Page 38 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
It’s a subtle glitch—a misfire in the nerve endings of my right hand as I grip the neck of the crystal decanter. To anyone else, I’m the picture of corporate stoicism. To me, it’s a warning shot.
I pour the whiskey. The amber liquid splashes against the glass, loud and messy.
Tessa.
I down the shot. The burn is sharp, stripping the lining of my throat, but it doesn’t touch the chaos she just detonated in my chest.
“Control,” I rasp in the empty room. “I need it back.”
I slam the glass down on my desk. The sound echoes in the silence of my office.
I need to work. It’s the only structure keeping the chaos at bay.
I sit down at my desk, waking my monitors. The blue light floods my vision. I pull up the term sheet. The call with the lead partner at Sterling Capital is at noon. I have twenty minutes to review the equity dilution clauses.
I read the first paragraph. The words swim. Dilution. Equity. Vesting. Tessa. Red. Trouble.
“Fuck,” I growl, shoving the keyboard away.
The door to my office opens.
I don’t look up. I know who it is. Only two people walk into my office without knocking, and they usually travel in a pack.
“You look like you went twelve rounds with a heavyweight,” Owen’s voice floats from the doorway. “And lost.”
“I’m busy,” I say, staring at the screen.
“You’re staring at a screensaver,” Asher points out.
I look up. They are standing there, my brothers. My partners. The only two people on this planet I trust with my life.
Owen is leaning against the doorframe, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, looking effortlessly unruffled. Asher is prowling toward the window, his hoodie up, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for threats.
They know. They always know.
“The intern said you kicked her out,” Owen says, walking over to the whiskey decanter. He pours himself a glass. “She was terrified. She said the air in there was heavy enough to crack the glass.”
“I was finishing a meeting,” I say tightly.
“With Tessa,” Owen clarifies. He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of the glass. “Strange. Usually, meetings involve talking. But after you kicked us out, it was dead silent.”
“We were discussing the campaign,” I lie. “She challenged the branding. She was right. We’re going with ‘Be Seen.’”
Owen raises his eyebrows. “You caved? On the ‘Shark’ strategy?”
“I pivoted,” I correct him. “The data supports her approach. Asher confirmed it.”
“I did,” Asher says from the window without looking at us. He’s looking down at the street, watching the traffic below. “The ‘Buffering’ concept is mathematically sound. It targets the highest friction point in the user journey. It’s precise.”
“See?” I gesture to Asher. “Business decision.”
“Uh-huh.” Owen sets his glass down on my desk. He leans forward, placing his hands on the black marble. His playful grin is gone. “Ethan. Look at me.”
I force myself to hold his stare.
“You have lipstick on your collar,” Owen says softly.
My hand flies to my neck. I rub the fabric, feeling the heat rush up my face.
