“STOP,” Cruz rushes out, his fingers desperately clinging to the door handle as he looks across at Carver in a panic, his face turning a sickly shade of white. “Stop the fucking car, man.”
Carver darts to the side of the road and comes to a screeching halt just as Cruz throws the passenger side door open. His head flies out just in time for the rest of us to hear as he violently throws up every last thing in the bottom of his stomach.
King just keeps laughing, and for a moment I wonder if the man is some kind of robot. Who can laugh so hard and for so long without their stomach aching and begging for sweet relief? Either way, I love the sound so there are no complaints from me.
Grayson grumbles beside me, slipping his hand into mine and lacing our fingers. He loops his arm over my head and pulls me into his side. “Now you’ve done it,” he mutters, the smirk still playing on his lips as Carver watches Cruz with his lips pulled up in disgust.
“Really, man?” Carver grumbles. “You’re splashing it all over the side of the car.”
Cruz’s hand flies back and Carver instantly shoves a water bottle into it as I try not to watch, but it’s like seeing a horror movie. You know you should close your eyes, but you can’t help it and end up paying the price.
Cruz gets cleaned up and lets out a heavy breath as he rights himself in his seat and closes the door. Knowing this isn’t over, Carver doesn’t bother hitting the gas and just waits as Cruz slowly turns around and gives me a hard stare, one that I’ve never had the displeasure of being on the opposite end of. “Never again, Elodie Ravenwood,” he demands, using my real name just to prove a point. “Is that clear? I never want to hear about what my mom is or isn’t doing in the sack with my father. From now on, I will source your reading material. Whatever book you want, you go through me. I will get it for you. Hardback, paperback, audio book or those digital ones. Me, not her. My mother will never again influence what filthy smut goes through your pretty head.”
I bite down on my lip, forcing myself not to smile. “I, uhh … I was just joking,” I tell him. “I’ve never actually spoken to your mom about books.”
He gives me a hard stare, not believing me for one second. “How am I supposed to fuck you every night without wondering if each move you twist your sexy little body into was something you got from my mom?”
“Every night?” King sputters. “Ease up, tiger. You need to share her around a bit. I’ll give you every second night.”
“Fuck off,” Grayson says. “That shit might have worked when there were only two of you, but there’s more players in the game now, and I intend on making up for lost time.”
The boys start fighting between themselves and I flop back against my seat, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring right out the front windshield as Carver laughs to himself and hits the gas, sending us soaring down the highway once again.
“Do I get a say in any of this?” I cut in when they refuse to give up. “Why can’t I do you all every night?”
“Because you’re not a human pin cushion,” Grayson says. “And besides, after you’ve been with me, you’ll be too exhausted to venture into their rooms.”
Cruz scoffs. “Who says you’re going first?”
“Fuck me,” I mutter under my breath, though that’s the whole reason we’re in this mess in the first place. The boys continue arguing between themselves and I quickly lose interest, knowing all too well just how long this bullshit is going to go on for. Don’t get me wrong, I’m kinda flattered that they’re fighting over me, but after sitting in this car for five hours, it can be a bit much.
The boys don’t do road trips well, and unfortunately for me, that’s something I’ve had to learn the hard way. They’re cooped up, frustrated, and have far too much energy. They’ve argued and bickered for hours on end and it doesn’t look like there’s an end in sight. Though thankfully, Carver’s idea of a good road trip is to stare out his windshield in silence with a broody as fuck glare across his face. As much as I’m starting to really care for the boys and adore the smooth, velvety tones of their deep voices, I’d be more than happy if they all took a page out of Carver’s book.
It takes nearly twenty long, drawn-out minutes for the boys to stop bickering between themselves, and as I listen to each of them giving up and fading into silence, I try to work out how the hell they got from fighting over a fuck-fest schedule with me to arguing over who makes the shittiest Bolognese sauce. For the record, it’s King. His cooking is a whole new level of fucked up but when he cooks, he’s so damn proud that you just eat it with a smile on your face and tell him how fucking great it is.