Page 21 of Ruse
D) If all the above aren’t sufficient reasons, he’s my stepbrother for God sakes!
One dubious scandal is enough for this lifetime. I can only imagine what bedding my stepbrother would do to the remaining minuscule shred of my dignity.
I can’t let my mind go there, to the dark, forbidden places it has no business going.
“What do you think about this one?” Dee asks, holding a light pink halter top against her chest as she admires her reflection in the fitting room mirror. I give her a bored shrug as I walk over to sit on one of the pink leather chaise lounges in the large sitting area outside the changing area.
Of course, after Donovan was finished with cheer practice, and I completed my first introductory meeting with the student government club, we headed down to The Village, an upscale outdoor shopping center stretching across the Pacific Coast Highway, home to our favorite luxe boutiques and delicious eateries. The Village is only the best place to be, and our second home, well, third if you count the beach, which we don’t, since that’s just our front yard.
Walking distance from the water’s edge, we typically spend the entire day out here, shopping, eating, and enjoying the warm summer air. Our nights are spent between MC High parties and enjoying the opulent nightlife Los Angeles has to offer.
Of course, we have our favorites and those typically include the ones who don’t give us shit for only being eighteen. Echo Rooftop Bar and Lounge atop the Lotus Hotel in Westlake Village is one of those places, and just so happens to be where we’re headed tonight.
After grabbing an Iced Oat Milk Latte from Caffe Luxxe, we headed over to Chelseas, one of our favorite high-end boutiques, for some much-needed retail therapy. At least those were Donovan’s words, not mine. I would have skipped out on the shopping-spree, but was afraid I’d test my luck, and end up running into Maverick back at the house.
So here I am, leaning back on the comfortable lounge chair, while Dee tries on piles of clothes she’s picked out, sipping my latte, and scrolling through my phone. I open Instagram, and impulsively search for Maverick’s profile, not able to contain myself. Of course, his feed is never anything more than photos of his car, and faceless images of him and a few others I don’t recognize, who I’m sure are his friends from back in Connecticut.
“You’re right, the blue one brings out my eyes. Phoenix, are you even listening to me?” Donovan pouts. I wave her off, silently telling her it’s perfect and I agree, when something catches my eye. The circle around Maverick’s profile pic icon, which is a candid of him in the distance next to his precious Aston Martin, glows pink, notifying me he’s posted on his story.
Out of impulse, I click his picture, immediately exiting out when I realize what I’ve done. I don’t follow Maverick. I never could, but I’m sure he can see all who view his story, and now my name will be amongst those.
Although, he does have over fifty thousand followers, so what are the chances he even checks who’s viewing his stuff? Having over a million followers, I don’t and have permanently turned off all my notifications.
Deciding it’s safe, I open the story once more, and nearly gasp out loud when I see what it is. It’s not a story, but a live video, and Maverick is sitting in our home gym, shirtless and glistening with sweat, while he lifts at the bench press. The camera is set up against something and in the perfect path toward where he lies, catching his muscles contracting, as his grip tightens against the bar.
He’s facing the phone, his knees bent at a perfect angle over the edge, his chest rising and falling with every weight lift, and a muffled groan escapes his lip as if he’s struggling. I can easily see he’s lifting at least one hundred and fifty pounds combined, two sets of the dark green weights which are each fifty pounds on each side, plus the fifty-pound bar itself.
A loud sound makes me jump, and looking around, I realize it came through the phone. He sets the bar back in place, and grabs a towel from his right, wiping the sweat off his face before standing and walking toward the phone. I’m in awe of how perfect he looks shirtless, never seeing him in anything other than jeans and T-shirts, his sweat outlining every perfect crease of tattoo covered muscle.
From this vantage point, I can easily see the sweatpants he’s wearing, heather gray, and perfectly outlining the shape of his cock as he lowers to look at the screen.
I inhale sharply, for some reason it feels like he’s caught me staring straight into the camera like he knows I’m on the other side. I know it’s ridiculous, especially given the almost twenty thousand people who are tuned in watching and dropping little hearts and red faces with tongues sticking out on screen as they drool over him.
Well Maverick, I never knew you were this thirsty for attention. But looking at him as he smirks wickedly into the camera, I can imagine why.
He’s sinfully sexy, more perfect than I ever would have imagined.
He blows a kiss into the camera, and I swear I see his lips mouth my name, when suddenly someone creeps up behind me.
“My fucking God, that man is walking sex!” Oliver yells in my ear, catching me red-handed watching Mavericks’ story.
My phone and latte both fly out of my hand, crashing against the marble tiled floor. A large puddle of beige colored coffee spreads all around, but my phone luckily remains unscathed.
“Son of a bitch Oliver, you scared me.” Around us the shoppers and employees of Chelseas, which is supposed to be a boujee boutique with class, glare at us as they watch our exchange. Lucky for us, they wouldn’t dare lose out on our business, so they quickly look away and resume their daily mundane duties.
“You mean I caught you spying on your insanely gorgeous stepbrother and now you're all hot and bothered and pissed you ended the video?” The young fitting room employee, who looks even younger than us, quickly rushes over with a handful of towels, immediately cleaning up the mess I’ve made on the floor. I give her an apologetic smile and mouth, sorry, but she shakes her head as if it’s no big deal.
Everyone in Malibu Cove knows who we are and who our parents are, and although they consider us exuberantly rich and spoiled assholes, they know to never be caught dead insulting one of us.
“That was his Insta story right,” Olly continues, practically walking over the girl on her knees. “I heard Becky Marsden whispering in class today about how he randomly makes Lives of himself working out and looking good enough to eat.”
Donovan barges out of the fitting room, half-dressed and a shocked expression written all over her face. “What the hell was all that commotion?”
“Oh nothing, just caught our girl here salivating over that sexy ass fuck stepbrother of hers.”
“Shut up!” Both Donovan and I shout, but obviously for different reasons.
Donovan adds, “No way. Did you creep into one of his lives? I heard Becky Marsden talking about them today.”
