Badd Motherf*cker:Badd Brothers(10)By: Jasinda Wilder
Richard shrugged. “I’m sorry, Sebastian. I’m only doing my job. There’s nothing I can do to change this. You could challenge it, of course, but that would be a costly and lengthy legal endeavor, and I honestly do not believe any judge would be inclined to change or reverse your father’s will for no good reason. The conditions are eminently reasonable, so it would stand, I’m certain.”
“Awesome.” I finished my scotch. “Well, that’s that, unless there’re more fun surprises in that will of Dad’s.”
“No, that’s everything.” Richard set a stapled stack of papers on the bar. “This is a copy of the will, which you may keep. I’ve covered all the important factors. If you have any questions after reading it through, call me. I’ve attached my business card.”
“Want a drink, Dick?” I asked.
He hesitated. “A glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss.”
I laughed. “Wine. You’re funny, Dick. This ain’t a wine bar, bub.” I poured him a measure of scotch in a clean glass and slid it over to him. “We serve liquor and beer and scabies.”
“Scabies…very funny.” Clearly unwilling to come across as rude, Richard took a tentative sip of the scotch, swallowed, and coughed. “Well, that will certainly put hair on one’s chest, won’t it?”
I laughed. “You’re a grown man, Dick, don’t you already have hair on your chest?”
“It’s…it’s a matter of phrasing, Sebastian. I am not a hirsute person by nature, however, if you must know.”
“Hirsute?” I ain’t stupid, but I’m not the most well-read person ever. My vocabulary doesn’t really extend to Ivy League sorts of words.
He took another sip and then indicated his chest, his voice hoarse from the whisky burn. “Hairy. Covered in fur.”
I struggled not to laugh as he tried gamely to finish the scotch without coughing, but it clearly wasn’t his cup of tea. Or, cup of whisky, I should say. He finished it, though, I’ll give him that.
I came around from behind the bar and slapped him on the back. “That’s a man’s drink, Dick. Want another? It’s on the house.”
Richard winced. “No, thank you. If you don’t mind, I must be going. My flight back to Anchorage leaves shortly.”
“Suit yourself.” I shook his hand, and just because I was that kind of asshole, I put a little extra crush into my grip. “Thanks for coming, Dick.”
“Yes, I…well, I can’t truthfully say it was my pleasure, as my job is created via bereavement, but…I’m glad to have been of service. Call me if you have any further questions.”
“Sure will, Dick, sure will.”
He left shaking his hand and flexing his fingers. I may possibly have left handprints on his skin.
I spent the rest of the evening wondering which of my brothers would show up first, and how I’d react.
I was about to turn off the ‘OPEN’ sign and close up when the door opened, letting in late night rain and cold.
Instead of one of my brothers, though, an angel walked in.
A wet, bedraggled, hung over, pissed off angel in a sopping wet wedding dress.
But sweet mother of goddamn, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
Five-eight, hourglass figure. Hair that would probably be somewhere between full-out Irish red and auburn, when it was dry. Creamy, flawless skin. Fuckin’ curves, man. Like, Jesus. Whoever this fine-as-wine honey ditched at the altar was a sorry son of a bitch, or a complete jackass.
Those eyes though, bright blue, the kind of blue eyes you don’t see on redheads that often. I don’t know all the fancy words for different shades of blue, but if you’ve ever seen pictures of the ocean over by Greece, the kind of blue that’s just so damn blue it seems impossible…that was the color of this girl’s eyes. Did I mention curves? My cock went hard in my jeans just watching her stomp across the bar, watching the way the tight dress molded to her bell-curve hips and the way her silky, milky cleavage jiggled with each step.
That dress…Jesus goddamn. Skin-tight, obviously custom cut to fit her body, all drawn up into bunched wrinkles around her hips and waist, sleeveless top with heart-shaped bra cup things pushing up tits I’d love to drown myself in for hours on end.
And she was also the unhappiest looking person I’d seen in a long time.
I went back around behind the bar and leaned against it, gripping the edge so my forearms and biceps rippled; chicks seemed to dig the pose, so I used it to my advantage.
She plopped down in a chair, crossed her arms on the bar, and let her forehead thunk down hard. “Alcohol, now,” she mumbled into her arms.