Chapter One
Rose
Well, isn't this just a bag full of dicks.
Literally.
See, I've had only one rule about dating for most of my adult life, and it's this: I don't introduce a partner to my brother, Michael, unless I'm certain it's serious.
Our parents died when he was fourteen, and somewhere in the long gray haze of that year I decided his life would keep some semblance of normalcy even if I had to build the normalcy myself, by hand, out of whatever materials I could find.
He's a grown man of twenty-eight now, perfectly capable of meeting my boyfriends without the need for me to chaperone the interaction, but the rule has never much cared about his capabilities and neither, frankly, have I.
Some things you keep long after the reason for them has technically expired because letting go would mean admitting the reason is gone, and I've never been particularly good at admitting things are gone.
David Walker and I reconnected this past summer.
An old college boyfriend, the one I'd always quietly filed under unfinished business and never quite gotten around to closing out.
We'd been exclusive for four months when I gave him a key to my apartment two weeks ago, which, in my world, is roughly equivalent to a public proposal with a string quartet.
I don't hand out keys. I've handed out exactly two in my adult life, and I've regretted both, which you'd think would have taught me something durable by now.
This weekend I was going to bring David to dinner and introduce him to Michael.
Make the whole thing official. Hand him the family handshake, let my brother size him up over a beef roast and watch the two most important men in my life decide how they felt about sharing me.
I had a reservation. I'd thought about what I'd wear.
That was the plan, anyway.
Then I came home this morning and found David in bed with Jet, the man he'd introduced as his cousin two months ago when I ran into them at our favorite bistro down the block.
Cousin.
He'd made the introduction without a flicker of hesitation. David, Jet. Jet, Rose. There'd been a handshake. Small talk. I vaguely remember asking Jet how long he was in town and him telling me he visited often.
Apparently.
I'm really not one to rage and throw fits.
Life has handed me enough genuinely hard hits over the years that I've learned to absorb the blow into the body and keep walking before anyone thinks to ask how it landed.
It's been a highly useful skill. It's gotten me through worse mornings than this one, and that's not me being dramatic.
But I'll confess, this particular blow lands somewhere tender and unguarded. Mostly because I only just bought those fucking sheets.
They clearly haven't heard me come in.
David has Jet folded over the bed, railing into him at a brutal and, I'll be fair, frankly admirable pace. I've been standing in my own bedroom doorway for...I check my watch…going on five minutes now. And his pounding rhythm hasn't so much as stuttered.
That's more than I can say for anything he ever did on my side of the bed.
Interesting.
Good to know the equipment works.
In his defense, and I do try to be fair even to men I'm actively watching betray me, I was supposed to be on a plane to Beijing right now.
He had every reason on earth to believe the apartment was his for the day and the coast was clear all the way to the horizon.
A weekend dust-up with Michael torched the entire trip and rerouted me home before we'd even left the tarmac, which is the only reason I'm standing here in my coat, keys still in my hand, watching a man I was planning to introduce to my brother this weekend fuck his “cousin” on my eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton.
My innocent beautiful sheets.
I lean one shoulder against the doorframe and continue watching because at this point leaving feels strangely premature. I've already seen enough that there is no salvaging the relationship, so I may as well collect all available evidence before rendering judgment.
Attorney habits die hard.
Jet makes a sound that would've had the neighbors knocking on the wall if our units weren't built like bunkers, and David grabs his hips harder.
Huh. He's never done that with me.
I'm learning so much today.
There is probably a healthy emotional response available to me somewhere. Rage, maybe. Devastation. Throwing something expensive against a wall seems popular in movies.
Instead, I find myself studying the details.
The condom wrapper on the floor.
David's shirt hanging over the chair he picked out himself.
Jet's shoes by my nightstand.
My boyfriend's hand currently reaching around to stroke another man’s cock.
No.
Not my boyfriend.
That correction happens surprisingly easily.
Former boyfriend.
There we go. Much cleaner.
I check my watch again and sigh outwardly. “Could you come already? I'd like to get rid of those sheets and get on with my day.”
It's like a cartoon come to life, the way they scramble.
Limbs everywhere, sheets flying, cocks and balls just waving about with nowhere good to go.
