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One
Kingsley
“And so then we got caught by the security guard and kicked out of the fucking museum, with Kiara’s panties still on the floor! I kicked them behind a Rodin as they escorted us out!” Kylian takes another swig from his brandy balloon, laughing so hard that half of it goes up his nose.
I give my youngest brother an unimpressed look over the rim of my own drink, but he’s too entranced in his story to notice.
“Oh! And you want to know what else happened?” He chuckles before he’s even said anything.
The bottom of my glass finds the polished oak of the bar, and I make a mental note that it needs another good polishing soon. “Kylian, I didn’t want to know the first three stories about your sexcapades in Milan.”
He almost chokes again on his brandy and slaps my shoulder. “Kingy, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘sexcapades’ before.”
I scrunch my face up at the nickname that my youngest brother and he alone is allowed to call me. “And I’d appreciate it if you never put me in a position where I’d have to say it again.”
He shakes his head, showing off his set of perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth which seemed to have just grown that way. “I can’t promise you that. Kiara and I have a very healthy sex life.”
God. Why won’t this conversation end? “Why don’t you talk about all this with one of our other brothers?” I beg him, already knowing the answer.
He gives me acome on, really?look. “Because Damien looks at me like he wants to stab himself in his right testicle with a rusty ice pick every time I try to talk about it, and Matthias cuts in with his own sexcapades and I can’t get a word in edgewise.” He empties his glass with a satisfying smack of his lips. “You’re turning green, Kingy. Is the word ‘sexcapades’ making you sick?”
All he gets is a glare in reply.
Raised voices at the end of the bar catch my attention before I have to hear “sexcapades” one more time, and I glance toward the sound. From my vantage point, I can see a pair of bare legs I imagine belong to a petite female, and ankle-high boots sticking out from a barstool. Two men flank the woman, obscuring my view of her. But the way they each have one hand on the bar while leaning over her makes me uncomfortable. I can’t see her face, but I can hear her voice. And it doesn’t sound like she’s happy with the attention.
Not in my fucking bar.
I step away from my spot at the end of the bar and make my way over to them, Kylian hot on my tail. Elio, my head bartender, catches my eye, but I wave him away. I can take care of this myself.
I move myself between the two men, pulling myself to my full six feet, four inches and say one word. Loud and clear. “Leave.”
It takes them a moment to realize that I’ve joined them, and another for the one on the left to reply without looking back at me. “Fuck off, man. We’re talking to this lovely lady.”
Again, one word. “Leave.”
Something in my tone makes them both freeze, and they turn, slowly, a little hesitation in their movements.
Between them, out of focus, sits a young woman with black hair, brown eyes like salted caramel, and crossed bare legs. A short denim skirt is riding up her thighs. It might be distracting if I wasn’t staring down the asshole who told me to fuck off.
“What’s all the stress, dude?” he says, with a little less bravado this time. “We’re just chatting with this lady.”
“Leave.”
No need for any more fancy words. I’ve said what I’ve wanted to say. And it’s up to them whether they want to listen, or if I’m going to have to make them.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The other guy scoffs, but his eyes betray how he really feels. He’s not used to someone confronting him like this, and it shows. Too bad for him. Confrontation is my wheelhouse.
“He’s the owner of this bar, that’s who the fuck he is,” Elio says, leaning in, with a grin. “He’s also the Baxter in that Baxter Ale you’re drinking, dickwank.”
They both flinch, and one holds his hands up. “Oh, look, dude, um, sir, I’m sorry. We were just having some fun. Right? Er... Lu… cy…?” He says her name with about as much surety as he has standing there right now, wringing his hands.
I glance over at the woman, who shakes her head, jaw set. The caramel brown in her eyes has darkened into a storm of liquid cocoa, a veritable shade ofpissed off.
“That’s not my name. And if this is your idea of fun, maybe you should advertise,‘Clowns for hire. Not available for children’s parties,’” she quips dryly.
It almost makes me smile. Almost. But it’s going to take more than a sarcastic comment from a smart mouth to do it. No matter how pretty the mouth. And this one’s a stunner. Soft and pink and plump…
Dickwank No. 1, apparently not finding her as amusing as I do, takes a step forward, as if to tell her just what he thinks of her comment, when he seems to catch the look on my face.
