Mav has a lot of great qualities, but aim isn’t one of them. I throw myself across the couch to snatch it out of the air.
“And hey,” he continues, “the gala wasn’tthatbad. Though maybe next time let me handle the graphics.”
“Next time, cuz. But, seriously, I don’t wanna talk about it.” Mostly because I don’t wanna explain that my bad mood has nothing to do with the gala.
I mean, I don’t wanna talk aboutthat, either, but everything that went down in Truett’s shop this morning is at least seven times more humiliating than what went down last night.
It was the hottest sexual encounter I’ve ever had in my life, yes, but now he knows without even fucking me that I’m a six-three bottom, and a subby one at that. I’m never embarrassed about my love of bottoming, but right now, I’m feeling weirdly vulnerable about it.
Like, I one hundred percent threw myself at him, and he took charge with that perfect fat cock of his. I can still smell the musky woody scent that surrounded me as I tongued his piercing.
I just wish he hadn’t been such a dismissive jackass at the end.
So yeah. I’m gonna sit here and let this ridiculous couch swallow me whole as I stare off into the fading evening sky and disassociate into a puddle of my failures.
Dramatic for someone with a floor-to-ceiling view of both downtown Austin and Lady Bird Lake, but here we are.
“Mav’s right, Rahm. You put on a really beautiful event,” Maya says loyally, stopping to catch a fly-by Shiner. “And besides, Brantley’s in good company. He was arrested by that same detective who keeps arresting Mav.”
Mav makes the vomit gesture. “Stupid Booney.”
I share a confused look with Maya, who stage-whispers, “Boone Hitchens also happens to be that poor, beleaguered counselor Mav lusted over at summer camp.”
“Oh my God, how embarrassing.” I’d completely forgotten about that, but now a few other things fall into place. “Wait. Isn’t he the cop who once arrested you for jaywalking?”
Maverick sends me a disgruntled look. “Shut up.”
I laugh, but Maya holds up her hands. “Okay, okay. We’re supposed to be enjoying a rare night with all the cousin-roomies. I switched shifts with that bitch who thinks she’s God’s gift to bone grafts to be here, so no moping.”
Oof. Maya’s in her second year of surgical residency and that shit is competitive as fuck. Our dads are pleased as punch that she was accepted to Wakefield Regional Hospital just outside of Johnson City. It opened three years ago and is the most advanced research hospital in the country. The campus is massive—separate buildings house cancer research, genetic research, pediatric diseases, various injury and surgical specialties, plus an emergency care department for locals.
She’d started off in stem cell research but got bored because “it was too easy.” Turns out, she prefers the challenge of putting mangled bodies back together over lab work, so her emphasis is trauma surgery with a focus on regenerative medicine. As best I can tell, she’s trying to figure out how to repair and regrow limbs and organs with a person’s own genetic materials. Before the gala, I hadn’t seen her in over a month.
“You’re right, sissy. I’ve missed hanging out with you, so I’ll try for a better mood, promise.”
Maverick slouches down next to me, scratching his chin. “Why don’t you ever say you miss me?”
“Because we live together, and I can’t fucking get away from you.”
Between him, Oakley, and Maya—who has a room here for when she’s around—the condo’s never quiet. We bought it with trust-fund returns, mostly to get a little space from our dads, butit’s become more than that. It’s Wildling Central, and it feels like home.
“Rude!” Mav laughs, knowing I’d give him a kidney if he asked. He taps my bottle. “Keep drinking until your mood improves.”
That’s exactly the sort of advice I’d expect to get from Maverick. His first name is actually Rune, which is super lyrical for a man who wouldn’t know a poem if it spread its cheeks and sat on his face. We started using his middle name after the whole Bevo incident, and it stuck. Mostly because he’s done nothing to dissuade us.
Funnily enough, my cousin Holmes—Mav’s identical twin—went into the Navy with our cousin Honoré. Now they’re both in an undefined special-ops unit. People like to joke that H and H should’ve been the twins, since Mav and Holmes couldn’t be more different. But the way they practically read each other’s minds? Kinda creepy, if you ask me.
While Maya and I each take after one of our dads, Mav and Holmes are a perfect blend of Dad’s identical twin, Odd, and our Uncle DeShaun, who’s Black with a deep-brown complexion.
To be honest, I never remember how my uncles worked that out genetically.
“So, where is everyone?” I ask, not exactly disappointed by the small turnout.
“Sy’s on the way up, Oak’s getting in the last of his laps and will be down in a few,” Mav says, gesturing toward our rooftop pool. “Holmes and Honoré are coming in from Wimberley. Our buddies from Seguin said they’d try to stop by a little later.”
Great. ’Cause what I need is more witnesses to my abject failure.
Maya takes a sip, her gaze snagging on my head.
