AXEL
My head aches; there’s a dull throb behind my eyes that no amount of sleep seems to fix.
It’s not just the usual hangover; it’s the aftermath of everything.
Of last night.
Of Peyton.
God, what a mess.
A totally enjoyable mess.
And all I can think about is having her stand naked in front of me, grinding her thin curves while she fingers herself.
Licking those fingers will be so damn sexy.
We never got to try that.
Fucking on the counter won’t suffice.
We’re mostly lying down with her on top, flashing those bouncy tits begging to be touched.
Her petite frame is the kind that would’ve been perfect for the runway if she were just a few inches taller.
I walk into Raphael’s room and flop onto his bed.
The springs groan under me.
My brother’s at his mirror, practically hugging his reflection while he messes with his tie.
He’s always so serious about everything, even getting dressed.
Every little tug, every tiny fix he makes, it’s like the world depends on that tie looking perfect.
“Lazing around again. Typical,” Raphael says, like he’s not really judging, just stating the obvious.
He finally nails the tie knot, pats it like he’s proud, then smooths his shirt.
I just sigh and roll my eyes.
“You call it lazy; I call it working smarter, not harder.”
He tugs his collar, squinting at the mirror now.
“You know it won’t kill you to actually show up at your office sometimes, right?
Just to, you know, grace them with your presence.”
”Nah.
That won’t be necessary.
Besides, I’ll turn out to be a stiff corpse, just like you, if I wear a suit.” I smirk, watching him carefully adjust his cuff links.
“Don’t you ever get tired of playing dress-up?”
Raphael finally turns from the mirror and gives me that dead stare.
Oh…
did I hit a nerve?
“It’s called professionalism, Axel. Something you might want to try sometime. And as for ‘stiff’… some things are worth the effort, even if they’re not always comfortable.” He picks up his watch from his dresser, the leather strap dark against his fingers.
“Besides, a little discipline never hurt anyone, like, say, avoiding a hangover every night. Stop spending money on useless booze and…” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Should I keep counting?”
”Don’t you dare go there.”
“Screwing our brother’s wife on our couch.”
”Oh come on, Raphael.
Just let this go.
What you did this morning…
wasn’t cool.”
He shrugs, turns back to the mirror, and ruffles his hair.
Now it’s the part where he takes care of his bangs.
God, I hate him sometimes.
He brushes his fingers on the counter, looking for his comb, and runs it through his perfectly styled hair.
“I suppose for you, being ‘cool’ is just another word for ‘indifferent,’ isn’t it?”
”Rap—” he doesn’t let me finish.
“Don’t worry; we won’t have this conversation again. Talking to you is exhausting, a total waste of breath, so I’ll just let my actions do the talking.”
I chuckle.
“What? You gonna beat the shit out of me? We both know who’s superior in hand-to-hand combat, right?”
He doesn’t reply; just stares at me through the mirror, his eyes colder than usual.
Sometimes it’s hard to guess what’s running through his head, especially when he gives you that look.
It terrifies me.
It’s like he’s making a promise he fully intends to keep.
And for once, my usual comeback is stuck in my throat.
He sets the comb down with deliberate slowness, then reaches for his jacket.
It’s perfectly tailored, of course.
He slips it on, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles.
“Some fights,” he says, “aren’t won with fists, Axel. You’ll learn that soon enough.” He turns, finally facing me directly, and his expression is unreadable.
“Enjoy your hangover.
I have a business to run.”
”Business to run?
Or,” I shoot back, “you don’t trust your people because you only have the ones who’d stab you in the back at any second.
Let’s not pretend you’re not paranoid.
There are some things that PA can handle, yet you have to micromanage every single damn detail.
What, afraid someone’s going to steal your stapler, Raph?”
Raphael flashes a smile, the one that always makes me feel like the punchline of a joke I don’t understand.
“It’s better than the routine of sleep, wake up, eat, sleep again, wake up, eat again, and then just sleep again,” he rattles off, totally making fun of my life.
I can’t take this anymore.
He wins this round.
Again.
“I’m out,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed.
“Got work to do.”
Raphael scoffs, already at the door.
“You mean getting your girlfriend’s car off our turf?”
I’m starting to regret waking the sleeping lion.
I should have ignored the door when I saw it open.
Shouldn’t have walked into his perfectly ordered life, bringing my chaos with me.
I glance at Raphael.
“At least I’m helping the poor girl out. And you? What have you done for your sister-in-law? You won’t even recommend a job.”
Raphael just brushes past me and slams the door in my face.
“Giving her a job won’t kill you. You got the means,” I mutter, knowing he can still hear me through the thick wood.
The guy’s got ears like a bat when he wants to.
He probably thinks he’s so high and mighty, being all “professional” and denying her a simple leg up.
His footsteps pad as he descends the stairs.
Whatever.
He’s got his reasons, I guess.
He got the woman he wanted, didn’t he?
Well, so did I.
And I’m getting her a job, too.
The casino’s always looking for good people, especially a cashier with a head on her shoulders like Peyton, I think.
Or a PA.
I’ve already got the contact for their HR manager.
A quick call, a little nudge, and she’s in.
Raph might be Mr. Business, but I can pull strings just as well, even better than he ever tries.
Let’s see him try to argue with that.
I slip out of his room, pulling out my phone.
I’d text Manny later about the car, tell him to fuel it up and get it to the drop-off spot.
Peyton must’ve totally forgotten about it in the rush of everything.
Maybe I should give her a quick call, tell her I’d send her car over in a few hours, so she wouldn’t have to bother picking it up.
I dial her number, but it goes straight to voicemail.
My thumb hovers over the screen, considering calling again when a new text message pops up.
TEXT MESSAGE (From ‘Peyton’):
I’m in the hospital.
Can’t talk right now.
“Hospital?”