Jacks: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 1)
Read Jacks: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 1) Online
Authors: Meg Watson
Copyright: Meg Watson
Published: May, 2015
Publisher: Meg Watson
The right of Meg Watson to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
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Please note that this is a work of adult fiction and contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity, graphic language. It is intended for mature readers aged 18 and over only.
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“I want you to go over there and drop your tits on that guy by the door.”
“Melita!”
“What?” she whined, all innocent, her lips pursed in a cartoony O shape.
“Just…. quit it, please,” I sighed, barely able to hear myself over the southern rock blaring above our heads.
“Do it,” she commanded, her eyebrows raised in a straight, serious shelf of kohl black.
“I’m not doing that,” I muttered into my gin and Diet Sprite. Angling carefully away from the door and the hunk standing next to it, I positioned my cleavage over the table and tried to camouflage it with a bar napkin.
“You should
totally
do that!” she insisted as though she hadn’t heard me, plucking the napkin from my fingers and tossing it away. “It’ll be good for you! And me too! I can, like, live through you voraciously or whatever.”
“Vicariously,” I corrected her automatically. Apparently that word-a-day calendar app was starting to take hold. Sort of.
She shook her head, her shiny black curls dropping onto her forehead one by one.
“What?” she hollered against the music.
“Nevermind!” I yelled back just as the song finished. My voice punched out into the open air, and several people turned around to look at me like I had deliberately smacked them in the back of their expensively gelled heads.
“Christ, Melita, can we just go?” I said, gritting my teeth and lowering my voice to an appropriate level.
I ducked back toward my drink and hunched forward over my purse, wishing I could disappear. Crowds and bars have always made me feel conspicuous and dorky, and the skin-tight sheath dress she forced me to borrow before we left her apartment wasn’t helping at all. Every time I exhaled I could feel my own breath on parts of my cleavage I was sure weren’t supposed to be exposed.
“See, you’re too smart,” she nodded sagely, plucking her straw between her purple lips and sucking down another huge swallow of her drink.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She shrugged. “You’re all brain. Too smart for your own good with all your words, your big thoughts. You live up in
there
,” she growled, eyes narrowed, her dark grape fingernail describing a lazy triangle somewhere near my forehead, “when you should be living all
down in there
.” Her hand dropped dangerously close to my thigh and she pointed at my crotch with short, stabby motions.
I slapped her hand away, aware of the sidelong glances we were getting from nearby tables.
“You just leave my crotch outta this, Mel,” I warned her.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah sure, why not.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I,” she sing-songed.
“Ugh.”
I pulled my phone out of my purse again and checked it, hoping she would savor the last word and be done with this conversation. No new messages. Shit. Melita cut her eyes toward it and quickly looked away.
“If he’s not here in five minutes,” she started again, her voice deceptively reasonable, “I want you to drop them tits on the next handsome guy that walks in.”
I thumbed the smartphone face bitterly and chucked it back into my purse.
“OK, first of all, Carl’s just late, let’s cut him a little slack--”
“Again,” she reminded me in a mutter.
“Yes…
again
, whatever. Shit happens. And second... exactly who drops their tits, Melita? Seriously? Is
dropping tits
like even a thing?”
Her face fell into a perfect diagram of surprise.
“Is it even a thing?” she repeated incredulously, her voice spiralling up like an air raid siren. “Is dropping your titties
even a thing
?”
I looked around, nervously yanking on the deep V of my dress as a few nearby hipsters angled their eyes toward us.
“You’re telling me you’ve never just rolled up on a man and brushed your nips against his arm? Are you serious?”
“Lower your voice!”
“Why do you even have them big ol’ country girl titties if you’re not going to use them, Bree? It’s a waste, I tell you! It’s a damn shame!”
I snatched my purse off the table and threw it on my shoulder, hugging it across my cleavage with both arms.
“OK, I’m leaving,” I announced.
She swished the straw around in her mouth, suddenly demure and thoughtful. “Well. But. I’m not done with my drink.”
