Page 3 of Filthy Little Pretties
“That one’s my favorite. Nobody else has one. I only made it for myself.” She smiles behind her arm.
“Why?”
“Because now I can say that ‘Grey’ is all mine.”
My stomach fills with butterflies remembering the moment and how she’d rolled over and ran back to the water, leaving me feeling lost and hot from the color my cheeks were turning. My fingers run over the bracelet, adjusting it on my arm. “Why this one?”
“To keep you to your promise. Now you’ll have to find me because you know what it means to me.”
Grey
Present Day
“There he is!” I hear a man say, sounding relieved as I walk into my family’s Manhattan home. Home isn’t the correct word. We own the block. It’s also a word that elicits a feeling of warmth. We aren’t that either.
The senior McCallister is a piece-of shit hedge fund master, who ignores his wife—as if she cares—and does more blow than hookers, or maybe it’s more hookers than blow. Either way, dearest Dad is quite a despicable mentor. Albeit one I’m never forced to deal with, seeing as he’s spent more time out of the country than in it.
A flustered event planner comes rushing my way. He’s trying to wave me down as I loosen my tie, purposefully ignoring his excitement. As he motions again for my attention, I keep walking toward the wide travertine stairs, wishing he’d eat shit before he gets to me.
The chandelier in the foyer catches some light and reflects a small spotlight for me to walk through as I give him my back to speak to. My black Berluti shoes touch the first step, a step adorned by black iron railings that lead to my wing of the house, when the fool catches up to me.
“Excuse me, Grey…if you would wait a moment.” The high pitch of his voice and roll of therin my name irritates me.
I turn to level my stare, standing taller at six foot three than his small frame. Sneering, my tone authoritative, I deliver my words with precision, making the meaning clear.
“Grey is reserved for those who know me. Not people I employ.”
He takes a step back. Smarter than he looks. Good thing, because my bark is as big as my bite. I turn back dismissively, starting up the stairs, but he pushes his luck.
“Yes, I apologize, Mr. McCallister, but I’m hoping to have the linens approved by Miss Caroline. We’ve been waiting for some time now. We were hoping you could help us locate her.”
I guess I was wrong about his level of intelligence.
I don’t turn around, opting instead to continue up the staircase. “I have no interest in what my stepsister is doing. Consider yourself approved. Now stop fucking talking.”
My irritation is at an all-time high with the mention of Caroline’s birthday party. The last thing I want in my house is a bunch of assholes I couldn’t care less about, even if it’s tradition.
Caroline throws a bash every year. It’s less about celebrating her birthday and more about pretending there are people who want to. She needs the party. It fills the void—because pretend relationships are better than none at all, I suppose. If I were a better man, I’d care about that more. But I’m not, so I don’t.
The real reason I haven’t canceled Caroline’s little soiree is that there are still a few girls I haven’t fucked. I’m sure I can convince them to let me kill two birds with one cock.
I pull out my cell phone from the pocket of my black bespoke slacks, worn only because I had to dress for my meeting with the head of admissions at Yale. It seemed fitting to wear a suit worth as much as his shitty little car, to serve as a reminder of his irrelevance in my admission. Even if it makes me feel more like my father than I’d like. To be a villain, you have to dress the part.
He needed a reminder after calling this meeting and interrupting my Sunday. I saw through him. It was organized specifically to see if I’d fall in line with the school’s standards and expectations. It seems my reputation has preceded me. Or maybe it’s the fact that I was caught in a “situation” with his daughter during my first campus tour that isn’t sitting too well. Either way, he’s out of his league.
I’m a fucking McCallister. He should’ve offered to suck my dick, like his daughter, as a thank you for choosing his school. The dirty thoughts of my “Yalie” adventure remind me about my plans tonight. My fingers quickly type out a text to Liam, since he’s on pussy duty for the evening.
Me: Make sure you invite the ginger girls. One of them isn’t a real redhead. I want to find out which.
Liam: Done. Ethan’s called dibs on Eve. Said she has the best supply so hands off.
Fucking druggie. Ethan’s favored to become our valedictorian and also excels in the use of Adderall. He’s been a member of our little group since the start of high school when he made the crew team. Not as a rower—he’s too small—but as our coxswain. The guy who tells us where to go and what’s happening as we race. His added chemical energy doesn’t hurt when it’s to hype everyone up either.
Me: Tell him to fuck off. I won’t fuck her but blowjobs and backdoor are fair play. And let the guys know to bring the alcohol.
I feel the buzz from my phone, but I’m done with the conversation, because something else has captured my attention. The further down the wainscoted hallway I walk, the louder the moans get.
Fucking Caroline. Literally. Someone is fucking Caroline. Always so needy for attention. She won’t be satisfied until the whole block hears all her little escapades. Pausing in front of her door, I put my ear to it. Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
