Filthy Beautiful Forever(Filthy Beautiful Lies, #4)

Collins

With Tatianna out of town, there is no way I can go home. A whole house alone with Mia? Fuck no. That would only lead to trouble, and I’m not ready to put myself in a situation like that. At least I’m smart enough to know better. When I picture her big green eyes that follow me around the room, her soft curves that beg for my hands, and the way she always seems so concerned about how I’m doing, if I’ve had enough to eat… I don’t know how to handle her. For once in my life, I’m at a loss about what to do.

So after work, I head over to Colton’s place where he and Pace are enjoying a drink in the library. Colton recently added a billiard table and a bar, effectively renovating it into his own personal man-cave.

“There’s the old man,” Pace greets me with a smile.

He and Colton have both been teasing me ever since I turned thirty. Pace had the balls to check my hair for grays the last time we had drinks. The fucker.

“What’s up, boys?” I ask, sinking down into a leather armchair.

“You tell us,” Colton says, handing me a glass of scotch. “Mia still roomies with you and Tatianna?”Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

He makes it sound like some sordid arrangement, but shit, maybe it is. My thoughts about her aren’t exactly innocent. No, more like dark fantasies that involve her naked skin slapping up against mine.

I clear my throat and mumble “It’s fine.” But my answer must be too quick, because it sets off Colton’s bullshit meter.

Colton laughs. “You are so full of shit. When are you going to wake up and realize that you and Tatianna have nothing in common, other than great sex, and the girl you’ve been in love with your entire life is right under your nose?”

I focus on my drink. I won’t tell Colt that the sex isn’t so great – in fact I can’t even get off. “Pace, what’s new with you?” I ask.

Colton curses under his breath, while Pace laughs at my obvious attempt at a topic change.

“I’m trying to get Kylie pregnant,” he announces, proudly.

“No shit?” Colton and I ask in unison.

“You guys aren’t even married yet,” I point out.

He shrugs. “Close enough. We’re engaged.”

I smile because I hated to see the way Pace always used to flounder with women. As a guy I always understood it, but as the oldest brother, I had to worry about him. When he found Kylie, watching him make the change from perpetual womanizer to family man was a relief. “Well, you shouldn’t have too much of a challenge getting her knocked up. Lord knows you’ve had enough practice.”

“You’re not getting off that easily, brother,” Colton says, turning toward me. The douche is going to make me talk about Mia.

I try to take another sip of my drink and realize I’ve downed the entire glass. Shit.

Colton smirks at me and holds up the decanter of scotch. “You want some more of this?”

I narrow my eyes.

“Then you’re going to have to actually talk to us. Like a grown up. No more of this grunting and evading caveman bullshit. Tell us what’s going on,” Colton says.

“Give me the damn scotch,” I bark.

He hands it over and I pour myself a healthy measure while deciding exactly what I’m going to tell them.

Pace leans back in his seat, crossing his feet at his ankles, and Colton settles in, getting comfortable too. Here we go, it’s fucking sharing time, apparently.

“When Mia and I were kids, we sort of promised each other that if neither of us was married by the time we were thirty, we’d marry each other.”

Colton chokes on his liquor, coughing and sputtering loudly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Pace chuckles to himself. “That’s fucking brilliant. You should totally do that.”

Neither of their responses is encouraging.

I expect them to tease the shit out of me for entertaining Mia’s childhood promise, which they do, but then the conversation shifts and I find them debating the actual merits of this marriage promise while I down glass after glass of scotch. Finally, Colton takes the bottle away and places it across the room.

“Shit, man,” Colton says. “You don’t have to march down the aisle with her tomorrow or anything, but I know you. You get this possessive-ass ‘mine’ caveman look whenever you talk about Mia. Something you never do when you talk about Tatianna.”

