“SHE LIVES WITH YOU?” Logan booms, arranging himself against a few decorative cushions on the monstrous U-shaped sofa in Nico’s living room.
We’re watching the practice session of the Italian Formula 1 Grand Prix. Not that either one of us knows or cares much about motorsports. We’re motorheads, but in a more hands-on sense—driving and fixing, not watching others drive. We’re only watching it because we met McLaren’s team principal at the Country Club last week and got curious.
So far, it’s pretty fucking boring. The triplets are buzzing, though, and the flat screen keeps them fairly occupied, so we don’t bother switching it off. If we do, they’ll start throwing their teenage wisdom around, and no one needs that shit.
My head smacks against the back of the couch, fingers tightening around the neck of the beer bottle.
Asking, or rather ordering Thalia to move in with me was a spur-of-the-moment idea. Not my brightest moment, I admit, but there’s shit all I can do about it now.
We all mess up sometimes.
The mistake became blatantly obvious just an hour after I stashed Thalia’s suitcases in the guest bedroom. She exited the bathroom after a hot shower, wrapped in a towel, skin glistening from lotion or whatever smelled so fucking edible, like summer berries and whipped cream. The scent filled the condo, hanging thickly in the air, driving me crazy for hours.
The following day, I realized my mistake again when Thalia’s alarm went off at five, tearing me out of a dreamless sleep. No, I didn’t mind the too-early-for-any-sane-person wake-up call. It’s what followed that had me pulling hair out of my scalp.
I found her in the kitchen, brewing coffee, still wearing her pj’s. That’s if the shortest shorts ever invented matched with a meager, spaghetti-strap top can be called pj’s.
My balls are blue now.
Permanently. Fucking. Blue.
And the worst part? I can’t seem to convince my messed-up brain that fucking a random chick will help my case. I’m riding solo to relieve the pent-up frustration lodged deep at the base of my spine. Jacking off helps for a short while until another innocent encounter drives me up the wall.
Last night is a prime example.
I came home from work around seven. The silent condo had me convinced that Thalia was out, working at another fancy party. I barged into the bathroom to grab a shower, only to find her submerged in the bathtub…
Jesus wept.
It meant nothing that her smoking-hot body hid under a thick blanket of soap bubbles filling the tub. My imagination compensated tenfold.
Anyway… it’s all good fun.
I only hate having her around because my dick has a mind of its own when she’s near. Even knowing the torture awaiting on the other side of my request, I’d still ask her—correction, tell her—to take the guest bedroom.
When she implied that she walks five miles to the Country Club every day, there and back, I lost my shit. As if it’s not enough that she’s alone in America; no family or friends who could help her out, no one to offer emotional support.
Fucked up doesn’t begin to cover it.
I’ve got six brothers, parents, grandparents, and an army of friends a phone call away, always available whenever I need help, emotional support or company. Thalia’s on her own, but she’s still the most positive person I know. I find myself reconsidering my life since she came along because I’ve been consumed by money the past few years.
More. Bigger. Better.
Idiotic, really.
I’ve got a comfortable life. A big condo, a brand-new car, enough cash to spend on necessities, luxuries, and then some—some that’s promptly wired to Nico so he can make me richer. I won’t feel happiness or fulfillment until I’m rich, right?
Bullshit.
Thalia’s happy living in my guest bedroom, working two jobs, and working her ass off at my condo in-between.
She scrubbed the place spotless last week…
Well, half of it because she took time to deep-clean everything—windows, baseboards, and doors included.
I screamed my head off when I got back late in the evening after fourteen hours at the office. Cleaning isn’t part of the deal, but Thalia took no notice of the fucks spewing from my mouth and cleaned the rest of the place the next day.
She makes me breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She takes Ares for a walk in the morning and brews a pot of coffee for me, so I don’t have to when I get out of bed an hour after she leaves.
And the notes… or should I say riddles?
She sticks small post-it notes to the mug and the glass food storage containers she bought to pack my lunch—question at the front, answer on the back.
Why did the banana go to the doctor?
It didn’t peel so good.
What do you give to a sick lemon?
Lemon Aid.
Corny.
Cheesy.
Absolutely hilarious.
“Yeah, she does,” I say, flaking the label off the bottle. “You should come by one day. I’ll ask her to cook, and you’ll understand why I’m winning here.”
