Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance (52 page)

“
S
o
, how was Dad last night?”

Chelsea looks up from her homework and frowns at me. I’m supposed to be doing the same thing, especially since I’ve just started sending transcripts to colleges, but I’m mindlessly paging through TV channels instead. “You should have at least gotten on to say hi, Ray.”

I shrug; “It sounded like you were having a hard time hearing him anyways, wherever he is.”

“Angola.”

“What?”

“Angola; that where he is.”

I roll my eyes and sneer; “Of
course
he is.”

Chelsea slams her homework down and glares at me; “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“It means wherever there’s some third world conflict with terrible people willing to spend money of disputable origins, that’s pretty much where you can guarantee our father will be, Chelsea.”

I turn back to the TV with a huff, but my younger sister jumps out of her chair, grabs the remote out of my hand, and shuts it off; “
Meaning
?”

“Meaning Dad sells guns to bad people, Chelsea!” I shout at her. She flinches at the outburst but I keep going; “It means all of
this
” I’m gesturing around at the opulent home around us; “We have all of this because Dad is an arms dealer.”

Chelsea’s face scrunches up in a frown and it looks like she’s about to cry; “You don’t
know
that, Reaga-“

“I know how to put one and one together and get two, Chelsea.” She starts to snivel, and I feel the wind go out of my sails as I reach out and pull her into a hug; “Hey, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t
know
that, Reagan!” She says again weekly as she presses her wet eyes into my shoulder.

“I know,” I say, stroking her hair; “I should gotten on the phone yesterday. So, how
did
he sound?”

“Good,” Chelsea pulls aways, her eyes red and wet looking.

“Who’s yelling in here?” Quinn pokes her head into the room and frowns when she sees Chelsea; “Reagan-“

“It’s nothing, we were just talking about Dad.”

Quinn shrugs; “Oh yeah, he’s in Angola with The Guys.” She frowns at me; “You
really
should find the time to talk when he calls you know, it’s not exactly easy to make phone call from there.”

I suppress the urge to growl; “So he’s with the guys in some remote corner of the globe instead of spending time here with us while you’re back on break, huh?” I roll my eyes; “Shocker.”

Quinn makes a face; “Oh, did
you
want to go to the sub-Saharan conflict zone, Reagan? Were you just
dying
to take in the scenery with a dash of extreme poverty and active war zone?”

“You know what I mean. I mean spending time with
them
all the time.”

My older sister frowns; “It’s
work
, Reagan. And besides, you know they’re all military or whatever; it’s like a brotherhood thing.”

I shrug; “Yeah but they just - I don’t know, they’re weird.”

Quinn grins; “You mean
hot
.”

“Um,
not
what I meant, but eh, I guess.”

“You
guess
?” Quinn is grinning at me; “Uh, news to Reagan, they’re hot. Chels? You with me here?”

Chelsea blushes and grins; “They’re super cute, Reagan.”

“They’re old!”

Quinn laughs; “Fuck you!
Old?
I think Hudson’s
my
age and Bryce is younger than
that
, bitch.”

“Fine, whatever.” I reach for the TV remote.

My older sister frowns again; “Did you finish your application essay for Columbia yet”

I groan dramatically; “
Yes
, MOM.”

She bristles, and I cringe; “Sorry.”

“Just finish that application, dummy.”

“
W
hat
, no Charger?” I smirk at Hudson as his driver brings the Bentley limo around to the back-door of the gym.

He flashes that cocky grin at me as he opens the door for us; “Not today”.

“Hmm, yeah,
much
too flashy,” I nod with phony enthusiasm; “Good thing you’ve got the Bentley limousine as a far more
inconspicuous
backup.”

He shrugs; “What fun is money if you can’t spend it?”

“Oh
is
there money you haven’t spent? I wasn’t aware of that” I smile sweetly at him, nodding towards the sleek, ultra-luxury Bentley.

“Get in the car, Archer,” He smirks, his eyes glinting at me.

