74. Hate Flirting Only Without the Hate
HATE FLIRTING ONLY WITHOUT THE HATE
brIGHTON
His words level me.
Just you wait hangs in the air as he kisses the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine, and walks away. If I could move I would, but I’m rooted to the spot.
The evidence of us runs down my thigh. As much as I want it gone, there’s a part of me—one that I’ll admit to no one—that wants it to stay, even for a moment.
Babies.
Eli’s babies.
Every teenage fantasy I had ended with babies and Elias Finchley.
Every.
Single.
One.
My nose burns, but I won’t let myself cry.
I look to the ceiling. I’m in my laundry room. In my home. Where I just got good and laid so I smile, feeling joy bubble up in me like champagne.
It’s this moment when his hands meet my body and a warm washcloth removes the evidence of us.
One day, I tell myself. One day.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” I draw out the rude apart of the syllable as I turn to face him. “It’s Brax’s birthday. Let’s take him out. He’s been holed up too long.”
“Do I get to tell him?”
“Maybe. We’ll play it by ear.”
“Sure, but, darlin’?”
“Yeah?”
“You need to get that freshly-fucked look off your face or you’re going to give it all away.” His grin is unmistakable as he tosses the cloth into the washer. “And you can put your hand on your hip all you want, but it doesn’t mean you don’t look satisfied.”
He turns to walk away but mutters loud enough for me to hear, “I put that look there.”
I’d growl, but my smile is too big to try it.
Yeah, he did.
I push Braxton’s front door open only to stop dead, quickly rear ended by Elias who doesn’t expect me to freeze just as I cross the threshold.
“What—” Eli never finishes his sentence, because Brax makes some smart-ass comment.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as if it weren’t obvious.
He and Emberleigh, Colt’s less favorite aunt, are standing near the hall and they look… intimate. What the hell?
“We didn’t mean to interrupt,” I start, but can’t finish because I’m lost as to what in the world is happening. That woman wants to take my nephew—legally challenge his custody, that is—and he’s cozying up to her? Brax is not stupid, but this is as dumb a decision as he could make.
“We’ll just…” I turn on my heel and smack directly into Eli who hasn’t moved from my back, stepping on his feet. I mumble an apology.
“I only walk on the bottoms. I guess you can walk on the tops.” Leave it to Eli to diffuse a situation that feels like a powder keg.
“What are you doing here, Bright? Eli?” Brax asks.
“Brighton and I were talking about grabbing a beer. Thought we’d invite you and Emberleigh along.” Eli’s recovered from the situation faster than I have and takes the lead.
Thank God, because I’m still flabbergasted. This makes three times in one day I’ve been speechless. I really should mark this date for the record books.
“Thanks. Can’t tonight.” The response is not cold, but plainly stated. “Just got home. I need to check on Colt—”
“Colt’s fine if you want to go,” Emberleigh says, adding to the conversation tentatively.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” he says to her. He’s annoyed, but I’d bet money it’s directed at me, not her.
“Where are y’all going to get a beer?”
“Crooners.”
“Karaoke?” Eli asks behind me. I wish he would’ve just rolled with it. I have no fucking clue. I didn’t expect this when I walked in the door and am winging it. Poorly, I’ll add. I could use some back-up.
“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Emberleigh says, extending an olive branch.
“Well, I can for both of us. I have a few talents. Singing is one. Barrel racing is another. Target shooting is another.”
“No one should risk pissing Bright off,” Eli says, giving me a nudge into the room. “She’ll either shoot you or sing ‘Jolene’ on repeat until you want to die.”
“Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,” I belt out. That man should know better than to bait me or diss the queen. If the world is the sky, Dolly is the sun.
Nobody messes with Dolly.
I stop in my song when I notice an addition to Braxton’s living room. There’s no doubt in my mind he had nothing to do with it, because it’s art.
It’s a photo printed on canvas with Colt peeking over Marron. Brax is in it, but he’s not the focus. His presence is almost like a frame—it helps your eye focus on what the artist wants you to see. In this case, the image is about contrasts.
My nephew’s tiny pale hands rest on Marron’s large dark face.
His vulnerability. Her power.
She’s tenderly nuzzling him. His face is bursting with laughter.
I have to give it to Emberleigh. The shot is stop-you-in-your-tracks stunning. “Oh my God, I love this. I didn’t know you took this. It’s amazing.”
