Page 9 of Fu*kboys in Flannel

I’m barely holding it together. I’m itching for a fight so badly I’m really contemplating starting one with Grey. We have the most rage between us, on an even keel in that department.

But I’m reckless and harsh.

Grey is lethal and quiet.

Do I want to run the risk of losing a limb? Not particularly, especially since I’m in a fucking pissing contest over a broad with my brother.

I can still taste my little spitfire on my tongue and feel her lips wrapped around my cock as I brutally thrust myself in and out of her mouth.

I would have let myself be baptized by her pussy.

Shaking off the thoughts of what happened here, I cut my gaze to the lounge chair we had her bent over and I go over and pick it up.

No one else is going to be using this particular piece of furniture again, and I’d rather not have to figure out how to prevent that from happening by leaving it out here.

I walk around toward the side of the house and move to the left path, taking me to the shed. I leave the chair hoisted up on one shoulder while keying in my code and letting the shed door roll up. All our rich boy toys come into view, and I move between two of the four-wheelers to deposit the chaise in the far back.

No one comes out here but Bennett and me. I can’t even remember the last time Dad even walked by here. If he would just vacate the house permanently and fuck off to the other side of the mountain, all of us would be better for it.

I need a fucking drink.

I head inside my own house knowing that I’ll have to deal with the resident king dick bartender just to get shitfaced tonight.

How the fuck this kick back is at my house and Grey is in charge remains to be seen.

I thought I had control issues, but mine are minuscule compared to his.

I sit down at the bar top running the length of the den and just bark out, “Tequila.”

No other words are spoken, but I’m grateful for the quiet. It helps that Emerson hasn’t left the makeshift dance floor smack in the middle of the room. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, twirling and shimmying against one of Grey’s sisters.

Shit, I take back my questioning on why Grey is always in charge. He’s got four females living with him, and that’s enough to make anyone psychotic. It doesn’t help Grey’s utterly obsessed with the only woman in his house he’s not related to.

I’m not blind. Emerson is beautiful, but she’s no redheaded spitfire.

I tip back two shots and on the second one I slam the glass down too hard against the marble and I feel the glass crack.

Cheap ass shit.

“Another one, Bish.”

“I fucking hate when you call me Bish. Sounds like bitch and makes me want to shoot you in the fucking dick.” Grey snaps at me but pours me another shot of tequila. Top Shelf. Don Julio 1942. Only the best for Ravens.

“Exactly why I do it, at this point.” I down my shot, slamming the glass back down to the built-in bar.

“You came in here smelling like sex so clearly you got a little piece of my cousin. I hope you and Bennett figured it the fuck out. I’m not dealing with either one of you being mopey ass bastards. I got enough shit on my plate. I’m not about to be Dr. Phil up in this motherfucker, either.” He’s such a fucking asshole but I smirk imagining him with that dumbass mustache and bald head asking us about our lives and shit.

I don’t know where Bennett went once Tessa tucked tail and ran away… again. I’m getting tired of her avoidance and that’s rich coming from me. I’m the first one to avoid anything that has to do with too many emotions.

Let’s chalk that one up to being raised by Eric Slade.

“I could go into detail for you on how it went down. Maybe help you take the edge off. I see Emerson has you all twisted up in knots yet again. I’ve watched you flip your hat three times in the last ten minutes.” I taunt him, knowing that just speaking her name will cause a tick in his jaw or a twitch in his eye.

He cuts his eyes at me, clearly annoyed. But that’s his default setting, anyway. I can’t even say shit because it’s mine as well.

I choose not to say anything else and bait Grey even more. I have other shit to worry about, and he turns away from me to talk to someone a few feet away. I recognize the guy vaguely, but I think I’ve only run into him once or twice before.

McKenna, I think his name is. He owns an auto body shop a few towns over that I know Remington prefers. He’s always riding our asses to make sure we take our bikes there, but I’m hardheaded and haven’t listened.