The two of them are moving very fast while accomplishing absolutely nothing in the way of dignity.
Jet lets out a little scream, the poor thing, high and startled, as though I'm the intruder in this scenario and not the woman whose name is on the lease, the mortgage and the deed to the very mattress they've been desecrating.
“Rosie. Baby, it's not—”
I put my hand up, and he stops, which is at least one thing he still does on command.
“Please don't be that guy. It's not what it looks like? Really, David? Limitless options for excuses, and that's the direction you've chosen?”
I let my eyes drop pointedly to the hands he's cupped over himself like a fig leaf with a guilty conscience.
Damn it.
His cock, which was genuinely one of the great pleasures of the last four months, is now retiring from my life via a man named Jet's worst morning.
I'm allowed to mourn it.
I want that entered into the record.
A woman can grieve the amenities of a relationship separately from the relationship itself. These are unrelated accounts.
“Rose, I'm so sorry,” Jet starts, hopping into one pant leg and losing the war with it badly.
I watch him struggle.
Honestly, what is he doing?
Has this grown man never once had to dress himself under pressure? Is this his first ambush? At this point, I almost want to help him find the other leg hole so we can move this along.
David, meanwhile, is still planted in the exact same spot, staring at me like a deer that's heard the shot but hasn't yet connected the sound to its own body.
Seriously, why is he still staring at me? It's becoming concerning.
Putting myself in his shoes, I suppose I should be more visibly devastated about all this. He's clearly waiting for it. He's braced for me to go postal, and to be fair to his expectations, I do have quite a temper when I'm pushed hard enough in the right direction.
But there's nothing.
Or maybe there's too much and my brain has simply closed the gates until further notice.
Maybe I'm in shock. Maybe four months was always destined to end somewhere stupid and my body knew it before my brain got the memo. Who's to say? Not me this morning.
He's still staring at… "Fucking hell. Were you waiting for an engraved invitation? Why are you just standing there staring at me?" I snap.
David opens his mouth, searches it for something worth saying, comes up empty and closes it again. His eyes drop to the floor where the shame seems to live.
Good. Maybe he can pick it up on his way out.
“I need to get to the office.” I gesture across the room at the general scene of the crime. “Strip the bed, toss the sheets and leave the key.”
His head snaps up. “Rose.”
“What?”
“Can we just talk about this?”
I stare at him.
At least he has the good sense to look uncomfortable.
“I'm pretty sure I just watched the director's cut.”
“I'm so sorry, Rose. Please, let us explain,” Jet says, making the unfortunate mistake of assuming I'm not carrying several very sharp objects in my suitcase.
I glance over.
He's finally wearing pants.
Good for him.
David takes a step toward me, and my hand comes up before I even think about it.
“No.”
“Listen, I fucked up. I know that.” He runs both hands over his face before looking at me again. “It's just... I never get to be in control with us. Be on top. You won't let me just be a man.”
I stare at him.
Did this motherfucker just...
I walk toward him.
David has more than a foot on me, so when I stop directly in front of him, I have to crane my neck to hold his eyes.
“You fucked another man in my bed because I won't let you be on top?”
“That's not what I—”
“No, I want to make sure I understand the explanation you've chosen. You felt emasculated because I like to be in control sexually, and instead of using your grown-man words to tell me that, you used the key I gave you to bring someone into my home and fuck him in my bed.”
His mouth opens.
“That's a yes-or-no question, David.”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
“Excellent.”
I nod once.
“Delete my existence from every facet of your life. My number. My social media. Throw away anything of mine still in your apartment. Do not, under any circumstances, let our paths cross again, because if they do, I will bury a body in your backyard and fuck the judge assigned to your case to make certain you get the goddamn death penalty. Am I clear?”
He swallows hard and nods.
“Use your goddamn words, David.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Well, at least he gave me that one as a parting gift.
Now I just need to get to the office and dig my brother out of whatever freshly excavated PR grave he's managed to throw himself into before lunch.
Fantastic.
Love a productive morning.
I'm not even to the elevator before my phone goes off, Jackson's name lighting up the screen, which is how I know the universe has reviewed my morning, found it insufficiently punishing and decided I haven't nearly had enough yet.
“Hey, Jackson.”
“What's wrong?”
Damn it.