It’s almost eight in the evening, and Thalia’s waitressing at an up-tight private event around the corner from Nico’s house, but I shoot her a text anyway.
Me: Are you working tomorrow evening?
Thalia: No, why?
Me: I want to invite my brothers. Can we make those chicken skewers with salad?
Thalia: You’re not worthy of the family recipe. I’ll cook.
“Is tomorrow good for everyone?” I glance around the room. Nico’s sofa fits the seven of us without an issue, and there’s space for seven more.
The whole house is over-the-top large and ostentatious. Six bedrooms, a five-car garage, a driveway to fit twenty more, and a backyard the size of a football field. All wrapped in the most expensive materials: marble, gold, silk, velvet, and ebony hardwood. It was all here when he bought the house, but we still give him a hard time about his luxurious taste.
“We’ll have to skip the fun this time!” Conor exclaims, eyes fixed on the flat-screen where—surprise, surprise—the cars are still driving around the track. “Brandon’s throwing a party. We can’t miss it.”
Thank God. They’re a touch too young to hang out with the four of us yet. Too loud and annoying with their teenage attitudes, gibberish they call slang, and constant pussy talk.
Maybe in a couple of years…
Logan reaches for another beer and starts the ritual of peeling the label. Good job that the triplets are occupied, or they’d offer him one of their too-young high school friends to fuck, which would piss Nico off to no end.
“I hope you’re hitting that ass,” Logan chirps.
The sudden urge to nail his face washes over me out of nowhere. I’m not a saint, but at the same time, I’m not one to lose my cool at a snap of fingers like Nico or Logan. They have the shortest fuses, always ready for a fight at a moment’s notice.
I draw a deep breath, struggling to keep my temper at bay, but I do a convincing job of playing it down. “Nah. She’s a friend. She’s helping me with the game. I’ve pitched the idea to a few companies this week, so, fingers crossed, I should hear back within a month.”
“Took you long enough.” Colt laughs. “I want a free copy before it’s released. Sounds fun.”
Ah, to be seventeen again. No responsibilities, no worries, no big life questions. All they worry about is where the cash for fuel comes from. Most of the time, it comes from Nico. He’s so soft wherever the triplets are concerned it’s a miracle he’s still considering letting them move in here instead of moving their shit over already.
“So, if she’s just a friend, I can fuck her, right?” Logan continues, readjusting his baseball cap. “It’s only fair, bro.”
“No way.” Over my dead fucking body. “I impose a Hayes-wide hands-off on Thalia. She lives with me. It’ll be awkward if one of you gets your dick wet and flees like always.”
Bullshit. I impose the rule not because it’ll be awkward to live under the same roof with Thalia if one of my brothers fucks her, but because I like her.
I don’t know how to handle that knowledge or the sudden possessiveness whirling through my head. I’m riled up thinking about crowds of sleazy golfers hitting on her every day.
I’m constantly reminding myself that were friends.
Just friends.
In fact, we’re great friends.
We weren’t spending much time together last week, but I started cutting my workdays short this week, coming home around five instead of the usual seven or eight. I want to be there when she comes back from the Country Club. That way, we spend two or three hours together before she leaves for a waitressing gig.
She cooks, we eat, watch a show on Netflix, and take Ares for a walk. I’ve never smiled as much during my entire life as I do with Thalia. She grows more comfortable around me too. Just this morning, she dragged me out of bed at five-thirty, yelling at the top of her lungs from the shower so I’d fetch a new bottle of shampoo from her bedroom.
The gentleman that I am, I didn’t glance behind the shower curtain, but she peeked out with a smile, face wet, hair sticking to her neck and shoulder, and that was enough for my morning wood to grow harder than a steel baton.
And back to bed I went to jerk off again.
She’s so sexy and carefree, singing in Greek and dancing around the kitchen while she cooks. I’ve imagined fucking her ten different ways, but I keep the primitive need on a short leash. Sex would ruin the friendship we’ve been building. As much as I want to claim her body, to know what she tastes and feels like, I don’t want to lose her.
I got in too deep, and the idea of pulling my usual fuck-and-forget bullshit on Thalia makes my pulse soar like crazy. I’d probably hurt any other fucker who’d try to pull that shit with her, too.
