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The bedroom is empty, but on the bed is my suitcase and tote bag. For some ungodly reason, I feel tears pricking my eyes, but I ignore them and make my way over to my bags. I open them, and seeing my things there, all neatly folded despite having people rummaging through them, loosens something inside me. I run my fingers over the top item, which happens to be a pair of heather gray yoga pants.
I’m not a fashionista by any means. Yes, some of my items are expensive, basically because I have the money to afford them. I don’t, as a rule, go out anywhere special, so my closet at home is full of mostly casual clothes—jeans, T-shirts, workout clothes, and a handful of little black dresses for when I have to attend a funeral. That might seem odd to some people—having a little section just for funeral attire. But when you see death as much as I do, it’s always best to be prepared.
As basic as my clothing is, there’s something to say about having your own things. I opt for the yoga pants and a white tank top before sifting to the bottom of my suitcase for a pair of white boy shorts and a matching sports bra.
I slip the underwear on with the towel still wrapped around me. Once the important parts are covered, I pull the rest of the clothes on before braiding my hair and putting my glasses on. Closing the suitcase, I place it on the floor in the corner with my other bag on top of it.
With nothing left to do, I leave the room to find the guys. I’m surprised neither of them has bothered me yet. I ignore the butterflies taking flight in my stomach. There is nothing these guys can do to me that I can’t handle. I’ve handled far worse.
With my mini pep talk out of the way, I walk down the hall and come to a stop when I find them both in the kitchen cooking. Frozen, I’m not sure what to say when they turn their eyes on me. Neither of them tries to hide the fact that they’re checking me out. I pretend I’m immune to it all, but I still feel my cheeks flush.
“You didn’t eat much before, so we’re making burgers. I was going to grill them, but it’s just started to rain.” Slade shrugs before returning to slicing the hamburger buns.
“You want a drink? We’ve got wine or beer,” Jagger offers.
“Just water is fine, thanks. I don’t drink.”
Slade lifts his head at that, his eyes on me despite the sharp knife in his hand. “You don’t like it or…”
“Or do I have another issue you can hold over my head?” I ask defensively.
He holds his hands up in surrender, which would have been far more effective without the knife.
“Just curious, Astrid. That’s all.”
“Stupid,” I mutter to myself, knowing I’m being a bigger bitch than usual. They sure do seem to bring it out in me.
“I don’t drink because I don’t like to have my senses impaired,” I admit, which is the truth without giving too much away.
“I understand that,” he states quietly.
Jagger hands me a bottle of water and then ushers me over to the island to sit on one of the bar stools. I sit down cautiously, unsure how to manage the new and nicer versions of these two. When they were being dicks, I knew where I stood. Now, not so much.
“Relax, Astrid,” Jagger reassures me.
“Sure, why didn’t I think of that?” I mumble, taking a big swing of water as Slade laughs.
“Alright, we were assholes. I was a dick, and I’d like to say we’re not usually like that. But, well, that’s not true. At least when it comes to me. I can say it’s nothing personal. We’d have been this way with anyone coming to us like you did.”
I raise my eyebrows at that. “So, if an old man stumbled in here, claiming he saw what I did, you’d have slept with him too?”
They both pause at that and look at each other before their warm gazes return to me.
“That was different,” Jagger admits.
“How? We would have come with the same warning.”
“We’re not attracted to men. It’s you we want to fuck.” Slade shrugs, like dropping that clears up everything. I gape at him like a fish out of water.
“Too much? I’m trying to be more open, but I’m not sure how that’s working out for me.” Slade seems genuinely confused, while Jagger tries to hide a smile behind his hand.
“Is he being serious right now?”
“About fucking you? Oh yeah,” Jagger answers, taking a bite out of a pickle.
“So, you were mean to me because you like me? What are we, in kindergarten?”
“I didn’t say I liked you. I said I want to fuck you,” Slade replies, looking at me with a frown when I scowl. “What? I didn’t say I didn’t like you. I don’t know you. I’d like to, though. Get to know you, that is.”
