Page 17 of Power Play with My Brother's Irish Friends

8

CHARLIE

An instant of stunning clarity knocked me awake and sent me rolling from the bed. I landed with a thud that shook my backbone and left the room spinning around me. The room was easy to recognize. I’d slept in it often enough through the years that the pastel yellow wallpaper had grown on me. The queen sized bed had amazing support. I tried to remember walking into the room, but my memories ended with Miranda.

I rested on the thick carpet in one of Austin’s spare rooms and stared up at the ceiling. Thin threads of gold wound through the white paint, and I mentally traced one all the way to the wall where it disappeared behind the white crown molding. Mental exercise and hangovers did not mix. What did I do last night? I racked my brain. “It was a dream.”

No. It wasn’t. I slept with Miranda. My best friend’s sister. A groan rattled my throat. Not just slept with her. I did it while we were both drunk–and with two other men. I’d never done that before, but once we started, there was no way in any fucking version of the world that I’d turn her down. Miranda enjoyed it. We’d made sure of that, but waking to that knowledge this morning didn’t really help.

Guilt carved its way through me. I grasped my chest, hand over my heart, and let it shred me to pieces. I deserved this pain. I’d taken advantage of Miranda’s delicate state. I knew about her breakup. I knew she felt vulnerable. This was my fault.

So why did I long to crawl into her bed and repeat every delicious detail from last night? Acting on my feelings felt good and right. Amazing sex aside, I’d never been that open with a woman, and Miranda met me at every turn. I focused on the light fixture above me and tried to untangle the sense of disloyalty that sent horror skittering along my skin.

I’d never solve that riddle lying here. Groaning, I rolled to my feet and shoved my feet into a pair of pants, walking out the door while still pulling a shirt over my head. We’d all gone our separate ways after we left the pool. I wanted to regret it, but if I’d woken up in bed with Miranda this morning, I’d never have been able to make myself leave, and then Austin would’ve found us.

Austin’s house, while gigantic, was laid out in a simple floor plan. Bedrooms on the third floor. Entertainment on the second floor. Foyer, kitchen, study, and library on first floor. I considered using the elevator, but opted for the stairs in hopes it would jumpstart my brain.

I staggered down the steps, the hangover pounding in my temples and blurring my vision. I tried rubbing the grit from my eyes, but all I managed was to cause myself more pain as the tender blood vessels burst.

Bright sunshine spilled through the windows in the study and across the foyer. I squinted and turned left at the bottom of the stairs. Austin never used the dining room, but the smell of food drew me closer to the obscure, white door directly across from the study.

The kitchen door opened beneath my light touch, swinging on silent hinges to reveal the giant kitchen. The whole space had been painted white by some interior designer with a grudge against color. Austin left it alone because he couldn’t care less. As long as his housekeeper and cook didn’t complain, the place remained stark white and without personality.

Duncan and Patrick looked up from the oval table, their cheeks bulging with food.

Mrs. Dominico, Austin’s cook, waved a spatula at me from where she stood in front of the stove. “Sit. I have yours almost ready. No hangovers for you today.” She tsked and flipped the eggs onto a plate.

I peeled my dry tongue off the roof of my mouth and snatched up the glass of water sitting in front of an empty chair. Blessed relief rained down my throat as I gulped. The feeling reminded me of Miranda sucking my dick, and I collapsed into the chair, slamming the drink back on the table.

“Morning, sunshine.” Patrick smirked and speared his pancakes, stuffing another bite into his cheek.

“We’re the only ones up?” I asked with a quick glance at Mrs. Dominico.

Duncan nodded and drained his coffee cup, then refilled it from the carafe of hand-ground Irish coffee he insisted on ingesting. “Not a bad way to spend the night. Too bad about this morning.”

“I’m still sorting through it.” I spun a finger around my temple. “It happened, right? All…that.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “With Miranda.”

“Oh yeah.” Patrick matched my whisper.

“Did things seem okay to you?” I almost didn’t ask, but I needed Patrick’s reassurance. He’d had plenty of threesomes and foursomes through the years, but never with us. I wasn’t sure what happened next. “Things didn’t get out of hand?”

“Dude.” Patrick snorted hard and finished his bacon in one mouthful. “That was tame compared to some nights. But for a first time for you two, and her, I’d call it a raging success. You heard her.” Patrick leaned across the table. “We all heard her say how good we were. Take the compliment, man.”

Duncan listened, his solemn expression a mimicry of my own. From the look he leveled at Patrick, he’d held some of my concerns too. “You’ve shared a woman before?”

“No.” Patrick looked taken aback. “I’m always the one being shared.” He stretched his arms over his head until his spine cracked. “That was a first for me. But I’ve been part of some kinky shit. That was tame. Satisfying,” he amended when Duncah surged to his feet. “Definitely satisfying.”

“She’s more than enough woman for all of us.” Duncan returned to his seat and tucked into his breakfast with renewed energy.

“It can’t happen again.” I glared at them both.

Mrs. Dominico brought a plate of food over and set it in front of me. “Eat everything. You’ll feel better.” She patted my head like I was two instead of twenty-seven.

I followed her orders. She’d fed me through enough hangovers that I trusted her judgment. The first bite stuck in my throat, but after that, things improved. Once the headache eased and my thoughts didn’t run away every time I tried to grab them, I reiterated my point. “It can’t happen again.”

Patrick grimaced and propped his chair on its rear legs. “Kind of muddies the waters if we’re sleeping with our publicist.”

I’d expected him to look for any excuse to stay out of her bed. Patrick was notorious for his one night stands. I’d known Miranda wouldn’t be any different for him, but what did that mean about me? I’d loved her with every part of my heart, mind, and body last night. And now I was supposed to act like it never happened? I’d never been much of an actor, and I doubted my ability to succeed in hiding what we’d done, but I had to try.

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