Page 143 of Stepbrothers with Benefits
“Jesus, quit fussing,” Moira grumbled as she adjusted my tie. “You’re going to strangle yourself.”
“You’re the one who’s going to strangle me,” I grumbled, wanting to bat her hands away but knowing it could invite a painful, slow death I wasn’t prepared to face. Her murdering me would put an ugly pall over the whole wedding; everyone in the family would be mourning and pissed, but probably understand why she did it, and then she’d have to spend the rest of her days in an ugly orange jumpsuit, which with her skin tone?
“Orange is not your color,” I told her.
Moira leaned back and squinted at me. “I’m not wearing orange.”
“I know, but it’s not your color.”
“Why are you bringing that up?”
“You know, prison.”
“I’m not going to prison. But if you keep getting on my nerves, I might be tempted.”
“See? That’s why I’m reminding you that orange isn’t your color.”
“You’re rambling.”
“I am.”
Moira sighed, stepping back. “Forget it. I’ll wrestle with you before you’re supposed to show up in front of the crowd. I know damn well trying to do it now is just going to result in me getting more frustrated and you ruining my work anyway. I need a drink.
“I’m pretty sure there’s a flask somewhere,” I said, looking around the small room and frowning. “But it’s a church...and not a Catholic one, so there shouldn’t be.”
Come to think of it, I should probably hunt down a little liquor. Not for me, of course, I was feeling just fine. But there was bound to be a certain handsome, dark-haired man in the building who was nervous as hell but trying not to appear so, who would probably appreciate a shot or two of liquid courage. I could picture him, handsome as hell in his suit, trying to adjust his clothes to ensure he looked perfect front and center of a church full of people, knowing that fussing wouldn’t change anything but doing it anyway.
“I might go see if those people clustered around the back might let me take a hit of what is absolutely a cigarette they’re passing around,” Moira huffed, adjusting her dress straps. “This is what I get for letting you two talk me into helping; it always gets me irritated.”
That wasn’t...totally true, just mostly. We had helped each other three years ago to save the image of Eli and me, and more importantly, the hotel. It turned out that, despite not broadcasting it, Moira was pretty savvy in the ways of the internet and social media. She had devised a plan far better than anything Eli and I had managed to devise, making us feel a lot more confident.
Not that it had been easy, because Moira couldn’t come up with a plan that didn’t involve a lot of work. We had reached out to other creators to see if they might be willing to back usup while we played damage control. A few had done so because they genuinely believed we didn’t deserve the mud being thrown at us; others had done so after they learned that we hadn’t been planning on keeping it a secret and that we had always wanted to live our lives out in the open once we were sure that was the way we wanted to go. At the last minute, there were even a few who agreed when it was explained that we were also trying to save our family’s businesses from taking bad blows just because people were judging Eli and my relationship.
Mason and Dom had surprised all three of us when they found a few social media faces we hadn’t spoken with before who were also willing to help out. Apparently, Mason had a few connections from trying to promote his club and Dom through being a sort of celebrity in his own right.
They, and Arlo, had been correct about the effect Eli and my infamy would have on them. Arlo wouldn’t have reported any trouble, but I made sure to ask after him for several weeks afterward, and he assured me that a couple of people had asked if he was our brother, but there had been no trouble. Dom had been asked right before a big match, but he’d been expecting it to happen, and handled the curveball question with the kind of charm I wish I could have when someone put me on the spot.
And Mason? Mason had hosted a “What are you doing, step-bro?” themed night a couple of Saturdays in a row that had apparently netted him not only big money, but more customers.
Eli and I were...so glad Mason could profit from our misfortune.
Despite all that, including the rock-solid plan, our recovery hadn’t been smooth. We’d lost quite a few followers and were inevitably forced to get part-time jobs to ensure we didn’t run out of money. It wasn’t so much the loss of followers that had hurt, but how slow it was to get them back. The hotel came through with only a few months of bad reviews from peoplepissed off about Eli and me, but financially, it had never taken a hit, and eventually, the reviews stopped, and the overall score went back up.
It had been Arlo of all people who had realized that, instead of business as usual after we’d addressed the rumors and that damned video, we should lean into it as well. “If you’re so happy together and aren’t ashamed,” Arlo had said with a shrug, “then why not showcase your relationship?”
It turned out he was a goddamn genius. We were hesitant at first and started slow, making sure we both appeared in most of the videos. Sure, there were still comments from moralizing dipshits, but mostly it was people happy to see more of Eli, and more of us both. With more confidence, we leaned further into it. Posts I did of a short trip together or eating out were posted as date nights, and we even shared romantic, if chaste, kisses on camera, or stopped being afraid to show physical closeness between us.
The followers started coming back in droves, probably out of curiosity, but they stayed for the rest of the content. We still did our stuff like we always did, never focusing on any specific niche, and the people...the people stayed.
Speaking of Eli... I peeked out of the room and made sure there was no one around who might spot me and raise the alarm. We had both been told, under no uncertain terms, that we were not to be around one another for a while. Personally, I thought it was an overreaction and a little dramatic, and hell, if anyone recognized melodrama, it was me.
I knew what room he’d be in, snuck over, listening for any voices and finding none, and slipped in. It was bigger than the room I was getting dressed in, and I frowned at the better lighting and the mirrors. That was until I caught sight of a familiar face adjusting his tie for what was probably the millionth time.
Now I knew why everyone had fought to keep me away from him in a suit, becausedamn, it was pornographic how good he looked.
He turned, his face pinched with anxiety, and then a frown creased his forehead when he saw me. “What are you doing here? They’ll kill us.”
“Not if they don’t know,” I purred as I stepped closer, running my hand down his stomach and over his arms. “Goddamn. I always had a thing for a man in a suit, but fuck me sideways, I have a whole new level of ‘thing’ foryouin a suit.”
