Chapter 26
“I’ll drive us home in his Range Rover. We will not fit in the Bugatti. Terry or Joel can take it, Bri. It’s fine.”
We are leaving the warmth of a happy family home, arms laden with foil-wrapped containers of food, enough to feed a small army.
Both Maeve and Molly offered plates to the security guys parked out front.
The confused look on their faces when two feisty Irish expats sidled up to the driver’s window and knocked while brandishing plates groaning with turkey, chicken, vegetables, bread, and all the sauces.
I tried to tell them they wouldn’t accept the plates.
They wouldn’t eat while they were on duty, only taking small sips from sealed water bottles.
Molly and Maeve are insistent women, and to be honest, kind of scared the shit out of me.
So, I walked with them outside, in stained navy sweats and a Megadeth T-shirt, and gave them the okay to accept the food and enjoy it.
If Molly had her way, they’d be crammed in around those double doors like the rest of us, but I politely informed her that security had a job to do, and part of that required establishing a perimeter between us, and any potential threat.
She nodded in that way people do when they don’t quite believe you, but don’t want to offend you.
My men, however, gave me more than one odd glance at my choice of attire.
Not by choice, fellas, but out of necessity.
The same look Kynan gave Bri when she asked about the white stains near the pocket of the navy pants.
“It’s paint. What, did you think they were cum stains? ” She may not have, but I wondered.
Trystan would never fold his long legs into the Bugatti, so taking him in his car made sense.
He had joined Glyn and Dion in several post-dinner drinks.
Drinks poured with a heavy Irish hand. All the good intent, and all the poor decisions.
So, to save him from himself, and his car from bouncing off parked cars, I heave him into the backseat of the Rover, steering him around the containers of food, and help Bri into the passenger side.
I was hoping our drunken cargo might sleep off his food and drink coma.
But no, the man sings show tunes and Ed Sheeran in a bad Irish accent.
I don’t have the heart to correct him. Neither does Bri.
She’s content to let him babble on, singing the correct lyrics softly and giggling like a giddy schoolgirl when he stuffs up and begins again.
“There’s a Target bag of soiled Versace and Chanel with chunks,” he exclaims, the words tumbling out with the telltale slur of way too many single malts. “Today has been the best fucking day ever. I bet it topped the shit show over at No Mercy Manor, right? How was the old homophobe?”
Normally, I could throw a sideways glance at Trystan, and he’d fall in tune with me if he wasn’t already. Only tipsy Trystan isn’t having any of it. He looks everywhere but in the rear-view mirror. Dammit.
“Old homophobe?” Bri queries, a frown marring her brow.
“Magnus,” I mouth back.
“A day of two distinct halves,” I offer. The day began with business and bullshit. It continued with chaos and undeniable family connection. How it will finish, well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? “How much did you drink, Hynd?”
“A lot,” he slurs. “Twelve, four, maybe. I dunno. I love your family, Bubble. And I love you.” Sabrina twists in her seat to clutch his hand, offering him a dazzling smile and giggling when his fingers morph into flexing, grabby jazz hands.
“I love this one, Mas. I don’t ever want to let her go.
You’re stuck with us, Bubble. You’re never going to pop. Never…”
By the time we hit the I-95 North to take us back to the penthouse, his soft snores compete with the house jazz and synth mix he had playing through the stereo.
Yeah, Tryst, it’s enough to send me to sleep too.
Luckily I have a pretty girl next to me to focus my attention on. When it’s not on the road, that is.
How is it that someone can go from snoring like a bandsaw to wide awake and talking twenty words to the dozen in the blink of an eye? Somebody is well-rested!
Between the three of us, we transport all the food back to the penthouse.
Trystan keeps stopping to peel back foil lids and eat directly from the container like a savage.
My first task is to shower and change clothes.
Bri takes the leftovers and begins stacking them into the refrigerator according to contents.
Each tray has detailed instructions regarding contents and reheating tips written on the foil in Sharpie.
Washing off any stray remnants of baby barf and the cloying cloak of my family’s influence, I stand under the jets of steamy water for a long time.
Each drip follows a different path along each arm before sliding off the ends of my hanging fingers.
If only everything slid away so easily. To clear away the muck and detritus just by willing it to drip from your fingers like poison.
If fucking only. I wrap a towel around my waist and dry off before changing into sweatpants. “What are you two talking about?”
“You, mostly.” Trystan cocks a challenging brow. Is he still pissed?
“And he’s been demanding to know all about my childhood and how I got the nickname Bubble.”
“And why the dog is called Chippy. Hilarious error on your part too, bud.” He snorts.
“Ha fucking ha, laugh it up. How was I supposed to know? We’ve never had a dog, neither did you growing up. Pets mean mess and hair, right? That was part of a whole new world.”
“Usually when bitches have their noses in your groin, you’re paying them for the privilege, right?” Trystan says with a wink.
“Chippy is a he. He’s not a bitch. And Tryst, that’s a low blow. Rude!”
She says it with faux indignation, knowing he’s joking but calling him out just the same. Good girl.
