy.
I type Tate’s name in the search bar. Once I’m on his profile, I ignore the plethora of shirtless images and click on his followers.
Ripley: So that’s a no to Carly?
I growl, going back to the texts.
Me: No to Carly.
Ripley: Good choice. clapping emoji
I pause.
Me: Was this some kind of test from Dad and Gannon?
Ripley: laughing emoji
“Fucker.”
I open the app again, and this time, I type Blakely’s name into Tate’s followers.
No users found .
“Ha,” I say, laughing as I drop my phone onto the bed. With more satisfaction than I should have, I head for the shower.