Her presence at Windrunner’s birth didn’t make me happy.
That’s not fully true.
I was only thinking of Marron and the foal. This woman’s presence was ancillary. But her intrusion in our family still doesn’t sit right with me.
And then there’s this. The two don’t mesh.
“You can target shoot. I can photo shoot. Mine is less lethal.”
“You can afford to miss too.” I give her a real smile, despite my concerns.
This is her making this house a home for Colt. It’s securing his position here. It’s about him. And I can’t say anything bad about that. After all, he’s my nephew and, as such, is practically perfect.
“Brax, I love it. Emberleigh nailed it.” I don’t need to yell it as loud as I have since he and Eli return from the kitchen carrying cocktails.
Eli hands me one that I gladly accept.
“To…?” I lift and wait for someone to say to Braxton for his birthday, but Eli takes charge and takes it in a whole different direction.
“To never hearing ‘Jolene’ again.”
Braxton clinks his glass to Eli’s in an I’ll-toast-to-that gesture that makes my eyes slice to slits. Eli knows better and so does Brax. The next time my big brother is at the barn, I’m putting ‘Jolene’ on repeat. Ha.
To my utter shock, Emberleigh raises her glass and baits them both. “Here’s to ‘9 to 5’ instead.”
This woman continues to surprise me. She’s earning my respect. I turn and clink my glass to hers and begin to sing the 1980 cult hit.
“God help us,” Eli grumbles.
“Fuck me,” Braxton says to no one in particular, before turning to Eli and displaying his empty glass. “Another?”
“Absolutely.”
Off they go, but this time Emberleigh and I follow.
“Brax?” I call when we’re all in the kitchen. “Are we going to celebrate or what?”
“Celebrate what?” Emberleigh turns to me after studying him.
“Today is Braxton’s birthday. Thirty-seven… He’s an old, old man.”
“Hey, now.” Eli turns his fiery gaze on me.
“What? You’re old too.”
“Shut up.” Two male voices echo in unison.
Emberleigh’s giggle triggers my laughter. If the two men didn’t seem grumpy, it wouldn’t have escalated, but they both continue to look at each other and grumble for long enough that it trips off another round.
“Oh, does your back hurt?” I poke at my brother, before turning on Elias. “Is your prostate okay?”
The hook of his mouth and the heat in his eyes are not humor. Nor are they anger. It’s like hate flirting only without the hate. It’s forbidden—the fact that he can’t say or do anything. The fine line I’m walking makes it all the more illicit and so much more interesting.
I squirm, and Eli notices. Or at least his eyes register the movement. He smirks.
“Brax, your baby sister has always been trouble.”
“Truer words, my friend. Truer words…” The birthday boy drifts to the table, and Emberleigh follows a few steps behind. Interesting.
I turn to grab the Bluetooth speaker only to get a swift pinch on the ass.
“Ow.”
“You okay?” Emberleigh asks, turning toward me.
“Yeah. I caught the corner of the drawer.” I put my finger in my mouth to feign sucking on it. I’m selling this too hard, but notice Eli when Brax and Emberleigh are distracted and roll my tongue around it.
His eyes flare, but nothing else in his face gives anything away. “Grab a deck while you’re there, Bright. Might as well introduce Emberleigh to the competitive world of Ranger card play.”
I pull the cards from the junk drawer and move them and the speaker to the dining room table, returning to grab the liquor.
“Spades, Hearts, or Poker?” Eli asks as I connect my phone to the speaker and the first thwacks and clicks of ‘9 to 5’ fill the room.
“No.” Eli and Braxton both turn on me.
“No Dolly.” Braxton takes his chair. “Anything but Dolly works.” He turns to Eli. “Hearts. If I’m going to take your money, it will be with skill, not luck of the draw.”
‘American Way’ starts from the speaker, and I pull my chair back, taking the seat opposite Eli.
Two hours later, I’ve taken the pot, raking in money from the three people who continually underestimated my singing and babbling for drunkenness. I’m six hundred and forty-one dollars richer and the only one who won’t have a hangover in the morning.
“Come on, cowboy.” I wave a hand at Eli. “Happy birthday, Brax. I’ll get him home.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder in Eli’s direction.
Little does my brother know…