Thirteen
Jenner
“Another round, please,” Ford said to the bartender, pointing at the shot glass in front of him along with the ones in front of Dominick and me.
The bartender lifted a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter and refilled the small glasses.
Ford held his up in the air and said, “To getting shit-faced.”
“I’m already there,” I admitted. “Jesus. Enough. No more shots after this next one.”
“You’re tapping out?” Dominick dared.
I nodded, the movement so exaggerated that my head no longer felt attached. “Hell yes.”
“The pussy says he’s done,” Dominick grunted at Ford. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“It means nothing,” I said to them. “It means I have a meeting first thing tomorrow that I can’t fucking miss. And it means you two are assholes if you try to goad me into drinking more.”
Dominick held out his hand and said to the bartender, “Bottle. Please.”
She placed the half-empty bottle of whiskey in his grip, and he refilled the glasses again, looking at me when he voiced, “Drink up, pussy.”
“Fuck all three of you,” I said even though there was only two.
Maybe I was including the bartender.
Hell, I didn’t even fucking know at this point.
“Listen, dickhead”—my head dropped to see the time on my Rolex, my eyes squinting so the numbers didn’t jump—“my driver is outside, waiting to take me home, and my ass is planning on being in that car in two minutes.”
“And here I thought, you were about to redeem yourself,” Ford said. “I have a sitter tonight. You’re not ditching out early; you don’t have the balls.”
I threw back the whiskey Dominick had poured and slammed the glass on the bar top when I’d meant to just set it down. “My meeting is with Walter. I can’t cancel. Out of alll people, I can’t do that to him.”
“Dude, stop crying,” Dominick said. “You owe us. It’s as simple as that.”
Crying.
I could strangle the motherfucker.
But if I stayed any longer, the drinking wouldn’t stop. Neither would the teasing, and my brothers were two people I hated to disappoint.
I got up from my barstool and pounded their fists. “I’ll see you at the office.”
My suit jacket was lying across a nearby chair, and I grabbed it, rushing to the door before either of them could stop me. Once I got outside, I found my SUV parked at the base of the lot and climbed into the backseat.
“Mr. Dalton,” my driver said, “am I taking you home?”
“Please, Steven. Thank you.”
As he began to drive, I took out my phone and tried to make sense of what I was seeing. I was too drunk to reply to emails, but that didn’t stop me from reading some of the ones that had come in. Most were work-related. Clients needing contracts reviewed, questions about potential deals, issues that had arisen during acquisitions.
So many fucking billable hours.
I moved on to my social media, scanning through the pictures, my thumb swiping, making them move so fast that I just caught snippets of faces, bodies, scenery—nothing important. But one of them caught my attention, causing me to scroll back, stopping on the photo.
Fuck me.
Jo had posted the picture a few hours ago. It was of her at a Marlins game. Her hair was braided on the sides with a hat on top. She wore a team jersey that she’d tied to show off her stomach and cutoffs on the bottom.
I went to blow up the photo and accidentally liked it.
Goddamn it.
I moved on to the next picture of her in a long dress and a hat similar to the one she’d worn to the beach, and I realized I hadn’t seen this photograph.
I’d followed her Instagram on the plane ride to Miami, but work had been keeping me so busy the last week that I guessed I hadn’t spent much time checking out her account.
I had the time now.
There were photos of her with friends, but most were solo shots. There were ones of her in a bikini at the beach, posing in dresses with sunsets in the background, at clubs and restaurants. My favorites were the ones where she was cozy in her apartment, the faraway look in her eyes telling me she was fantasizing.
About me.
No wonder I hadn’t checked her account before. It was dangerous as hell.
Just as fucking dangerous as it was to text her, yet I found myself pulling up the last message we’d exchanged, my thumbs hitting the keys.
Me: You’re so fucking hot.
Jo: Sounds like someone’s missed me. Are you a Marlins fan?
Me: Nah, I’m just a Jo fan.
Jo: Does that earn me rope? Or maybe handcuffs this time?
My cock started to fucking throb inside my suit, my hard-on grinding against my zipper. I shifted my boxer briefs, making more room for my dick so it wouldn’t bust through my pants.
Me: Don’t fucking tease me. I’ll send a plane for you right now.
Jo: You can’t have me. I’m headed to the Bahamas tomorrow night for my birthday.
Me: Your birthday? You didn’t tell me …
Jo: I’m telling you now. Now, be a good boy and wish me a happy 22nd.
Twenty-two.
I didn’t know, nor had she mentioned it to me while I was in Miami.