“It’s nothing important.”
Which is true. My mother’s words aren’t important. Lies never are.
“Geez! Could’ve fooled me,” Jules scoffs, speaking to my back now because I’ve started toward the bonfire.
People dance around the flames, screaming the lyrics to Ice Cube’s ‘Today Was a Good Day’, and it looks like they’re taking part in some kind of new-age mating ritual. Hell, that might be a pretty accurate conclusion.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I straighten the letter and hold it to the flames, letting it catch. I wait until the last possible second to finally release it, nearly burning my fingertips when I stall. This seems fitting, though. That’s me in a nutshell; never quite sure when I’ve had enough.
A family curse, in fact.
A beer is slipped into my hand half a second before Jules steps into my peripheral. Momentarily, I’m fixated on the fire through the tinted brown glass of the bottle when I bring it to my lips for a drink.
There’s a strange tug in my heart as the last visible fragment of paper disintegrates into nothing. Unlike most girls, I don’t own trinkets or mementos passed down from my mother. The only gift either of my parents ever gave me was a list of vices longer than my arm.
“You good? We can take off if you want.”
Jules’ hand settles on my shoulder, and I don’t miss that she’s trying to be thoughtful. However, I know this girl like the back of my hand, and her heart is nowhere in the offer.
“I’m fine. We can hang out a couple more hours if you want.”
I barely have the words out before she floats off again, finding some rando to grind all over. It’s cool, though. There’s a brick wall near a vomit-filled trashcan with my name on it.
I glance toward the flames one last time, knowing what they’ve just burned out of my life. However, the aching grip of sentiment fades quickly. All because my attention is drawn above the blaze, lured higher by an invisible force to meet three matching stares already fixed on me. Beneath half-mast lids, their brooding eyes—close-set like a pack of marauding predators—have me feeling soul-obsessed and I can’t turn away. Their physical features are too similar, which is why I draw the conclusion that they must be brothers.
These raven-haired deities have definitely noticed me, and now I even think they might be talking about me. Two lean in to speak closely to the one in the middle. Like some beautiful huddle of hotness.
Seriously? A ‘huddle of hotness’? That’s the best you can come up with, Blue?
Clearly, my brain is fried. Only becoming more frazzled by the second.
There they sit, perched on chairs identical to the others scattered across the yard. Only, beneath them, I’m convinced they’re thrones. It’s their presence that makes the difference, sets them apart from all the other guys I noticed tonight.
They’re large, broad in all the right places—across the shoulders and their chests. The effects of this are emphasized by the tapering of tight, athletically lean torsos. I’ve met people who command a room, but never anyone so formidable in the wide-open space, as these three are.
Where have they been hiding all night?
Even when the two at either side become distracted by the pair of wet, bikini-clad robots who bounce over to vie for their attention, the one in the middle stays focused. Firelight burns in his eyes like hellfire, this creature I swear emits sex like trees give oxygen. Completely gone on him, I swear his soul moves right across this yard, steps through the flames, and breathes the heat of a million suns over my skin. He’s all I see, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Simply because I’m not sure he’s deserving of that.
Don’t overthink it, stupid.
Black images slink upward, wrapping around the length of his arm. From the diamond-studded watch that gleams in the light, until they disappear beneath the sleeve of the white-tee squeezing his dense biceps. He sits there, like a god watching over his people, frozen in time while the world moves around him. Actually, it isn’t hard to imagine he plays that role well.
The steady surge of bass pulsating from tall speakers ends and a new song starts—something deep and evocative, fitting the ambiance perfectly. Suddenly, I have Jules back, marginally more sober than when she’d run off to dance. I’m aware of her huffing breathlessly at my side, and I totally mean to pay her the attention she deserves, but I can’t. Because the Greek statue cloaked in flesh has risen from his throne and, if I’m not completely insane … I think he’s coming my way.
Ho-ly crap.
His height is as staggering as I imagined, and I’m transfixed as the crowd parts in anticipation of his every step. The sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones would make any model lose all hope of ever reaching this new bar he’s set for perfection. Not a single feature is average. Not a single one possibly measured on anyone’s scale of beauty.
Broad shoulders roll and dip beneath his t-shirt with the slow, intentional gait that practically has me melting in my heels. I more than appreciate how the fabric hugs his frame to his waist, where only the front of the shirt disappears behind the designer belt looped through his dark jeans.
His stare is set on me and I swallow hard, only remembering I’m not alone when Jules speaks.
“Oh, my gosh, girl… Do you have any clue who that is?”
I don’t turn, but know Jules must have followed my gaze. The only response I give is an embarrassingly distracted shake of my head.
“King Midas himself.”
She says that as if I know what it means. However, I’m not coherent enough to seek clarity.
“This must be their place,” she adds. “Well, one of their places, anyway. Their family’s main spot is downtown, the penthouse in one of their dad’s hotels or some shit. I think the boys actually have their own
