Stepbrother Anonymous(22)

If this kept up for much longer, I’d have to look at moving. Could I break my lease?

I heard the pad of footsteps in the other apartment, gone for a few minutes, then back in the bedroom again. The sound of the shower running started next, and I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing this was the normal routine.

So predictable.

I tucked myself into my blanket, curling up with my pillow, and wondered not for the first time what my new neighbor looked like. Short? Fat? Tall? Dark hair? Blond? I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of him, but in the short week he’d been here, I’d been working late and he’d been working even later. I didn’t hear his bootsteps down our shared hallway until after eleven p.m. Some nights long after I was in my pajamas, glasses perched on my nose, with a book in my hands.

The shower turned off a moment later, and I instantly chastised myself for not forcing myself into a deep sleep before he was out again. A few times after his shower, instead of falling right asleep he listened to ESPN highlights. Loudly. He did everything loudly.

I prayed tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

I had an important case tomorrow, a surgery on a poodle that was something new and cutting edge. I was anxious to use some of the new equipment at the clinic. I’d spent hours, until my eyes were blurry, reading all the latest literature written by the other clinicians that were practicing these new methods.

I had to be well rested and awake tomorrow.

As my eyes finally shuttered closed, I hazily made a mental note that if Mr. Sex Machine next door kept me up another night, maybe I’d give him a taste of his own medicine.

Sure, it would be only me and my old and trusty vibrator, but I could give him a run for his money. If nothing else, at least I’d get an orgasm out of my revenge, and then I’d fall into a peaceful, sated sleep. Just like my dirty neighbor did.





CONTINUE READING…





UNDER PRESSURE





(BLUE-COLLAR ALPHAS)





ARIA COLE





One





Jean-Luc





“Get these out the door. Come on, guys! It’ll be fucking cold by the time it reaches the table!” I belted, pushing two elegantly decorated plates into the hands of the next server that walked into the kitchen.

She looked at me, eyes wide as she struggled, nearly dropping one of them.

“Table twelve.” The growl that vibrated from my throat must have done its job. She spun, racing right back out the doors she’d come through without a word.

“Fuck, who does the hiring around here?” I shoved a hand into the deep pocket of my apron and pulled out my pack of cigarettes. I was supposed to be quitting, one last habit I hadn’t quite been able to shake. “I’ll be back in five.”

I waved, leaving the kitchen staff to handle the firing of a new round of dishes. Sometimes I imagined what my life would be like if I went somewhere else, cut and run on this little venture, but I couldn't, because it was my little venture.

I groaned, shoving through the back door to the alleyway and leaning against the cold brick as I lit the stick in my mouth. I took one long, slow inhale, letting the smoke evaporate my anxiety, feeling it coil through my body like an instant muscle relaxer. No wonder I couldn't quit these little babies; my life was too damn stressful at éloïse not to have a few vices to get me through.

“Chef?” My sous chef, Nero, pushed through the crack in the door.

“Fuck, what, man? I can’t take any more shit tonight. I’m going to start taking the hiring away from Frank. I can’t carry the front and the back of the house by myself.”

Nero’s eyes widened before someone stepped out from behind him, almost smaller than he was, as if that were possible. She was barely five foot two and had enough curves to get a man lost for days.

“Who’s this?” I drew on my cigarette.

“This is my niece. Frank hired her as the hostess, but she’s got some experience expediting.” Nero nodded. “She grew up in my father's restaurant, knows her way around things real well.”

“How old is she?” I tried like hell to keep my eyes off her oversized ocean-blue ones. Christ, why did she keep looking at me like that? Like she was seeing inside my soul. Every goddamn dark corner I kept hidden, she shone a light on. It made me uncomfortable, made me kinda fucking itch. I sucked another lungful of cancer into my body and exhaled, trying to shake the feeling, praying the nicotine would do its job and relax my muscles into submission.

“Just turned twenty-one,” Nero finally answered. I knew his family came from a long line of chefs, cooks, and restaurateurs. They were an accomplished family in their own right, and that’s why he was my right-hand man. Also, because he knew me, inside and out. Every shameful secret I had, Nero knew. He was one of the few people who knew everything about me that I actually kept around—and only because he was a damn good cook. I couldn't run this place half as well without him, and I paid him top dollar to show my appreciation. Fucker deserved a gold mine for the hell I put him through.