Page 67 of His Big Bad Stick

I’m not going sit here and claim that Abrielle’s art touches my soul or changed my life.

I just carried the fucking paintings out of that gallery and into her apartment.

Point I’m making, at least she has talent and can function with it.

Now, her choice in mixing business and men…?

Well, that’s just stupid.

I live with the same kind of inherited stupid when it comes to women.

Nobody makes it past one night with me.

I refuse to walk in my father’s footsteps with having a high-priced divorce attorney as my main contact.

So, yeah, you know what?

It all fucking worked out just fine.

I got to see Abrielle again. That’s never a bad thing in a small dose.

A night up at my cabin, escaping the city.

The morning with her.

The sex…

Fucking hell. What a body, huh? As soon as she found the way to handle my cock, forget about it. She was moving like a ship in a hurricane.

I don’t even know what the hell that last thought is supposed to mean.

As soon as I get into my place, I go right for a drink.

A tall glass. No ice.

One big gulp.

Let it all go right to my head and my nerves and settle this shit down once and for all.

You paid one hundred grand to fuck your former stepsister…

That thought makes me drink faster. Harder.

Because this is not the truth at all. That’s not the fucking case at all.

Abrielle and I were never… like that…

No. No fucking way.

There were no family dinners. No family events.

For fuck’s sake, my father was married to her mother for a fucking month. If that.

Me stepping in when Abrielle called that one night…

“Fuck,” I growl.

I finish my drink.

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