Cockney:A Stepbrother Romance(47)

     



 



Chelsea seems right as rain with him though, sitting there wrapped  around Hudson's finger. I shake my head at the sudden pang of, well,  something that sure feels a whole lot like jealousy, even I know that's  impossible. But just the same, I find myself clenching my hand a little  tighter around my water glass as Chelsea leans towards him, and puts her  hand on his arm as she laughs at something he says. I mean it's  harmless; her mannerisms are far more sibling-like than anything flirty,  but I still can't seem to shake the possessive feeling, as if Hudson is  mine somehow.



But of course, he's not ‘Mine,' I'm not ‘His,' and there's nothing  between us in that regard at all. He made that perfectly clear back  before, during that summer and then at my father's house. And then of  course, I have to remember what he did - or more importantly what he  didn't do that night back then. I have to close my eyes and remember  just how shitty I felt when I came downstairs and saw him walking out  the door with that girl-



"Uh, Reagan?"



"Hmm?" I look up, started from my thoughts to see them both looking at  me, as if waiting for an answer to a question I never heard.



Chelsea rolls her eyes at Hudson; "I told you she wasn't listening."



Hudson grins at me as he twirls his empty espresso cup around the  saucer; "I was telling Chelsea that you can't get weighed down with what  came before. You've just gotta keep your head up, because you never  know when something new might come next."



I smile thinly at him, still mulling over everything I was thinking  about before, but now also wondering which of the three of us that  particular advice was really meant for.





P A S T



"Jesus, Hudson," Logan is shaking his head at me in that way that makes  him seem like my older brother. I don't actually have an older brother,  but if I did, I know he'd be Logan giving me this exact look.



"What?" I toss the keys to the valet who's salivating over the sleek white McLaren behind me.



"Not exactly the most subtle statement is it? What part of ‘blend in' and ‘seamless' doesn't click with you?"



I shrug, annoyed at Logan's tone; "I needed a car, man." Right, that's  why you buy a million-dollar vehicle; because you ‘need a car'. But I'm  New Rich - capital N, capital R - we all are, and goddamn does it feel  good to fucking live a little without worrying about where the next buck  is going to come from, or what piece of my soul I'm going to have to  cut out in order to get it. New Rich also means, by the way, that I'm  half in the bag - a factor which I'm consciously attempting to downplay  to Logan since I'm supposed to be going sober these days. Of course, I'm  twenty one years old, I've taken a bullet for my country, I want to  forget the last two or three years of my life, and I'm worth  three-hundred million dollars; anyone who thinks I'm not going to be  drinking is fucking delusional.



"You should get one, it'll help you calm the fuck down a little." I can  see Logan tense up, his jaw tightening and his shoulders flexing beneath  his suit.



"Baaaabbe?" Oh, right, my date. I dance over to the other side of the  car, to the bejeweled, shiny-manicured hand dangling out of the  passenger side, and pull her out. She's makes a face at me that I know  she thinks is sexy, which is in reality kind of just stupid looking, but  I push it out of the way and grin at her as I haul her out.



I look up to see Logan shaking his head again;"Seriously?"



"Logan! Manners!" I say dramatically, feeling the booze I slugged down  earlier course through me as I jerk my thumb at him. I roll my eyes at  my date who's name is escaping me and who's probably either too fucked  up or too clueless to actually get the look of disdain Logan is throwing  her way anyways.



"It's a birth- no, retirement?" I frown, realizing I've honestly forgotten why the fuck we're here.



"It's a graduation party," Logan growls through tightly-clenched teeth  as he eyes me; "For the Old Man's daughter." He shakes his head as he  peers at me; "Jesus Christ, Hud, have you been fucking drinking?"



The valet pulls my car away and as I jaunt past Logan with the bimbo on  my arm, I pat him on condescending on the shoulder; "Try and have a  little fun, dude. We're fuckin rich now." I somehow walk away without  him breaking one of my arms, and we stumble our way through the front  doors of the Old Man's castle-like estate.