I feel fuzzy and unsure. And the longer I sit here, the more uncertain I become. A childhood marriage proposal is crazy right? That’s just some stupid thing kids say-it doesn’t mean anything. Does it? Mia seems to believe it does. She’d shown up here, just months after her birthday. My heart pounds faster when I think about that fact.

Colton asks about Tatianna again, and that’s just not a topic I’m ready to discuss.

“I honestly don’t see why you’re still with her, bro,” Pace says.

“Seriously man, if she doesn’t make you happy-break up with her,” Colton adds.

I lift my glass to my lips, like more liquor will help me figure out what to do. Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes and let the alcohol warm me. I allow myself to picture what my life would be like with Mia in it. Dangerous to be sure. I see kids running around with her auburn hair and green eyes, Sundays on the yacht, my home filled with laughter and love. I’m warmed by the idea. Or maybe that warm tingly sensation is the alcohol. Either way, I think it’s time to go home.

Pace gives me a ride and drops me off at my front door. The house is dark and quiet with Tatianna gone and Mia likely in bed by now. I head to my bedroom and get a text on my phone.

It’s Mia.

Are you home?

Yes.

Where were you?

Brothers.

I don’t know what else to say, because it’s strange knowing that I spent the whole evening talking with them about the two women in my life and still don’t know where I stand.

Sounds like fun.

I was trying to figure out some shit with my life.

We don’t have to text, she’s not here. Meet you in the kitchen? We can eat the peanut butter directly from the jar like old times and talk about it.

My heart slams against my ribs. Tatianna’s not home, as Mia pointed out. And the idea of seeing Mia right now fills me with longing. But I’m drunk. And even through the alcohol haze, I know it’s a piss poor idea.

I don’t trust myself.

With the peanut butter?

With you.

Her reply takes several minutes to come through.

Oh.

We need to talk tomorrow when I’m sober.

Okay.

***

When I wake in the morning, it feels like a dead rat crawled down my throat and set up shop. I blink against the harsh light and curse at myself for drinking so much last night. I vaguely recall Pace dropping me off at home, and then texting with Mia.

Mia.

I told her we would talk about things today.

With a deep sigh, I force myself out of bed, shower and dress. It’s Saturday, which means I should be going to kickboxing, but with the amount of alcohol I consumed last night, that’s not happening.

I make my way downstairs, in desperate need of coffee, and find Tatianna in the kitchen. “Oh, you’re back.” With everything on my mind lately, I’d forgotten she texted me about her change in travel plans.

She lifts up on her toes and kisses my cheek. “I told you I’d be back today.”

While I start the coffee, she fills me in on her trip. Apparently, the photographer was difficult to work with. No surprise there. Tatianna finds most people difficult to work with.

Twisting the cap off a bottle of water, Tatianna turns to me. “So what did you and Mia do while I was gone? Anything exciting?”

“No.” My voice comes out harsh. I feel bad that I haven’t made the time to show her around LA. I know she’d love the farmer’s market, or a visit to the beach.

Tatianna and I sit down side by side at the breakfast table-me immersed in an earnings report on my tablet and her filing her nails into little ovals.

I check my calendar for the week ahead and remind Tatianna about our upcoming trip. “We leave for Paris on Monday.”

She turns to me suddenly. “I can’t go. I have a shoot in New York on Monday and Tuesday.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve had this trip planned for three months.” I’ve been courting an international investor and would be meeting him face to face in Paris where Tatianna and I were supposed to be entertaining him and his wife all week.

“Sorry, but there’s no way I’m canceling,” she says. “I’ve wanted to work with this designer ever since I saw his adorable line of fuzzy boots last fall.”

“You wouldn’t have to cancel it if you hadn’t booked over our trip in the first place.”

She huffs in frustration.

“I need to be able to count on you,” I say.

“And I need you to support my modeling career,” she bites back.

“When have I not supported you?”

She glares at me, her eyes searching mine, but doesn’t respond.

Our conversation is far from over, but I need to get my emotions under control before I do something hasty.