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I tugged the back, slid it over my head in one swoop, and balled the performance fabric in my fist, dumping it into a hamper. “I’m positive my mind did not conjure a con woman who knows how to play Go and walks around in see-through lingerie.”
Romeo flicked the lights to the ice room on. “Why not? Sounds like your fantasy.”
I have no fantasies, you fool. Let alone about women.
Human flesh disgusted me.
He stretched his arms. “Maybe it was the alcohol? That Jamaican rum was potent as fuck.”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“But I was.” Ollie moseyed in from the bathroom, stark naked, swinging his dick in the air. That thing was longer than a lemur’s tail. I hoped he taped it to the side of his thigh on dates. His entire existence was one big sexual harassment. “I wassmashed.”
He stopped by the panel, shouldering Rom out of the way and choosing the advanced option.
Below -266F.
Four minutes.
The screen monitored the temperature inside as it plummeted, right along with mypatience. He’d spent the entire morning bitching about his hangover.
Since the three of us lived on the same street, it took all of two seconds to break into his home, pull him out by the ear, and drag him to the decked-out, three-story penthouse suite in his family-owned luxury hotel.
He’d moaned about a headache before we even lifted a single weight.
“Oliver, put that thing away.” My lips curled into a sneer. “It’s dragging all over the floor.”
“By the way, Zachy, I hope you’re not dead set on a virgin for a bride, because I popped a few cherries last night.” Oliver ignored me, scratching the side of his ass. “Okay, fine. A whole bag of cherries. Those industrial ones you get at Costco.”
Romeo barked out a laugh. “When have you ever set foot inside a Costco?”
“Never, but I’ve heard stories. Who’d you end up choosing, and why do you have Oliver Twist’s shoe in your hand?” Ollie whipped his curly blond head, frowning at me. “Please tell me it’s kink-related. The only way anything about you would ever make sense to me is if you tell me right now that you have some kind of filthy feet kink.”
“Christ.” I scoffed, shaking my head.
“What? I’m not judging. We all know my relationship with dog leashes.”
“One cannot have a relationship with inanimate objects.” I said it slowly, hoping it’d seep into his skull but knowing it wouldn’t.
Ollie jerked a finger toward Rom. “Tell that to his wife and her fridge.”
Contrary to general belief, Ollie wasn’t an idiot. He just pretended to be one so he’d be spared all the expectations and obligations a man in his position usually had to endure.
It was actually a clever setup.
One I hadn’t thought of myself.
He would be the last bachelor standing out of us three, because he’d engineered his image so that nobody, alive or dead, wanted their daughter to date him, wealth and status be damned.
He was so thoroughly corrupted, so depraved, that most families would sooner accept a pet fish for a husband than Oliver von Bismarck.
He’d also quietly doubled his natural wealth through investments no one ever asked him about because they all assumed he shared a single brain cell with a discarded sperm.
In the thirty years I’d known him, he’dnever broken a heart, never had to stammer his way out of ending a relationship, and never made a single business mistake while careful to appear as though he had no idea what he was doing and managed his achievements through sheer luck.
He cruised through life without being interrupted by pretending to be an idiot. Which was the most genius thing one could do.
I pushed my running pants down and dumped Octi’s shoe on a wooden bench. “It belongs to someone who trespassed here yesterday.”