A hand shoots out and grabs my arm hard, and I whirl around, fire in my eyes.



"Easy, Marine." It's William, and I'm instantly feeling like shit  because I know I'm not supposed to be drinking, and I also know that he  can see right through me and knows I have been. His eyes narrow at me,  and I can see that he's not mad per-say, he's just disappointed.



Jesus, why is it always ten thousand times worse when he people you want  to look good for are disappointed instead of just plain angry at you.



"Are you in control?"



No. Yes. Maybe? Grab me a beer and I'll let you know? I of course don't  say any of those things and just nod like an asshole instead. I'm not  trashed or anything, but this man has risked so much and given me a life  straight out of a fucking movie script; all on the foundation that I  clean up and keep my shit together, and I'm blowing that.



"I'm good, sir."



He nods slowly; "Good, I know Reagan is excited to meet you."



P R E S E N T



I awake from the memory momentarily confused by the ceiling that stares  blankly back at me until I remember that I'm in the guest bedroom at  Reagan's apartment.



Technically, it was her mother's place that she kept in the city to get  away from it all, Reagan told me last night when we got in. But since  she graduated, it's apparently became Reagan's de facto home. It might  not be a mansion up in Greenwich, but it's hardly slumming it either.  It's light in here, and airy, and even though we're in Manhattan, the  sounds of the city seem more of a background lull than the typical white  noise grating on your ears. There's a homey warmth to it that I realize  quite starkly is something I've never known; not in the desert during  our deployment, not in hiding after that, and certainly not in my  shattered life before. Even with the money I have now, my penthouse is  stark and modern and cold; the opposite of this place.



This place has love.



I wince as I roll out of bed, feeling the dull pain in my shoulder and  partially regretting my workout last night. Reagan's building has a  pretty lame little gym in the basement, but when I realized there was a  boxing bag there, I hit it hard last night when we got back. I wince  again recalling that I fell asleep without showering last night; a  problem that needs fixing right now.



I groan, thinking about how I'd tried to shower the night before, only  to realize when I'd walked down the hallway that the door was shut and  the water was on. The dawning realization that only a thin piece of wood  and possibly a shower curtain stood between me and a naked Reagan had  gotten me so fucking hard that I'd felt my pulse roar in my ears like a  fucking jet engine. The mental image of her, the hot water cascading  down her perfect body, the steam rising around her, her hands lathering  her skin with soap had me gripping the doorframe with an iron grip,  wanting nothing more than to break down that door, crush her body to  mine and take her right there in the damn shower.



Obviously, my restraint is to be applauded, as I'd instead gone back to  my guest room with a raging case of blue balls and a nonstop fantasy of  Reagan wearing nothing but some soap bubbles dancing through my head as  I'd fallen fitfully asleep.



I'm still thinking about it, and I'm rock hard with my cock straining at  my boxer-briefs as I poke my head out of the door and look around.  Reagan might be what most people call an early riser, but I'm a Marine;  "early" is a subjective term.



I'm used to the five-nozzle automatic steam shower I've had installed at  my penthouse these days, but there's an old world nostalgia that hits  me when I manually crank on the water in Reagan's clawfoot tub. The  loofa that played a very soapy and very x-rated roll in my dreams of her  last night is hanging there on a hook by the shower-head, and a surge  of lust hits me again as the scent of her soap and her shampoo hit me. I  think of her standing in this very tub last night, her skin pink and  wet, her breasts rising and falling as she breathes in the steam, and  the water running over her stomach and her hips to trickle down between  her legs.



Jesus, get a fucking grip, man.



I'm so hard thinking about Reagan that I'm practically about to rip  through my briefs, so I shuck them down my thighs, and that's when the  door barges open.



She's clearly just stumbled out of bed, and it's the sexiest fucking  thing I've ever seen. She's wearing these thin little white panties that  are clinging tightly to every curve of her hips and every crease  between her thighs, and this sheer lacy nighty thing that I can see  right fucking through.