Page 5 of The Trap

“No, asshole. Hardesty. Texas Chainsaw.”

He raises his palms in playful defeat. “Of course, I forgot. Tim Burton isn’t gory enough for you,” he rolls his eyes and for a moment, it’s nice to see my cousin relaxed and not the hardened tough guy he has to be ninety eight percent of the time.

“Anyway, he likes brunettes,” Carmine winks.

“Perfect, I don’t have to dye my hair then.”

“No,he, as in the brother, Colson, likes brunettes. Which is why you’ll be wearing this.” He stops, taking a blunt cut blonde wig complete with what looks like the scratchiest bangs I’ve ever seen, out from his briefcase. “Good night, Sally,” he singsongs, about to step away from the table, when I yank his arm, halting his steps.

“Yes?” he drags, waiting for me to speak.

“You never told me how bad these guys are.”

“Bad,” he deadpans.

“Worse than us?” I ask, brows raised.

“Much.”

I nod, letting go of his arm. “Noted.”

He hesitates for a moment, clearing his throat. “It’s important we do this for Demonio,” he adds quickly beforecontinuing. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but it’s not ringing any bells. “Oh, and prima. Make sure you never enter that house without at least two weapons. Concealed on your person, of course.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Also,” he drags, more sternly this time.

“Yes,” I drag back, fluttering my lashes as I await Carmine’s next directive.

“Please, for the love of whatever is up there,” he jokingly points at the sky. “Be subtle. The goal here is to infiltrate discreetly. So, nothing over the top. Meaning whatever attraction you’re feeling towards Colson Cromwell, you need to ignore it. Got it?”

“Got it,” I respond, wincing internally becausethat…I can’t promise.

THREE

FOUR MONTHS LATER

“Fuck,” Blondie practically mewls. Her sultry squeal echoes against the vaulted ceiling of the dining room, sending a nauseating ping to my eardrums. I swear, the way she makes each syllable sound as if she’s on the brink of getting off every time the three of us have the displeasure of being together is enough to make my stomach churn with secondhand embarrassment – even if I wish she were squealing like that while bouncing that pretty pussy on my cock and not my brothers – but that’s neither here nor there. Thankfully since she loves to talk like she’s constantly in heat, my imagination can run wild with how my name would sound spilling from those full lips of hers.

“Brett,” she drags my brother’s name, immediately killing the fantasy as she playfully slaps at his arm, nearly spilling the bourbon in his hand. My eyes roll at how oblivious he is to her dramatic antics as he sits with a grin on his face.

“You’re so bad,” she adds. Her breathy tone is directed toward my brother, but the glaringly seductive stare thataccompanies her high cheekbones and pouty lips is where it usually is focused on when she’s in my brother’s company…on me.

Not giving up our heated eye contact, she grabs Brett’s cheek, guiding his mouth to hers for the most unnatural looking kiss I’ve ever been forced to witness. Even worse, Brett’s eyes fall closed, and his bourbon spills over, which he doesn’t notice either. But her eyes? They’re unblinking. Un-fucking-wavering in their pursuit of staring right through my damn soul.

Shaking my head, I force myself to look away from her. Ignoring the bitter notes of jealousy and attraction that fill the air between us, I opt to stab my steak like a goddamn caveman. Keeping my gaze off where she still holds my brother’s lips hostage, I gnaw at the medium-rare meat, chewing it with determined vigor to speed this nauseating dinner up some. But of course, as if she can read my mind, she begins to coo, murmuring sweet nothings –none of which sound heartfelt or convincing–in Brett’s ear.

Another giggle breaks from her lips before she clears her throat and my fork drops, clanking against the porcelain plate. I don’t know how the simple act of clearing her throat can sound so erotic. Again, it’s overdone and clearly a tactic to steal my attention, but boy does she fucking have it. Despite the rage her antics bring out in me, it can’t take away from how exquisite the view of her is from across the table.

Now that my attention is back where she wanted it, I can’t help but drink her in. The woman sitting across from me, with curves highlighted by the intricate inkwork scattered over her petite hour-glass frame, ismyideal type. She’s the perfect combination of elegant and beautiful while still being undeniably sexy. I usually don’t go for blondes but the way her golden hair makes her olive skin glow even more than it already does, truly suits her.

She sighs, reaching her hand toward Brett’s lap, but again her gaze is focused on me. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” she grins, finally shifting those big brown eyes to my brother.

Nice one, but that’s a negative. Can’t kiss someone who isn’t alive.

But of course, she wouldn’t know that, because being privy to that information would require her and my brother to have had even one conversation of substance. I’ve barely seen either of them engage in conversation in the four months they’ve been “dating,”if you can even call whatever they’re doing that.

“What can I say, Sally–” Brett begins, pausing to take the last remaining swig of his bourbon. He drains the glass, releasing an audible sigh of approval as he slams it down on the table. His hand slithers to hers. “I guess I’m just filthy.”

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