Cockney:A Stepbrother Romance(51)

I stare at her with a puzzled look, trying to read her face.         

     



 



"Please?" Her voice is shy, naked in it's honesty, and I find myself nodding as I open my phone to call off the two guards.



Jesus, this girl is going to be the end of me.



"Fine."





P A S T



The buzzing beneath my pillow shakes me awake, and I frown as I feel  sleep begin to slide away from me. I'm grumbling to myself as I pull out  the offending cellphone I must have fallen asleep with, blinking at its  glaringly bright screen. The number isn't familiar, but I do recognize  the time that says it's 3:45 in the morning, and with a muttered swear, I  reject the call and shove the phone back under my head.



The buzzing starts again just as I start to drift off. "Ugh, what?" I  groan out loud, grinding my teeth as I see the same unknown number  illuminating my screen and wrecking my sleep a second time. I'm tempted  to answer just to tell them where they can stick it, but instead I just  turn my phone off entirely. I'm yanking the covers up around me and  burrowing deeper into my sleep when I hear the knock at my dorm-room  door.



What the actual fuck.



"What?!" I know the disheveled, skate-punk-looking kid standing outside  my door, but only through faint recognition as someone who lives on my  floor on the other side of the dorm. "Can I help you?"



"There's, uh, someone here to see you." He takes a sip from the atypical college red plastic solo cup in his hand.



I furrow my brow at him; "Excuse me?"



"Outside; there's some dude who wants to see you."



"Who?"



He shrugs. He looks high, or drunk; "I dunno, some guy just gave me a  hundred bucks to come knock on your door and tell you to answer your  phone." He frowns and taps a finger to his forehead which would be  comical if I hadn't just been woken up at four in the morning.



"Wait, no, that's not it, he said to say ‘Answer your damn phone, Archer.'"



I almost smirk; Hudson.



*****



"A hundred dollars, huh? Just to get me outside?"



Hudson is leaning against the side of a bright red Porsche convertible,  his white oxford shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his sleeves rolled up,  uncharacteristically showing off his tattoos. He grins and shrugs; "Eh,  its the only cash I had in my wallet. Answer your damn phone next  time."



"What do you want, Hudson." Ok so part of me is thrilled that he's shown  up here like this at four in the morning like something out of a John  Hughes movie; especially looking like that with his hair pushed back and  that cocky grin and those tattoos peeking out down his forearms. The  other part of me though - the sensible part of me - is wary of this for  those exact reasons.



"I want to show you something, get in."



I raise my eyebrows skeptically; "Have you been drinking or something?"



"What? No, I don-" He frowns and shakes his head; "No, Reagan, I haven't."



I cock my head towards the red convertible; "What happened to the white one?"



"I got bored. Look, just get in ok?"



"Hudson, it's four o'clock in the morning," I've been at college for all  of a month, and the work is already seriously piling up. I roll my eyes  at him; "I need to sleep."



"No, what you need to do is get in the car."



He's so insistent and so earnest about it that something wants me to say yes when I know I shouldn't, and suddenly, I'm caving.



"Let me just go change my-"



"Nah, PJ's are fine." He winks at me; "Com'on Archer, quit being a diva and get in the car."



*****



Hudson, predictably, drives like an insane person, and we're roaring  over the George Washington bridge in less time than I thought was  physically possible. He whips us around a van and veers off onto the  Palisades Parkway, and then we're tearing away from the city and up the  west bank of the Hudson River. We aren't talking, but the stereo is  playing an old Grateful Dead record, and I almost grin at how not  expected this choice of music is for the Armani-suited wild man Hudson.



He smirks as if reading my mind; "I'm a man of odd taste, Ms. Archer."



"What, like drunk bimbos and sports cars?" I smirk, unable to help but  get that cheap shot in; "Yeah, so outside the lines for rich young  finance guys in New York."



"I was going to say like night drives and girls in pajamas, actually."