* * *

L
ater as we
’re finishing lunch on the rooftop terrace of the exclusive place he takes us, I frown as I watch him; half-listening to him as he doles out relationship advice to Chelsea.

There’s a mystery to Hudson, almost as if there are two of him both sharing the same stupidly good-looking body. The one Hudson is arrogant and - wait, no, scratch that;
both
Hudson’s are arrogant. But while the one smug, cocky, overly-confident Hudson surrounds himself with luxury and and sarcasm and boorish behavior, there’s another one that I keep getting glimpses of, like the one sitting here talking to my sister.

That
Hudson is, well,
utterly
different. The second Hudson is fragile and partly broken; full of demons with fire in his eye. He’s the man with battle-scars and tattoos peeking out just enough from underneath that Armani armor to make me crazy to want to know which Hudson is the
real
one.

Or are they both?

But then of course, I’m reminded of
who
he is. I’m reminded that however charming and sober and put-together this new Hudson is, this is still one of the family of men my father surrounded himself with off in some remote corner of the globe when he was avoiding
us
- his
real
family. I remind myself that however handsome his face is, and however sweet he’s being to Chelsea right now, this man has an agenda in helping finance my campaign.

My father might be gone, but Hudson Banks is here, as if he’s helping my Dad exert his will over me from beyond the grave, which is a bizarre and uncomfortable thought.

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.

“
J
esus
, 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.”

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.

“I, oh-!” She trips over whatever she’s about to say as I whirl around, and then she’s just
staring
at my cock. Her mouth is open in this sexy as fuck way, and I can feel my dick actually jump as her tongue
barely
slides out to briefly wet her lip and then it just feels like time stops.

We’re frozen in this moment, barely three feet away from each other and yet neither of us moving or saying a damn thing. And there is
so much
I want to say that I almost can’t think, but at the same time, I don’t want anything in the world to shatter this moment.

We stand there in silence for the longest three full seconds in the world before she starts to slowly back away. She’s not leaving, she just backs up against the door frame, her eyes stuck on my erection.

“Hudson-“ She breathes, her eyes wide and blinking quickly and her chest rising and falling with her breathing.

Something about her saying my name like that breaks me from the freeze, and I’m moving towards her before I know what the fuck I’m doing. But dammit if she’s going to move, or leave, then she better fucking do it now before I crush those pouty, sexy fucking lips with mine and take her right here in the bathroom.

I’m right in front of her, my pulse raging in my ears, her eyes still haven’t left my dick. Slowly, she draws them up, slowly shaking her head but her cheeks are bright red and her breath is coming in these cute little gasps. “You’re-“

She swallows heavily and licks her lips again, and all I can think about is watching those lips wrap around my shaft.

“Say it,” I growl out, my eyes flashing as I hold her trembling gaze with my own; “Say the word.” I want to tear those panties from her body and sink my cock into her right here against the bathroom wall, but I
need her
to tell me she wants me first. I’m already feeling like I’m breaking every vow and all the trust in the world with William and Logan and Bryce, and she
has
to make the first move or this is nothing, as much as I
know
we both want this right now.

“We- we can’t-“

I grab her wrist and push them back tight against the doorframe behind her. She whimpers and shivers, and this tiny moan falls from her lips, and God help me I’m going to take her right here in about three seconds.

She arches her hips forward in
just
the smallest of movements, and my cock
just
grazes against the bare skin of her hip and she shivers; “Hudson-“

“Say the word Reagan.” I growl, leaning down until I’m practically breathing the words against her lips. It’s taking everything I have not to shove my tongue into her mouth and fuck her right up against the wall; “Say the fucking word and I’ll-”

“No!” She gasps, the spell suddenly broken as she pushes me back. My stomach drops as she’s whirling around and bolting out the bathroom door, leaving me standing here with heart in my throat and my cock rock hard.

Day one of watching Reagan Archer; I am
not
going to survive this campaign.