Page 10 of Stepbrothers with Benefits
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “She said I would regret mentioning it to you, and now I know why.”
Milo’s face scrunched up in confusion for a moment before grinning. “What’s a matter, don’t wanna think too hard about Jace being big all over? And that Mason might like that.”
My mouth curled sourly. “You know, that’s my stepbrother, butyourhalf-brother you’re talking about getting dicked down. Shouldn’t it disturb you more?”
“Probably, but I have something in my head that keeps me from being disturbed too easily,” he said with a lazy shrug.
“You mean a lack of properly functioning brain cells?”
“That’s the prevalent theory, but none has been proven correct. So I guess it’ll stay a mystery.”
“The only mystery is how you’ve survived this long.”
He laughed softly, wrapping a long arm around my shoulders and pulling me to follow him. “Well, that’s because I’ve got you.”
I wanted to protest, or at least give him shit, but his arm was warm and the weight of it was comforting. So instead, I gave him a little smile and let myself be pulled along. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
MILO
Grinning, I sidled up to the bar where a familiar face sat and dropped onto the stool nearby. “Hey there, beautiful, come here often?”
Mom eyed me over the martini in her hand, thin brow rising slowly. “That might have been funny the first few dozen times, sweetheart, but it’s long since lost its luster.”
I laughed. “Maybe for you.”
“And everyone else who has to hear the joke repeatedly. Imagine how poor Roland feels.”
I turned to face the front and grin at the bartender who had been at the hotel since before I’d even been thought of, and cocked my head. “Speaking of Roland?—”
The man gave me a smirk, which was kind of hard to see under the mustache that was probably older than Mason and Moira. “Surprise you?”
“Surprise me,” I said, wiggling my fingers to signify what I hoped was taken as glitter or confetti. “Make it strong, though?”
“I do hope you’re not going to drive after that,” Mom said, her tone light, but she was a mother, and that disapproving tone was absolutely implied.
“Mom, I’m not stupid,” I grumbled as Roland turned to work his magic. I had never found a bartender who could make drinks like him, which was saying something considering the amount of bar and club hopping I’d done. Of course, all legitimate andneverwith a fake ID. I absolutely waited until I was of legal age before I allowed alcohol to touch my lips, let alone tried to buy any. “Give mesomecredit at least, please.”
“I’ll admit that you’re a risk-taking fool, but you’re not an idiot,” she said, looking me over, her eyes falling on the cast on my arm. It turned out I’d just sprained my leg, but there was a hairline fracture in my arm. I’d hoped that would just mean a sling, but it turned out that, no, it did not. Maybe for other people, they might have gone with a sling, but the doctor had heard enough and said a cast would be best with the kind of activity I did. “Especially when it comes to other people's lives,” she finished.
Some people might think that was a compliment, and others might think she was still disapproving. But I knew my mother, not as well as I knew Eli, but I knew her pretty damn well. She worried about me, but she didn’t disapprove of the life I led. She had always been big on her kids doing what made them happiest, so long as we didn’t do it at the expense of others. She definitely thought the stuff I got up to was foolish, but they were my choices, and she accepted them. But she was also saying she knew damn well I wasn’t going to do something that would get other people hurt. So, not just a compliment, but acceptance, and a dose of motherly concern, all while sipping a dirty martini.
Gross.
A glass slid before me, and my eyes widened as I pulled it close. “And what’s this?”
“A surprise,” Roland said with a twinkle in his eye.
“If it were anyone else, I’d be worried,” I said, raising it to toast him and take a drink. I blinked as the strong tasteof whiskey came through after rolling it around my mouth. I hummed in appreciation. “I don’t know if it’s the whiskey you used or what, but I’m getting some vanilla...and cinnamon?”
“Sounds like a dessert,” Mom said, eyeing my glass with a slightly wrinkled nose. She didn’t like liquor that wasn’t clear, unless it involved tequila, which she would make an exception for in a heartbeat.
“Nope,” I said happily. “Not a bit of sweetness, just stuff that works well with the whiskey. Almost tastes like a really good rum.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said, sipping her martini.
“Another winner,” I told Roland, who seemed pleased. Honestly, you’d think the guy would be used to people complimenting his drink-making skills, but apparently, he was an eternal sponge for that sort of thing.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” my mother asked, her eyes locked on me.
