Page 16 of Emerson
“What does twunky side mean?” Ian asks, thumb hovering way too close to the interested button.
“Give that to me,” I snap, reaching for my phone from over his shoulder. He chuckles, pulling it away just far enough that it’s out of my reach.
That’s when a text pops up at the top of my screen. Both Ian and I freeze.
Does Not Exist: you ran out on me quick last night, baby…
And that is all the notification preview shows. Ian’s jaw falls open.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, then louder. "Holy shit, Em. You’re banging Dill? Does Warren know? I should not know this information, man. I can’t keep a secret to save my life. Everyone will know by the next family dinner, and I’m sorry…”
I all but crawl up the back of the chair to lean over and snatch my phone from Ian’s stupid hand. “No, I am absolutely not having sex with Dillon Montgomery…”
“Why are you on Topped if you’re banging Dill?” Then he gasps, holding a hand to his chest like a scandalized elderly woman. “Is Dillon bad in bed? Wait, don’t tell me, I don’t want to think about you in that position… But is he? He is, oh my God.”
I groan and lean close to his ear to hiss directly into his brain. “Ian, shut up this instant. No, I am not having sex with Dillon. He calls me baby Bennet because he knows it makes my eye twitch in annoyance. I was over yesterday to see Penelope, not his dick. If you tell anyone I’ve had sex with the carpenter, I’ll smother you in your sleep.”
He does not look convinced.
He looks a lot like Zane currently. He has our mom’s sandy colored hair, not the dark brown like Dad that the rest of us got. But his eyes are the same blue as Zane’s, and he has a small, evil smirk on his face.
I straighten up, giving him a pointed glare in the reflection of the big ornate mirror hung in front of the salon chair, then force myself to slowly open the text.
Does Not Exist: You ran out on me quick last night, baby Bennet. Didn’t even have time to tell you I could use help today. How was your “date”?
I scoff so hard I choke on it.
Why “date”? Are you insinuating with quotations that I made up a date to get out of your house?
Lucky for me, I do not have the same hang-ups as Ian does. If necessary, I can look you dead in the eye and lie through my teeth. Over text? Easy fucking peasy.
Does Not Exist: Emerson…I know you think I’m dumb, but I’m not that dumb.
“Ha!” I’m already typing up a list of reasons why that’s not true when another text comes through.
Does Not Exist: I know you’re about to hit me with a bunch of insults. Can we skip to the part where you agree to come help? The deal we made was your idea, remember?
I groan, letting my head fall back so I can roll my eyes at the ceiling. Damn my dick for getting me in this position. Not even a fun one.
Fine. I’ll be there after work.
Does Not Exist: see ya, baby B.
Ian has his lips tucked into his mouth, and he’s turning an alarming shade of red when I look back up at him. Like it’s physically impossible for him to keep his thoughts to himself.
“Spit it out.”
“There has to be dick involved. You’re blushing.”
I pick my scissors back up where I set them on my rolling tray and snap them. “It’s just the color my face gets when I remember murder isn’t an option.”
Dillon
It was sometime between his nineteenth and twentieth birthday, during one of his many fake emergencies, that I looked at Emerson Lee Bennet and fucking panicked. He’s been a tornado since he was just a little boy, a pesky little terror that seemed to be everywhere, in everyone’s business, all the time. He thrived on the annoyance of his brothers, but had his dad, Clint, wrapped so tightly around his finger that it was everyone else who got in trouble for his shit.
He’s seven years younger than Warren and me. I remember being seventeen and the brat demanding a special birthday party for hitting double digits. He was just a kid. Was always just a kid. Just baby Bennet. Until I was summoned to his apartment for some asinine reason or another, walked in to him wrapped in a towel, and my whole body locked up at the sight.
Pretty.
