Relief. As guilty as I feel, a rush of relief seeps through me. Matthew, son of the Cunninghams, and I were set up by my mother before Brooke’s death. Though I think Matthew is a really sweet guy, I refuse to date anyone my mother tries to set me up with. No, thanks.
A chuckle from beside me forces my attention back to Logan, the talented kisser. He shakes his head in a disapproving way. “Poor guy. I feel kinda bad for him, and I don’t even know who the hell he is, other than that his name is Matthew. So what’d you? Break his heart?”
Screw him. He doesn’t know me from a can of paint. How dare he judge me? “You don’t know me. You can go now.”
“Gladly.” Logan reaches down and grabs the toolbox. He straightens, takes a step forward, and then quickly turns back around. “Oh, and Jenny—”
“Jenna. J-E-N-N-A,” I correct him, placing a hand on my hip.
“That’s right, Jenna. Hmm.” He lets my name sink in for a few seconds. I’m sure he’s stirring up judgments by placing me on some type of stereotypical list of his. “Anyhow, you’re welcome.”
I cross my arms underneath my breasts; he glances down at them, and back at me. “For?” I ask.
“For saving your ass.” He lifts two fingers. “Twice I might add.” He winks, turns his back to me, and before I can respond, he’s walking down the path. I watch him closely. He strides in a powerful and self-assured manner, only slowing when he reaches his truck to place the toolbox in the back. Then he hops in the driver side, looks over at me, and flashes a genuine smile with a slight nod of his head. I fight with all the strength I have not to smile back at him. He chuckles, shaking his head at me, then nods one last time. His truck roars to life, and then he speeds off.
A Truck. Tats. And a cocky attitude.
Typical.
Where the hell is Charlie?
I lean back against the booth and enjoy the rest of my beer. Our redheaded waitress serves us our food. She must be new. There’s no way I’d have missed those large swollen tits and that ass, rounded so perfectly in those skin-tight jeans. Santino wastes no time removing the top bun to his sandwich. He grabs a handful of fries from the basket and piles them on top of his burger. He points at another basket. “Can I have two of your onion rings?” he asks Bryson, who hasn’t had a chance to even touch his own food yet.
“Go ahead,” Bryson mutters, and he drops his head against his hand. I squint my eyes at my cousin, speculating on what could possibly be wrong with him. He seems out of sorts, lost in his own thoughts. Without hesitation, Santino reaches across and grabs three rings, instead of the two he asked for, and piles them on top of the fries. Then he drowns the entire loaded sandwich with ketchup.
“Anything else, guys?” the redhead asks us, but her eyes are glued on me. She leans over the table, her tits centimeters from my face, and reaches for the empty beer bottles. There’s plenty of space for her to maneuver around, yet she chooses to lean toward the very left side of the booth, right where I’m seated. She smells nice. Like clean linen and not the flowery-fruity shit most women overuse.
“I’ll take another beer. Thanks,” Bryson responds dejectedly.
“Me too,” I add. My eyes focus in on the two melons stuffed behind her black fitted, deep-cut shirt. The name of the bar, Wasted, stretches across her chest in big, bold white letters, and I let my stare linger for a few seconds. After all, she’s giving me a peep show. When I drag my eyes back to hers, she smiles shyly. She’s playing the innocent role now. There’s something to be said about a woman that plays bashful, especially when she throws her tits in your face. Lucky for her, I enjoy a good chase, so I play along by flashing a smile and giving her a wink.
She flings her hair off her shoulder, smiles coyly again, and then sways her hips as she leaves to grab our beers. “She so wants you bad, dude,” Santino blurts out with a mouthful of his loaded burger.
I ignore his remark by turning my attention to my cousin, who’s been sulking the entire twenty minutes since we arrived at the bar. “What the hell’s your problem?” I finally ask him. Bryson looks up. His lips twitch as if he’s going to speak, but he just shakes his head as a way to say, “Nothing.” But I know my cousin. Very well. “It’s that bitch again, isn’t it?”
He scoffs, “Seriously, Logan? Stop calling her a bitch.” He goes into full protective mode over the girl he’s been dating for the past year.
The waitress brings back our beers, but I pay her no attention. All of my focus is on Bryson now. Before I respond, I take a long pull of my beer, drinking down patience. “In my book she is.”
His nostrils flare. “Look. I know she can sometimes be a bit tough to handle, but don’t disrespect her. It’s bad enough she realizes that no one likes her.”
“What I don’t fuckin’ understand is why you choose to protect her.” I lean in over the table, squaring my shoulders, trying to keep the anger from distorting my features. “She’s a bitch, Bry. She treats you like shit all the time. She talks down to you and cheats on you. Then after, she cries for forgiveness and you take her back like a little bitch. And then she does it all over again. That, my cousin, is what I consider a mega-bitch.”
“She must have a golden pussy,” Santino interjects. His face twists in shock, like he can’t believe he actually said that out loud. Bryson glares at him.
If she does, it’s a wide, golden, disease-infected pussy, I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t touch her even if someone threatened to torch my dick until it incinerated and there were nothing left of it but ashes. I know it’d hurt like fucking hell, but I’d sacrifice my precious dick so it would never be near her. I wouldn’t care if we were the last two people on earth and the only way to save the fucking planet were to reproduce. My dick would not be touching her. Get the hint? I just don’t understand why, out of all the people I know, Bryson continues to put up with her bullshit. She’s no good, and my cousin deserves better.
“If we don’t change the subject, I’m leaving,” Bryson says in a pissy tone. He can be such a damn girl sometimes.
The last thing I want to do is piss him off. We’re family. Sure, we’ve fought lots of times growing up. Even roughed each other up here and there. But for some reason, Bryson has this strong infatuation with Mega Bitch. The last time we had it out over her, he didn’t speak to me for months. And we work together, so imagine how fucking awkward that was for everyone else. Especially Santino, who’s close friends with the both of us.