I drop onto the chair in front of the dresser, resting my head in my hands. I was hoping I had gotten through to Chris this time. That he was going to seek help and stay with me until he got clean.
But it’s the same tired, worn-out story.
He stayed with me three nights this time. I got to stuff him full of home-cooked food, made sure he slept well, and got him some new clothes and another new cell. I have no idea what he does with his cell phones, but I have a stash of disposables purely for my ex.
I don’t bother replying because there is nothing more left to be said. Instead, I offer up a silent prayer someone will look after him until the next time he shows up at my place.
Seeing Kent similarly trashed has messed with my head.
I know what he said, but I also know how alluring addiction is. Just because he keeps sober during the week and only indulges on the weekend doesn’t mean he has control over it.
There was a time I might have gone down that slippery slope, but seeing what that shit has done to Chris was my saving grace. Now, I don’t touch drugs, and I rarely drink to excess. I haven’t worked my butt off since I graduated high school to flush it all away. Having a set goal has helped me avoid falling into the trap a lot of foster kids fall into. I know being around Chris and Clay means I’m still a part of that world, but I never let myself forget that, so I don’t get sucked in. I’ve come too far, worked too hard, to let that happen.
Imogen wishes I would cut them loose because she hates they are my ties to the criminal underbelly and drug culture, but I can’t do it. I can’t turn my back on the two guys who got me through my teenage years. I care about them. Walking away would be too selfish, and it’d hurt me too.
I stand, yawning as a wave of fatigue washes over me. It’s been a long, draining day, and I just want to crash. Finding a pile of T-shirts, I choose a plain white one with an embossed Boss logo and take it out to the bedroom.
Kent is snoring on top of the covers, lying belly down, in only his tight boxers. My eyes travel over the length of him from his feet to his broad shoulders, memorizing his toned legs and powerful thighs, his pert ass, and muscular back. The ink on his arms extends along the top of his back, and it’s good work. Whoever did this knows their stuff. The rest of his back is smooth and unblemished. A blank canvas ready for the taking.
I wonder if he’d ever let me ink him?The thought excites me more than it probably should.
My features soften as I focus on his gorgeous face. He looks so much younger in sleep. His long lashes fan across his chiseled cheek, and strands of his dark, silky hair brush against his brow. His full lips are slightly parted, air slipping softly from his mouth.
He is physically beautiful, hiding all the broken, tormented parts on the inside. Perhaps that is why we are drawn to one another. Kent is shielding hidden depths I have barely begun exploring, and he’s only started to crack my veneer.
I don’t really know why I’m here, and while one part of me feels like a stranger in a foreign land, another part of me feels like this is home. I can’t determine which side is more troubling.
I traipse into the bathroom, gently closing the door as I gaze in awe at the opulent room with matching marble features. His and hers sinks rest in front of a large mirror with bright overhead lighting. A massive walk-in-shower is enclosed behind floor-to-ceiling-length glass, and a ginormous freestanding claw-foot bath sits alongside a wide window. At this height, there is no one overlooking the property on either side and no obstruction marring the citywide view.
I slip out of my clothes, knotting my hair in a messy bun on top of my head as I take a quick shower, lathering myself in Kent’s bodywash, recognizing the spicy fruity scent as it covers my skin. I towel myself dry and slip on Kent’s shirt, sans underwear, because I don’t have any clean panties with me and the shirt is long enough to hide my intimate parts anyway. Borrowing one of the toothbrushes I find, I brush my teeth.
Tiptoeing back into the room, I close the curtains and pull the comforter up over Kent before sneaking back downstairs. My mouth is parched, and I want to find some Tylenol because I’m sure Kent will have the mother of all hangovers in the morning.
I pad into the main living area, admiring the beautiful décor, wondering if Kent’s interior-designer Mom designed the space because it is truly stunning. I’m too busy ogling the room to notice the man standing behind the island unit, staring at me like I might be an apparition.
I jump, emitting a startled squeak as I slap a hand against my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a deep voice that sounds eerily similar to his brother’s. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He’s wearing low-hanging pajama pants, a loose white shirt, and a curious expression. I recognize Keanu from pictures online, and I know he co-owns this place with his triplet, but Kent said he is rarely here anymore. Now he and Selena—his wife—have graduated Harvard, they apparently spend most of their time at their house in Wellesley.
“No apology is necessary. Kent didn’t tell me you were here. Is Selena with you?”
“She’s sleeping,” Keanu confirms. “And Kent doesn’t know we’re here. We had a fundraising event in the city that went on longer than expected, so we decided to crash here rather than making the trip back home.”
I walk toward him, conscious of how this must look. Me naked underneath his brother’s shirt. “I’m Presley.” I smile, holding out my hand. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Keanu. But you obviously know that.” He shakes my hand, and a genuine smile spreads across his mouth. He looks so much like Kent it’s unnerving. “So, you two are dating now?” he asks.
“To be honest, I’m not really sure what we are,” I truthfully admit. “We’ve been on one date, and we’re supposed to be going out again tomorrow night. Things are a little complicated.”
“Aren’t they always?” The kettle pings behind him. “I was making some peppermint tea. Would you like some?”
“That would be lovely.”
He gestures at the table on the left. “Take a seat. I’ll bring it over.”
I watch as he makes two cups of tea, enchanted by how similar his mannerisms are to Kent’s. He’s not as broad or as built as his triplet, his leaner muscles a nod to his previous modeling career, and his hair is shorter and cut much tighter at the sides, but he’s every bit as hot as Kent.
