Chapter Twenty-One
Onyx
She wasn’t supposed to be at the party. We didn’t exactly forbid her from coming, but we haven’t been inviting her since she was attacked. We try to keep most of the parties from her, but that blew up in our faces tonight. I’m pretty sure I know why too.
Marcia’s pissed at Kalen because he hasn't fucked her since Amelie arrived, so she decided to make sure Amelie was at the party by inviting Elsie as her date. What a joke! That girl is such a cock-loving slut, she wouldn’t know what to do with a pussy if it begged her.
I think the bitch had planned to make sure everyone fucked with Amelie tonight.
Obviously forgetting that Amelie’s ours.
One call to Branson to make sure both the security followed them eased our anxiety. No one dared touch her with guns on site.
Our grandfather called Slate and made him be his errand boy for the night.
He wasn’t happy. Earlier, he had mentioned to me that he hoped he would be done by the time Amelie met him at the old library.
Call me a selfish prick, but here I am waiting for her instead.
I made sure Slate would be tied up long enough to miss his date with her.
I hear her laugh before I see her, and my whole body reacts to the sound of her voice, tensing and eager to lay eyes on her. When she comes into view through the dark, I see that she is on the back of the bodyguard, riding him like a horse.
“Slateee,” she slurs, throwing herself back and falling to the ground. She’s drunk. I mean, I knew she would be having watched her knock back drink after drink all night, but I had thought the crisp February air would have sobered her up a little.
“You can leave,” I tell Frost. “I will make sure she gets back to her room alive.”
“With all due respect…” he begins.
“Leave. Before I call my grandfather and have you escorted off school property and out of your line of work, permanently,” I bark. Who does he think he is?
“It’s okay, Frosty; I had fun. Do you want to carry me again?”
“I’m good. See you.” Frost takes off almost as if he is scared of Amelie and her drunk self. She starts to giggle, as if looking at me is the funniest thing she has ever seen.
“You know, you’re so pretty,” she tells me, gazing up at me in a way which makes my dick hard. She has never looked at me like that before.
“All that thick dark hair. I just want to run my fingers through it.”
She leans over and I can smell her fruity perfume as she starts to play with my hair. I don’t stop her. I know I should, but I doubt she will remember this tomorrow anyway.
“Slate…did you mean everything you said today in music? Because I forgive you. You’re too pretty to be mean to or mad at.”
“It’s Onyx.”
“What about that douche?” She wrinkles her nose up in a frown that’s actually pretty cute. “He needs to pull the stick out of his ass.”
She really thinks I’m him. I wonder how wrong it is to pretend to be him? To know what it feels like to be wanted. She may have let me fuck her once, but hate fucking isn’t the same. She leans her body weight on me and mumbles all the things she hates about me.
“And his ass is too good for him! Why have something that delicious attached to someone who won’t let you touch it?” She pouts.
“I’m sure if you ask him nicely enough, he will.” She laughs and slaps me softly on the chest.
“And what will he do when the wind changes and his face gets perm..pernanent...stuck? Well, then it will serve his stupid face right.”
“We have the same face.”
“You’re right.” She turns and gasps touching my face as she whispers with wide eyes. “You do, it's so weird. Does he know you stole his face?”
“I’m sure after all these years he knows.”
“Don’t tell him, just in case he’s mean.”
“Okay drunky, how about we get you back to your bed?” I sigh. I’m half amused by the conversation, but I don’t have the patience for sloppy drunk chicks.
“Will you snuggle with me?” She gazes up at me with wide amber eyes that plead.
“No,” I growl a little too snappy.
“Hehe! You sounded just like him,” she giggles.
“I am him,” I deadpan but she ignores me and just laughs again.
I’m done with the back and forward.
I lift her and throw her over my shoulder, hoping she doesn’t vomit down my back.
The entire way back to her room she giggles and mumbles to herself. I tuned out when I realised most of her mumbling was about me and my stupid face.
“Slate.” I ignore her. I’m not telling her again that I’m Onyx.
“Slate!” she says louder, banging me on my ass.
Warmth hits my back.
“Too late.”
She’s vomited all down my back. Now the damage has been done and her dorm is in view, I start to run and I’m sure she pukes again. I drop her on her ass at her door, feeling around in her pockets for her key. Thank God it’s easy to find. I unlock the door and drag her in.
Leaving her laughing on the floor, I go to her bathroom and strip down to my boxers, throwing the clothes in the corner to deal with tomorrow. The scent of sickly-sweet alcohol fills the room and my lip curls in distaste. I jump in the shower to freshen up.
When I go back into her room, she is curled in a ball on the floor where I dumped her. I look at the camera and hope someone is watching. “I need clothes,” I tell it.
“I have some in the thingy,” Amelie slurs pointing to her closet.
Sawyer must have left some here. I obviously meant I would need clothes in the morning, but she thinks I mean to sleep in them.
There’s no way I’m wearing her boyfriend's clothes, it would feel too much like trying to compete with him for her heart.
Instead, I just dig around and find her an oversized shirt. My boxers will be fine for me.
Picking up a tiny girl her size would generally be easy.
..unless she’s wasted. Suddenly she’s all dead weight, but I manage to get her on her bed and stripped to her underwear.
The tights baffle me. I debate leaving them on but they look uncomfortable as fuck, so I battle her out of them as she writhes around like a slippery eel.
Fucking things. I put my stupid clumsy fingers through the fine material and hope that she doesn’t care.
Once she’s in her bra and panties, I hesitate. She half wakes and starts to touch me, running her hands up my arms, across my shoulders and down my bare chest, chasing away the final water droplets from the shower.
“Not now,” I firmly tell her, pulling her hands away from the searing hot skin she’s just set alight with her touch. She bloody pouts at me and I almost consider saying fuck it.
“But Slate, I thought you wanted me.”
I grind my teeth in frustration. That. That’s why I can’t. Not because she’s a drunken ass, but because she wouldn’t be having sex with me. No, she’d be having the time of her life with my perfect broken twin with all his scars and his baggage and his tortured artist’s soul.
“I do, just not like this.” I don’t know if I’m answering for Slate or myself. If I’m being honest, I like her as much as my brothers do – maybe more – but I can’t risk it.
“Fine.” She huffs, avoiding the shirt I’m holding out for her, and wiggling around until she somehow manages to get the blanket pulled down.
She crawls in, whips her bra and panties off, and pats the space beside her.
This is a bad idea. A really bad idea. But bad ideas are usually where I gravitate to.
I hesitate for a second, before dropping the towel around my waist and climbing in under the covers next to her.
Amelie doesn’t acknowledge me in any way.
I prop myself up on my elbow and gaze down at her.
She’s fast asleep. Gently, so as not to disturb her, I lower myself back down onto my side and carefully tuck my arm around her, cradling her back to my front.
I don’t expect to sleep, but oblivion calls and before I can respond, it steals me away.