FLYNN: You’re an arsehole.
RAFFERTY: And your wife makes her living selling lies.
I’m waiting for the punchline because Rafferty isn’t the kind of prick who’d deride his brother’s missus for how she makes a living as an erotic film producer.
I don’t have to wait long.
RAFFERTY: Because porn gives people unrealistic expectations of how quickly a plumber will turn up.
FLYNN: Still an arsehole.
CHASTITY: But at least he’s a funny one.
BYRON: Who the hell added me to this conversation?
Family. Can’t live with them. Can’t murder ’em, either. But their conversation gives me the beginnings of an idea. Not that I’m planning on becoming a hooker or setting up a tasteless T-shirt line. Though I could probably clean up that way because God knows, between us, we have enough of them. I’m thinking more about how Flynn once tried to tell me how he won Chastity’s trust, though not the bit where the idiot offered to become her sperm donor. What can I say? Flynn is a few sandwiches short of a full picnic. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sleeps with a ruler under his pillow so he can tell how long he slept. I’m thinking more specifically about the time he encouraged Chas to film the kind of footage you wouldn’t want to share on Instagram. I guess a bog-standard dick pic was never going to impress a purveyor of erotica. But I digress, even as a plan begins to form as I recall how Wilder said Kennedy watches me from the veranda.
And I know she likes to watch . . .
It’s hardly a grand gesture or a declaration of love. Maybe a bit of payback because fuck the way she was nice to Drew. Fuck the way she seemed desperate to cling to him. Pulling open the tiny fridge, I duck and pull out a beer. He’s not your lifeboat, babe. He’s not even fit to be a rubber ring.
Cracking the bottle open, I grab the chair I was just sitting on, lifting it by the back to deposit it smack bang in the middle of the window. Jesus, how I wanted to shake some sense into her in the hallway. No, what I really wanted to do was fuck sense into her. To lift her leg over my thigh and fuck her until she cried—cried my name. But she would’ve liked that too much. And then she would’ve given me the brush-off. And I’m done with that. Done with feeling like her dirty little fuck toy.
A smile tugs at my lips, and I almost give in. Almost. Because the stakes have changed, and I want it all.
Pulling the table a little closer, I adjust the direction of the chair, not sure if I feel like a bit of an arsehole or a theatre set decorator. I glance at the window, checking the sheers are open, and they are because I don’t like feeling hemmed in. But also because I liked the thought that she might be watching me.
Hope you’re watching now, little love, because I’m going to give you such a show.
First things first. I grab my phone and make my way up the crappy ladder-cum-staircase to the sorry excuse of a bedroom. After Wilder told me about his mum’s predilection for watching me from the veranda, I’d sussed out I could see from up here. It takes a bit of contortion, mainly because the window is only twelve inches tall, and I can only just manage to sit straight in here, but suss it out I did. Though I’ve yet to see her out there, I’ve put that down to bad luck.
But I’m looking now. And I’m texting.
I want to spend my life untangling the silken strings of your heart as I bind myself there.
Delete. Too truthful and slightly stalkerish.
I put the recycling out.
Delete! The way to a woman’s heart can’t be through recycling.
I don’t think I told you how pretty you looked today.
This. I settle on this. And bingo! A tiny light flickers from her phone as she receives my text, meaning she’s there—out on the veranda! Those little blue bubbles start to flicker on the screen . . . before receding.
Chicken.
With a grin, I slide down the stairs and start to execute my plan, moving around the house, flicking lights on.
Light the place up like a beacon.
Let them watch from the fucking space station.
Grabbing my beer, I swallow a mouthful, then toe off my shoes. Next come the socks because socks aren’t always sexy, then I make my way to the living room portion of the house, grabbing a random book from the shelf.
1001 Side Hustles.
After reading the title, I almost put it back. I suppose stripping might be someone’s side hustle, but it isn’t mine. But as far as I’m aware, neither Kennedy nor Wilder owns a telescope. As for binoculars, again, I’m not sure. My girl will be too busy picking her jaw up from the floor to bother with them. Unless she really wants to zoom in on something in particular . . . But my guess is she’ll be too busy watching me to care what book brought me to such acts of debauchery.