“A he! With a nose at your groin, Mercer. Scandalous!”
“Trystan,” I warn, but he’s already moved on.
“You’re going to spill on Bubble,” I say, sinking down next to Bri on the oversized Karl R?tto sofa. Before Bri, this was the best $150,000 I’d ever spent.
“Ugh, really?”
“Yes, Bubble, rhymes with trouble! How and why. Go!”
“My family has called me Bubble for as long as I can remember. I mean, I guess I was a chunky baby. Most Broe babies are.”
“The barfing baby wasn’t that chunky.”
“That’s because he’s an O’Donnell. Anyway, we’re getting off topic. I’ll contact the specialized laundry to save your clothes, Mason. Again, I’m so sorry.”
“Bri, having a baby throw up all over me was hardly the lowlight of the day.”
“Oh yes, your morning of misery! I want to hear about that too after Bubble spills all the family tea. Aunt Maeve is a cracker. And Caitlin is such a sweetheart, but all in good time. You first, dear girl. Spill that bubble tea.”
“Okay, so I guess I was a chunky baby. I was also pretty sickly. I had asthma and was in and out of hospital as a toddler. Puffers, inhalers, a mask with a spacer. You name it. I’m sure if you looked hard, there would be a photo on a wall somewhere.
Anyway.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and pushes up the sleeves of her dress now that the fire is licking flames spectacularly.
“I had to swim to strengthen my lungs, to boost capacity. My first lessons, I think I was three. Mom says that the first lesson involved blowing bubbles in the water. Face down, bubble one, bubble two, and breathe on three. I guess it just stuck.”
“Aww, that’s so wholesome.” Trystan clasps his hands together under his chin in mock prayer.
“Kind of,” she laughs. “When I was goalie for the boys, every time they snuck a puck past me, they’d yell, pop! Like they burst my bubble. Boys are dicks.”
“Wait, you were the goalie?” I sit up straight.
“Yes. They made me.”
They, what? I agree, boys are dicks.
“That was you in the photo on the pond? In the red top?”
“It was,” she laughs again. “You mean it wasn’t obvious?
” Buried under a ton of goalie gear, she was unrecognizable.
All the pieces are sliding into place. She was the goalie to spend time on the frozen pond with her big brothers.
Brothers she idolizes. She wore goalie gear because they didn’t want to.
Like most guys, I suspect, they want the thrill and flair for creative shot-making.
No one wants to tote a blocker and keep pucks out.
They want to be the ones punishing the net, not guarding it.
She’s the fixer, the adapter. Wherever she’s needed, she’s ready to fill the role, no questions asked.
That’s why she’s next to me on my designer sofa now.
Her sister needed her help, and she fell on the sword of diplomacy for a good deal of what was necessary: money.
She’s not here by choice; she’s here out of obligation.
Hockey goalie, or guardian angel. Whatever the role requires, up steps Bubble to fill it.
“Where do you want me?” It’s a simple question requiring a complex answer.
“Naked and on my cock.” She smiles. A smile on the face of a woman earning twenty thousand dollars today.
Almost a thousand dollars an hour. Top surgeons and attorneys don't attract rates like that. Her blue wrap dress is on the floor, leaving her in lace top stockings and nothing else. Her bra was flicked open and removed moments ago, and in my private company, the contract stipulates no underwear unless required due to that time of the month. I’m no prude, but I’m not a bastard either.
Unless she’s bleeding, her cunt is to be free, bare, and easy to access.
“Are you wet?”
Her fingers slide to the apex of her thighs.
It’s an unnecessary gesture. I can scent her arousal perfuming the air around us like a charged storm.
The intensity crackles and burns. “Hands and knees, on the bed. Facing the windows.” The first time I fuck her tonight, I want it to be for me.
When I take her again, it will be up against my bedroom windows for everyone to see, if only they had any visibility through the custom windows. She doesn’t need to know that, though.
“So wet.”
“Ready for me?” It’s a weighty double entendre. No one is fully prepared for the Mercer misery.
“Always.”
“Hmmm. So eager. So willing. So ready, hey?” My finger ghosts over her delicate skin.
“Yes,” she insists, wiggling those heavy hips, and my dick jumps. I stand behind her, my hips flush with hers. As I grab hold of her with both hands and drag her backward, she mewls with wanton need.
“Mason!”
“Yes?”
“Fuck me!”
“Oh, Sabrina, I intend to. Repeatedly. I’m going to bury this thick dick so deep you’ll taste it.”
“Then do it!” Her words light a fire within me. I punch my hips forward, taking her in one movement. Each thrust is deeper than the last, the intensity burnishing and blossoming with each drive forward. Her cunt claims me so well.
I guide her torso onto the mattress. “You like that, huh? Want more?” I whisper the words into the shell of her ear. I can see the skin react to my breath as her moans increase when my rhythm does the same. It pebbles as she shakes with a frisson of sparked anticipation for more.
“You like how I fuck you? How I own you?”
“Yes.”
“Just like every fucking whore does.”