Page 41 of From West, With Regret

“London.” Julianna places her hand over mine, forcing me to look into her gorgeous eyes. Her gaze brings me comfort and reassurance. “You’re like a sister to us. Well, you’re already sisters with Selene, but you know what I mean. To Charleigh and me. Take the dress.”

Emotion is thick in my throat, and I look down at the bag hanging over my arm before looking back up Julianna. “Thank you.”

She smiles. “Of course.”

TWELVE

WEST

I tell myself to think of anyone else while I’m jerking myself off in the shower, but my mind constantly swings back to London.

Raven hair. Golden rings. That goddamn fucking gold bikini.

She knew what she was doing, testing the boundaries placed on us by unfortunate circumstances. Another thing to add to my list of reasons why I hate Heath.

I slap my palm against the cold tile as hot water streams down my back. I’m angrily stroking myself, thinking of her with him. I shouldn’t be thinking of him with her, especially not with my hand wrapped around my dick, but I can’t help it.

I’m jealous of my dead brother. I have been since I saw him wrap his goddamn arms around London at Julianna’s birthday party. I’m jealous of how he stole her and took her for granted. London deserves to be worshipped. She always has been. I think about my promise to her all those years ago and how I’ve failed at every turn to keep it. I’ve tried to make it up to her this past month and am determined not to fail again.

Even if she doesn’t remember me.

It makes me angry how she remembers him, not me.

I close my eyes and think about her in her gold bikini. The way the sun shimmered against her black hair. Her fingers running along the backside of her bikini bottoms. The way the curves of her breasts bounced as she adjusted her top. How her fingers danced up and down the curves of her stomach, taunting me.

Heat explodes in my lower belly, and my cock swells. I stroke myself until I hang my head between my shoulders and watch the cum spill from the end of my dick.

“Fuck,” I breathe, watching it swirl down the drain until the last bit is gone and all that’s left is clear water.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shame filling my gut. Not because I’ve just jerked off to the thought of London, but for every day that’s passed since I was fifteen.

My knees pressed into the cold, wet dirt. The leaves that had fallen from the tree last fall were still on the ground, surrounding me as I lifted my hands to cradle London’s terrified face.

Her gray eyes were panic stricken, spread wide with fear. Dirt covered our skin, her cheeks, my hands. Blood spilled from my knuckles, but I didn’t care. I only cared about the blood spilling from her nose.

“I’m here, London. I’m here.”

“Is he…” She quivered, unable to look at the body lying beside us, keeping her eyes trained on the cold, hard dirt. “Is he dead?”

I snap my eyes open, breathing as if I’ve just completed the Boston Marathon. I curl my fingers against the cold tile and force the memory of the last time I’d seen London before she returned from my mind.

I’d much rather remember her as the last time I actually saw her, with sun glistening off her skin, and that goddamn gold bikini.

Although I thought I was taking a shower to release some ofmy tension, when I rinse off and step out, I’m more wound up. My muscles feel tight, and the frustration grows.

All I want is for London to remember.

But all that does is make me selfish because along with me comes the nightmare we lived through in foster care.

I step into my walk-in closet to get dressed in a daze. A cloud hangs over my head as I button my shirt and tuck it in to my dark forest green slacks. Once I’ve adjusted my tie, I drape my suit jacket over my arm and stride out to the main living area of my apartment.

I’m clasping my watch when I find my driver Alden standing in my kitchen with a cup of coffee. “Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Alden.” I eye him over my mug and look at him apprehensively.

Besides Holt and Asher, Alden’s the closest thing I have to a friend. In all honesty, he was the first friend I made when I decided to open my first bar, and the real money—money that didn’t get handed to me for simply being adopted into the right family—started pouring in.

“Have you ever been into art, Alden?”

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