Page 67 of Doc Showmance
I buried my face in my hands as I tried to remember everything without success. So I made a mistake? I kissed him. I might’ve wanted more, but by some miracle we hadn’t done more, a conclusion I based on him being half dressed and me wearing my pajamas. Vaguely, I remembered it’d been him who held back. He who had a conscience and didn’t want to do drunken sex.
How humiliating.
I forced myself up to find my makeup kit in my suitcase, which had several emergency ibuprofen. My cell phone had sixteen texts from my siblings. One text from Marianna with a dire warning to let Martin follow us. And three angry texts from Martin for ditching him.
Did I feel guilt? Not even a twinge.
I sat on the edge of the bed and texted Bruno to assure him I hadn’t died and confirm I’d be home by noon on Saturday. Had to. We had important plans I couldn’t miss.
Ian didn’t stir.
I took a shower. With my hair damp and air drying after a shower, a quick check found Ian in the same position. I went in search of the kitchen. A cup of coffee to help the second ibuprofen go down would be nice.
It took a while to locate the kitchen in the maze of hallways, but when I did the only other occupant was Brock. With his slicked-over dark hair, he looked ready to enter a high-powered boardroom meeting in his dark suit, although he’d slung the jacket over a nearby chair. I was limited on the patience necessary to deal with judgmental jerks this morning.
He glanced up from his phone, coffee cup in hand. “Is Ian in your room?”
I nodded.
“Figured. Mom went apeshit when you two left early. Then she texted me that he wasn’t in his room. She likes to think this is a PG house, but so much more goes on here, especially with her guests.”
I managed to pour myself a cup of coffee without spilling and kept my tone even. “Nothing happened.”
“Sure. He’s in your room. You have scruff burn on your face. And you’re a novel piece of ass. If the two of you didn’t fuck last night… If he’s decided he’s gay… Well, I’m not, and if you’re in the market for a good time, then…” His eyebrows rose.
I stood there, coffee cup halfway to my mouth. I blinked at him as my brain slowly processed what he’d said.
I took a sip of the coffee to force the bile burning my throat back down. “I’m here with Ian.”
“So? Not like he hasn’t shared before.”
“Uh, hell to the fuck no. Aside from that being disgusting, there’s not a single thing about you that I find attractive.” My filter was way off this morning, and thank God I wasn’t on camera.
“Your loss.” He shrugged.
“Is this entire family crazy? Besides, aren’t you married?”
Brock shrugged. “My wife and I have an understanding. If there’s an itch, we’re both free to scratch it.”
“You’re saying you see me as an itch?”
“Sure. For me. For Ian. I get it. We all deserve a decent time in the sack once in a while outside the box of cookie-cutter debutantes. My wife knows her job and shows up when I need her.”
I squinty eyed him, unsure if I could even quantify my level of revulsion.
How did Ian emerge from this place with any sense of compassion?
The need to escape this house, his brother, and everything about the insanity of my life ate at me from the inside.
As if on cue, Martin appeared with his camera on his shoulder. “Last night… You’re not allowed to ditch me like that.”
I didn’t have enough shits to give to dignify his outrage. I stared at the contents of the coffee cup. Grounds floated in it. Nothing grossed me out more than grounds in my coffee. These guys could afford a ten-thousand-dollar refrigerator—I recognized that model because I’d laughed at the outrageous price when I shopped for a new fridge a few months ago—but couldn’t make coffee?
“I’m going out to get a decent cup of coffee.” To Martin, I said, “You’ll have to decide if you follow me or Ian.”
“He awake?” Martin asked.
“Nope.”