I feel myself blushing as I turn and look out the window at the inky  black of the river we're following. I don't know what this is that we're  doing out here, but I'm suddenly very curious to see where it goes.



Hudson swerves off the main parkway, and then we're speeding up; up a  twisting, winding, and wooded road. The elevation climbs, and Hudson  drives faster and higher, taking bend after bend with screeching tires  until I'm holding onto the edges of my seat with white knuckles and  gasping as the trees rush past us.



And then suddenly, the darkness of the trees gives way, the sky opens  up, and and we're squealing to a stop. I can still feel my heart  hammering from the drive, but I gasp as I look around the parking lot  lookout where we've stopped. I can see the lights of the whole city from  here, down along the black ribbon of the Hudson River, and its  incredible.



"I just thought you'd want to see the whole Hudson." He says quietly from the seat next to me.



I turn and see that he's staring out at the view himself, and I grin; "Please tell me that's a pickup line you've used before."



He laughs, his whole face breaking into a wide smile; "Not on a first date, Ray."



"Oh, is this a first date?" I smirk.



"Is it?" He shrugs; "First date and I already get to see what you sleep in; not bad I'd sa-"



I smack him on the arm with a laugh and he turns to grin at me; "No, Ray, it's not a line; just something I wanted to show you."



We both turn back to the view for another minute of silence. I open my  mouth to ask it but then stop myself, before changing my mind again;  "You show this to a lot of girls?"



A song ends on the album, and in the absolute silence of the car, he  turns to me, his sharp eyes glinting in the light from the dash; "None,  actually."



The music starts up again as we both sit back in our seats and just  stare off into the predawn as civil twilight crests over the city; and  its wonderful.





P R E S E N T



OK, so being around Hudson is hard. Ugh, I need to get my mind out of  the gutter; it's difficult I should say, being around him. Mostly  because the only thing I can think about at all is that cock of his I  saw when I stumbled into the bathroom. I mean, it's not enough that he's  rich, cocky, muscled and criminally attractive; the guy has to have an  big dick too?



I mean honestly, it's distracting.



He of course seems to have have totally moved on from seeing, well,  whatever it is he thinks he saw. Although at this point, I'm fairly sure  he knows exactly what he saw; and heard. I cringe a little, thinking  about gasping his name out as my orgasm ripped through me, and then  seeing him just standing there, staring at me. Whats worse is that I  can't I get my damned mind off of that image of him standing there  totally naked and completely hard. And why can't I help but wonder what  or who he was thinking about that got him that way?



His back is to me, as he reads through business emails of some kind on  his phone in my living room, and I find myself chewing at my lip  nervously, my mind a whirlwind. I mean, would it really be so bad?



YES! The voice in my head screams, shaking me from my idle day-dreaming  and making me realize with a blush that I've been staring at Hudson's  back for the past five full minutes. YES, it would be bad like ruination  of public image bad. I mean sleeping with the guy in charge of donating  campaign funds? It's not illegal or anything, but they'd fucking  crucify me for that in the papers. I can almost see the headlines now,  something like "Silly Little Rich Girl Predictably Bangs the Guy With  Money; Bows Out of Campaign".



No, fuck that. What I need is to get images and thoughts of me banging  Hudson out of my head, now. Of course, the pathetic amount of time it's  been since I've been involved in banging of any kind makes me groan, and  I know that's part of the problem. I mean there was Chet - yes, Chet,  like something out of a fucking Archie comic - but that was over six  months ago, and even then it was barely a thing. It was barely a thing  so much that when I heard the whispers about him fucking his intern like  a walking cliche, I remember feeling more sorry for whatever college  poli-sci major had to lay there and fake it now that I wasn't doing it  than I did for myself. Erika, my "brand manager" (God I hate that  title), of course want's me to get back together with him, and is always  talking about how much of a "complimentary companion" he is for a  "power-woman" like myself.