“Melita, you were right…” I said through my clenched teeth, folding forward at the waist and trying to stay stable on the hooker heels she’d strapped to my feet. “He’s not coming… It’s late, I’m tired… What. What can I say. Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to go,” she moaned, tipping her head to the side. “You said we were going out. I got the babysitter, I paid for the babysitter, and now here we are in this fabulous fake-country bar for rich people…. I fucking love it here. We are not leaving.”
“But you were right,” I said slowly, drawing the words out for maximum effect until she started smiling like a cat. “You were riiiiiight.”
“I sure do love it when you say that,” she admitted.
“I know you do. And you were so,
so
right.”
“Because your boyfriend is a weenie,” she said too loudly, one finger poking toward the ceiling, preacher-speaking-truth-style.
“Melita--”
“Say it,” she commanded.
I sighed and made a face. “Because my boyfriend is a weenie,” I repeated glumly as some kind of country pop song started, just like the other one.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “That really does feel pretty good. Tell you what. We can call Operation Harden Carl’s Flaccid Manhood a failure and go catch a movie or something if you do me one favor…”
“OK, what?”
“Drop your titties--”
“MELITA!”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, rolling her eyes to the conspicuously wood-panelled ceiling like she was having a conversation with the angels about how stubborn I was being.
I paused to consider my options: Was I going to be able to get her out of the bar without a theatrical monologue about either my boobs or Carl’s manhood? I couldn’t be sure. She certainly seemed to be enjoying herself, and I had a suspicion the three Long Island Iced Teas were egging her on.
“Fine,” I sighed resolutely. “You did loan me this dress… after all…”
“And it looks a-
mah-
zing on you, did I mention?”
I nodded. “You did. And thank you. You’re a good friend. And it’s totally not your fault that Carl is not here to see your handiwork and throw himself at me.”
“Pssht,” she agreed. “Exactly.”
“So tell me,” I said sweetly, reaching out to stroke her arm, “what do I need to do to get us out of this fucked up hillbilly outpost of a bar?”
She cocked her head at me, her lips pursed in a thin line.
“Melita, dear? Just clue me in?”
Her breath came out in a puff through her flared nostrils. “Brienne, I just want you to try it. Just flex your girl muscles a little bit. Show me you can.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. The joke seemed to be over and I could see her grandma’s face coming through, all serious and intense behind her thickly made-up features. This was the expression she reserved for her most grave moments. She was Making A Point, and I realized she wasn’t going to give up.
“You seriously want me to, like, hit on somebody.”
“Yes,” she nodded once, her curls flashing forward in agreement.
“Which is totally unlike me. Because I have a boyfriend.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m just… not that kind of girl.”
“Agreed,” she nodded. “You’re not that kind of girl. You’re a goddamn country song in a borrowed dress and everything. And you are going to flirt with a man….”
“Melita, why?” I whined. On the one hand, it was probably harmless and I should just do it so we could leave. On the other, it seemed gut-churningly disloyal.
“Because I want you to prove it.”
“Prove what? What are you talking about?”
“Prove that Carl didn’t trade in your vagina for, like, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex or something.”
“Stop it.”
“Or a bag of wavy Ruffles.”
“Oh, I do love potato chips.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Great, now I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” she snapped. “Now I want tacos. So do it. Show me you’re not really letting some chucklehead turn your cootch into dust. Prove you still have your V card, and then let’s go get us some barba-freakin-coa.”
“But seriously whyyyyy?” I whined again, now full-on freaking out. I felt cornered, and I didn’t like it one bit. She leaned forward and glared at me.
“Because you keep telling me how
unhappy
you are, how
lonely
you are, how
sad
you are that your weenie boyfriend acts like you’re invisible, and yet you won’t do a damn thing about it. It’s like you think you are a passenger on this train and you are
not
. This is your life. You’re the goddamn conductor, Bree, so act like it. Be a woman. Go.”
She pointed toward the door and glared at me while she sucked the last couple slurps from the bottom of her glass.
“OK give that to me,” I said with my hand out, figuring that another drink would buy me a few minutes to get a plan straight in my head. She held it out with a vigorous nod, and I wondered briefly if I was going to have to give her a piggyback ride up the stairs to her front door later. Again.
