20. Beck
BECK
THE KILLERS – MR. brIGHTSIDE
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I spat out when her face appeared—blushing and blissful—behind the arm of my brother. “Adelaide Sinclair, what the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?”
“I, uhh—” she started, but I couldn’t bear to hear any excuse that fell from those pretty, kiss-ravaged lips.
“Get the fuck out,” I ordered, lethally soft.
She dared look to Dek for assistance, but he—wisely—refrained from meeting her gaze. When she realised he would not be helping her out of the situation he’d undoubtedly dragged her into, her face hardened into ice—as frosted as the open windowpane—and she sat up.
She wore nothing but a black crop, and I was sure if I let my eyes wander lower, there’d be less covering her than that. But I could at least grant her that one small dignity.
She’d already been fucked by one of us today—I wasn’t about to let her get fucked over by two.
Her head whipped around, searching for her absent clothes.
“I said get the fuck out.” My voice came out even softer the second time—softer, but no less sharp.
If looks could kill…
Her gaze tore holes through me.
…I’d be dead.
But I remained impassive. At least on the outside, while my friend glared and his protégée icily picked up her scattered garments and rose to her feet.
Either she was unaffected by my gaze, her own nudity, or she was incredible at masking. She didn’t even bother to cover herself up as she crossed the room, just padded on silent feet to retrieve her discarded boots and landed toe-to-toe with me.
“Are you going to move, then?”
I didn’t think I’d ever heard her voice so glacial.
Wordlessly, I took one step to the side, clearing the doorway.
She passed without a sound, not even slowing her stride to slap something against my chest on her way out.
I grabbed at it reflexively, jerking when I realised it was saturated fabric. I looked down, barely believing my eyes.
In my palm, wadded up and soaking wet, was Adelaide Sinclair’s black cotton underwear.
Deklan snickered from his perch on my floor. “She’s something, that girl.”
She’s something, alright, I thought, turning to watch her go.
Her bare ass sashayed through my kitchen and past a slack-jawed Van in his usual corner of the living room, giving me a view I didn’t know I needed.
“Evening, professor,” she said casually, perplexing him even further.
“She’s not…” he muttered, his gaze snapping round to mine. “Surely, she’s not going to—”
The apartment door slammed closed behind her.
Apparently she was going to.
“But what if someone sees her?!” he stuttered, aghast.
“You’re welcome to go and save her, professor, but I’d wager she’s more than able to save herself.”
Van got up and bolted to the door anyway, only pausing long enough to throw open the lone obstacle in his way.
The elevator dinged faintly at the end of the hall, and I wondered if he’d make it in time.
I told myself I didn’t care.
I didn’t care at all that one friend had just tasted her, and the other would likely be next.
I didn’t give a fuck.
Not a single one.
Of course, nobody had ever accused me of being truthful.
Least of all, me.