Page 44 of Study Games

Shag him.

Maybe not that last. Not yet, despite my debauched little solo session the night before. I stared up at the imposing double French doors and prepared myself for the onslaught of the Allstars on the way to the bad boy I really wasn’t supposed to be chasing but would, anyway. Because who made a grand gesture like that and then walked away?

So, the doors. Imposing. Stiff. Well, they would be imposing, except that in the bottom corner, someone had drawn a tiny, teensy penis. The corners of my lips curled up. I didn’t need to use up my three genie guesses on who put that there.

I raised my hand to knock, lowered it, and ballsed up, taking a determined step forward.

I never made it to knocking.

The door swung open, and I stumbled over the threshold.

“Fuck. Shit,” I cursed as I tripped over someone’s trainer clad foot, and nearly landed flat on my face.

Nearly, but didn’t, because a large hand caught me around my midsection and hoisted me upright. Warm fingers splayed on bare skin in an unwelcome touch. For a whole five seconds while I windmilled and tried my best not to slap my savior in the face with an uncontrollable high five that just wouldn’t stop, I couldn’t get away from the person.

Suddenly, my retro red midriff tee and baggy jeans didn’t seem like the best choice after all.

“Filthy little mouth, haven’t you?” The amused voice that belonged to the giant hand set me upright, but the touch lingered.

I stepped back but found myself face to face with a pair of piercing blue eyes that looked all too familiar. “Napoleon? Lancaster?” I murmured, disengaging and making the name two words.

Didn’t Jax’s best friend have a long time girlfriend? I took another step in retreat, deeper into the house, and found my back pressed to an uncomfortable bannister. My hands wrapped around it, clinging on to the ribbed wood–ha, not–as the blue eyes took on a predatory look.

“Wrong brother, sweetheart,” he said, his words dripping with disdain while I tried to disappear into the woodwork–literally. “Nash Lancaster. Captain Crush’s little bro.” His lips twisted as he said his brother’s name, adding a sense of foreboding to my already screwy week.

First the twins, then lying by omission to my father. Now this upstart.

“Well, Nash, Crush’s little bro.” I forced my face into something I hoped looked pleasant and used the form of address he gave me. “Can you point me in the direction of Jax, or his room? I’ll wait,” I added pointedly when he said nothing.

Nash stayed silent, and it became more unnerving than that twisted little smile he had before.

“Or if your older brother is here, I’ll talk to him. Or his girlfriend,” I added, willing desperation not to slip into my voice.

Nash’s twisted little smirk returned.

Fail.

“I’m sure I can find a place for you. Just through here.” He held out a hand and motioned me to walk ahead of him. “Would you like a drink?”

I blinked as he transformed into a perfect host, and told myself I’d imagined everything as he guided me to a small but beautifully appointed living area. Square, mahogany panels lined the walls, and leather couches and recliners filled the space over thick, lush carpet that muted all sound. Heavy drapes and glazed windows completed the effect.

Nash opened a hidden compartment in a section of wall to expose a fully stocked sidebar. “Your choice,” he said politely.

I swallowed. “I, um—” I studied the portraits above the bookcases and the leather sofas and recliners laid out in a crescent moon shape that took up most of the room. “Have you seen Jax today?”

He shook his head. “He could be a while. I don’t think you’re a whiskey girl, but I won’t insult you by pouring a Malibu. So what are you?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully as though making a puzzle out of me, all showmanship.

I rolled my eyes. “If you have a heated scotch, I’ll take it,” I said boldly.

His eyebrows raised. “Now there’s a girl who knows what she wants,” he said with no small dose of appreciation.

A small smile etched my lips. “My father’s favorite. American born, but he did a tour in Scotland years ago. It’s been a part of him ever since.” I shrugged and accepted the single finger Nash poured, grateful he didn’t try to push a second on me.

“To your good health.” He poured his own and raised it to his lips, taking a small sip and settling into a recliner a sofa away from where I curled on one of the leather lounges. “Tell me why you have Jax Palmer in a spin, and why you and your very alluring negligee currently adorns the courtyard and Xoan Kennedy’s album, Waverly Alloway.”

I made it all the way through an increasingly mangled explanation of my issues—every, single one— before I realized my glass was empty, and that I’d never given Nash Lancaster my name.

But the leather sofa did feel nice when my head hit the pillowy surface, and then I didn’t worry about anything more at all.

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