Page 5 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“If we don’t beat her there, the surprise is ruined.”
I check my watch, tapping the face of it as the blacked-out S-Class idles in the gridlocked Austin traffic.
“Relax,” Ethan says from the back seat. “We’re ahead of schedule. Harper is notoriously late.”
Ethan is a weapon stuffed into a bespoke Italian suit. He’s been answering emails since we left the office, attacking the glass screen with a violence that suggests he’d rather be breaking necks than negotiating with venture capitalists.
Next to him, Asher is staring out the tinted window. He’s wearing a suit, too, but he looks like he’s in physical pain. He’s tugging at his collar, his leg bouncing with that restless, manic energy he gets when he’s been away from a keyboard for more than an hour.
“I could be optimizing the backend right now,” Asher mutters, not turning his head. “The load times are lagging by 400 milliseconds. If we launch with this kind of lag, retention drops by twenty percent.”
“You’re not coding tonight,” I tell him, twisting around in the front passenger seat. “Tonight, we are good brothers. We drink expensive whiskey, we smile at Harper’s friends, and we pretend we aren’t three weeks away from the biggest launch of our lives.”
Ethan finally looks up. His eyes are gray, hard, and exhausted. “One hour. We stay for one hour. Then we go back to the office.”
“On a Friday night? You need a hobby, E,” I grin. “Or a woman. Or both.”
“I have a company,” he clips out. “That’s enough.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a text from the event planner to confirm the cake. A banner drops down from the top of the screen. It’s from the group chat—the one we set up with Harper’s best friend, Tessa, to coordinate the night.
I frown. “Did the balloons pop?”
I tap the banner. The chat opens.
My thumb stops completely.
“Holy shit.”
Ethan frowns, looking up from his email. “What? Did she cancel?”
“No,” I whisper, staring at the screen. “She definitely didn’t cancel.”
Tessa just sent two photos. And a caption that makes my brain short-circuit.
Help. Red or Black? Which one guarantees I get laid tonight?
I stare at the images. The black dress is fine. Classy. But the red one? It’s silk. It’s barely there. It clings to curves I didn’t know existed on Harper’s goofy childhood best friend. The neckline plunges dangerously deep, and a slit cuts high enough to make my mouth go dry.
“Christ,” Ethan breathes out.
I look up. He’s looking at his own phone now. The email is forgotten. He’s staring at the image of Tessa as if it just insulted him. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the gray irises.
“What is she doing?” Ethan’s voice is low, rough. “Is she… is she sending this to us?”
“She wants to know which one gets her laid,” I say, my smirk deepening as the shock fades into pure, unadulterated appreciation. “That’s a bold move, Tess. Very bold.”
“It’s reckless,” Ethan growls. But he isn’t looking away. He’s tracking the line of that slit up her thigh with a look that is terrifyingly focused. “She can’t wear that. Not in public.”
“Why?” I challenge him, laughing. “Afraid she’ll actually find someone?”
Ethan’s face tightens. He ignores me and just glares at the screen like he wants to reach through the glass and cover her up. Or rip it off. It’s a toss-up.
“Asher,” I say. “You seeing this?”
Asher hasn’t moved. He’s holding his phone with both hands, his stillness absolute. He stares without blinking, like he’s trying to memorize the pixel density of her cleavage.
“Red,” Asher says. His voice is flat, devoid of emotion, but his eyes are piercing. “The black is boring. The red is efficient.”
