Page 8 of Like An Animal
Based on what I’ve been told, Jeremy, Massimo, and Xavi are the only three heirs left of the Russian mafia. One of them for each of the families, which means when Jeremy’s grandfather from his father’s side of the family dies, he’ll be expected to take over as the bratva.
That is just so hard to comprehend. When I think of the mafia, Jeremy’s face is the last one that would pop up. I mean, he’s… Jer, my step-brother. He doesn’t dress like a mob boss,doesn’t have tattoos, and barely knows how to speak a lick of the Russian language, as far as I know anyway.
It just seems… wrong in so many ways.
Every song they play is written by Jeremy with just a dash of Massimo’s flair. The words all come from Jer, though, and I wonder who was the inspiration behind them. They’re songs of obsession, determination, lust, and soul-crushing love. However, they all seem to be directed at the same person or people. The ideas and wordage overlap in places. Descriptions and events mimicked in the chords of every song.
I dance along to the beat as my brother jams out on his guitar, his eyes locked on me in the crowd. He watches me and everyone that gets close to me. One might think his focus was completely on me if his fingers weren’t flying across the strings in a pattern he has memorized. He has a talent of songwriting and performing that closely resembles that of Vessel. It’s a beautiful melody with seductive lyrics… and that’s fucking weird because he’s my brother. There’s no one closer to me than him.
I’ve stopped trying so hard to get male attention from anyone. I’ve found a comfortable contentment with just hanging out with Jer. It’s nice and calm and stress-free. I definitely don’t have to worry about him attackinghimselffor talking to me.
“Go, Jeremy!” Missy screams as she cheers. It’s enough of a distraction that I stop dancing and glare at her. I was getting lost in the music until she bursted the bubble I carefully crafted.
His eyes snap to her for a second as well before they come back to me. Then, he sends me a teasing smirk.
He’s so expressive. He doesn’t need to say a word and I know exactly what he’s thinking. It’s refreshing.
I roll my eyes before slapping Missy’s arm. “Don’t distract him.”
Her eyes widen. “And, you think your dancing isn’t a distraction? You might as well be wearing a shirt that says your pussy is open for business.”
What the fuck? “I’m having fun. You’re trying to get his attention. What is up with you?”
She huffs. “Nothing is up with me. I’m not the one that’s in denial. You’ve been a massive bitch the last few weeks and I’m tired of it. Why don’t you just admit it already? You don’t want me screwing Jer becauseyouwant to.”
What the fuck? “No, I don’t. He’s my brother. That’s just gross.”
“One, he’s yourstep-brother. His mom married your dad. It’s not as uncommon as you think. You’ve been so weird about him lately. You flirt with my brother all the time, but it’s a problem when I flirt withhim. Get real, Bron. You want to fuck him.Everybody already knows.You practically have a neon sign on your back. Just do it and get it over with so you can stop making everyone else miserable.”
I don’t flirt with Mattie, Missy’s brother. We just have a playful banter that can look like flirting. Neither of us mean anything by it.
Missy storms off as I watch her leave.
I don’t want to have sex with Jeremy. I don’t know where she got that idea. She’s confusing protectiveness with possessiveness. They can look similar, but she’s the one that’s completely out of line, not me.
Jeremy is in the middle of a performance and doesn’t need to be distracted by a girl screaming his name while he’s playing.
Most people don’t know who the men are behind the face-paint and that’s kind of the point. Anonymity.
Yeah. That’s all there is to it.
I don’t want him.
At least, I don’t think I do.
Even though I’m half-drunk,Jeremy carries me into the house no matter how many times I object. He won’t hear any of it, not a single word. He carries me up the stairs and straight to his room, locking the door once we’re inside.
“Could you put me down?” I whine, but he doesn’t listen until he drops me on the bed.
“I’m going to take a shower. You need to get changed.”
A week ago, he cleared out a small drawer for me to put some pajamas in so I don’t have to run off to my room and run the risk of my father catching me.
“But, I’m not tired,” I complain.
Okay, so maybe I am drunk.
His eyes narrow at me. It’s his warning look to tell me that I better listen to him.
