Falling for the Enemy (Private Pleasures 3)
“It gets even worse, ’cause I’m going to make you put the other bottle back, hand over the keys, and clean up the mess.”
Justin’s chin came out. “Or what? You’ll tell on me?”
“I’m going to tell on you anyway. The only uncertain outcome involves whether my foot goes up your ass or not. If you prefer not, then”—he held out his hand for the keys—“hand those over and find a mop.”
The teenager tossed the keys on the ground and stomped off. Shaun prayed for patience, picked up the keys, and locked the cabinet. Then he turned back to the fridge and made his choice—a nice Napa Valley chardonnay. He tucked it under his arm and waited. A minute later Justin clomped back into the room, carrying a broom with a dustpan clipped on the end and a kitchen towel. He shot Shaun a nasty look, but got to work sweeping up the broken bottle. Silence, it turned out, was too much to hope for.
“You are a total, thieving hypocrite, coming down on me when you’re doing the exact same thing. If you tell Dad about this, don’t think I’m not going to tell him you stole his precious wine.”
“Go ahead and tell him. There are two major differences between your situation and mine. First, I don’t have to sneak around because Tom already knows I’m here, second—and this is crucial—I happen to be of legal drinking age.”
“You happen to be an asshole,” Justin muttered and dumped the broken glass into the trash bin tucked between the liquor cabinet and the wine racks. “And you drink like a pussy. White wine is for chicks.”
Shaun leaned against the wine fridge, crossed his ankles and got comfortable as Justin started mopping up scotch with the towel. “Thank you, Robert Parker.”
To his surprise, Justin connected the dots. “Jesus.” The teen faked a shudder. “It is for a chick. You have a date. My mind is blown. Mr. Social is going to take a break from whatever the hell you do out there in the woods—clutch your Medal of Honor and jack off.”
He laughed. Little brother definitely had a mouth on him. He could spew venom like a viper.
The kid smirked and wrung the towel out in the trash can. “First the haircut, now a date. Should have known.” He went back to wiping the floor. “Who would date you?”
“None of your business.”
“This can’t be too hard to figure out. You don’t know anybody. All you’ve done since you’ve been back is hang around the cabin, show up in my life at the worst possible moments, and…oh fuck…haircut.” He dropped the towel and looked up. “It’s the redhead, isn’t it?”
Wonderful. Justin could be Sherlock-fucking-Holmes when he put his mind to it. “Hmm. Last time we discussed this—about five seconds ago—I believe I said it was none of your business. Nothing’s changed.”
Justin picked up the towel and gave the cement a few more swipes. “Man, Dad is going to shit a brick. She’s like, enemy number one around this house. But I’d do her. She’s so freaking hot, running around town in her tight little jogging shorts. You can tell she wants it, and one of these days I’m going to give that firecrotch a—hey!”
His hand found the collar of Justin’s polo shirt and he hauled the kid to his feet before he fully realized what he was doing. When two wide, alarmed eyes locked on his, he transferred his grasp to the front of Justin’s shirt and dragged him in until their faces were inches apart. Then he slammed him against the door and wedged his knee into Justin’s balls forcefully enough that the kid turned white.
“You stay the hell away from her. Got it? You come near her, or her salon, or anything having to do with her, and you are going to be in a world of hurt. World. Of. Hurt.” With each word, he increased the pressure of his knee in Justin’s groin. When those wide, panicked eyes started to roll, Shaun released him.
&nbs
p; Justin stumbled, caught himself on the liquor cabinet, and scrambled to his feet. “Get the hell off me, you pervert.” He side-stepped toward the door, staying out of Shaun’s reach. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m advising you. If you’re smart, you’ll listen. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you got away with something the other night, because—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Shaun would never be able to prove anything based on one offensive word, but he could do his best to scare the kid from trying anything else. “I mean it, Justin. Don’t go near her, or her salon. It won’t end well for you.”
“You’re out of your friggin’ mind. Section eight or whatever the hell they call it.”
And with that brotherly parting sentiment, he slipped out the door.
…
Ginny adjusted her sunglasses and admired Shaun’s profile while green hills divided by white wooden fences zipped past. He had the top off the Jeep and the windows down. She watched the breeze blow his hair over his forehead and made a mental note to give him a trim the next time she had her scissors handy. The warm summer evening couldn’t have been more pleasant, but he seemed agitated, in his typically battened-down, utterly controlled way. A muscle ticked in his jaw, confirming her impression.
“What’s wrong?”
He glanced at her, and she experienced a little flutter in her chest at the impact of him in dark, silver-rimmed aviators. Then his lips twisted into a small smile and the flutter turned into a thousand busy butterfly wings.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“You.”