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The hallway, opulent and usually serene, was now a battleground where the bourgeoisie played at being hedonistic rebels. I barreled down it, the portraits of ancestors blurring into a judgmental smear. Their eyes followed, whispers of legacy and expectation breathing down my neck. My footfalls were a drummer’s beat, echoing off marble and antique rug, the rhythm of a man who wouldn’t be ignored. The music swelled, a living thing, and its volume seemed like a personal affront. It mocked the very essence of control I held dear. A snarl curled my lip, an unbidden response to the chaos that challenged the order of my world. I reached the end of the corridor, shadows clinging to me like a second skin, and prepared to confront the source of the discord. My hand was on the doorknob, ready to unleash hell.
The foyer erupted in a hedonistic display, bodies gyrating to the thrumming bass. I plowed through, disdain etched deep into my features. My fitted shirt clung to my chest, a barrier against the sea of inebriation. Then Cole materialized, beer bottle in hand, a sneer on his lips. A collision, inevitable and sudden— his shoulder rammed into mine. Amber liquid cascaded down my shirtfront, cold and reeking.
“Watch it!” My voice, sharp as a blade, clashed with the raucous music.
Cole’s eyes, bloodshot and gleaming, met mine. “Aw, did I stain your pretty shirt?” His tongue traced his upper lip, mockery in every slurred word. “Daddy won’t like that, will he? But you’re good at sucking up.”
“Fuck you,” I spat, the words laced with venom. My hands clenched, itching for contact.
“Never be Daddy’s favorite, no matter how hard you suck his balls.” The taunt, vile and unwelcome, echoed in my ears.
Rage, white-hot and blinding, surged. I lunged, fingers finding Cole’s shirt, and slammed him against the wall. His back hit with a thud, breath whooshing from his lungs. Our faces were inches apart, fury like needles between us.
“Weston!” Parker’s protest drowned beneath the pulse of our father’s African artifact crashing to the floor. Ceramic shards scattered, a cacophony louder than the music.
Silence blanketed the room, thick and suffocating. Eyes wide, mouths agape— the partygoers stopped, attention riveted on the destruction at our feet. The artifact lay in ruins, testament to the chaos we’d wrought. There he stood, in the dimly lit hallway—Parker, my personal brand of torment, beer casual in his grip, nonchalant. And Madeline, that vapid girl, clinging to him like he was her goddamn lifeline. The sight of them together clawed at my insides, igniting an inferno.
“Weston, chill,” Parker drawled, his gaze dropping to the carpet, avoiding the storm in my eyes.
“Fuck off,” I managed, voice taut as a wire.
I kicked at the artifact’s remnants, shards skittering across the floor like scattered dreams. A futile attempt to clear my path, to cleanse the mess that was this night, this life.
“Weston…” Parker’s voice trailed after me.
I didn’t look back as I stormed away. The air crackled with tension, every muscle in my body coiled tight as a spring. My room awaited—a sanctuary or a prison, I couldn’t decide. But one thing was certain: this was far from over.
The room was a shadow, my only company in the suffocating stillness. Two hours had crept by since the confrontation. Silence had replaced the thumping bass, but it did nothing to calm the chaos inside me. My body tossed on the sheets, restless. Every thought tangled with images of Parker—his smug smile, his grip around that beer bottle, Madeline’s slender form pressed against him.
I flipped onto my back, a raw edge to my movements. The night mocked me with its serenity, peace I couldn’t find. My fingers fumbled for the lamp switch, and darkness swallowed the room whole. 4:00 a.m. Sleep—a stranger. In bed alone, but not alone in my head. Parker there, taunting, haunting.
Heat coursed through me, and my skin flushed with unwanted desire. A hard truth pressing against the fine fabric of my pajama bottoms. Betraying me. I shifted, discomfort a cruel reminder—need, want, him. The clock ticked on, relentless. My pulse thrummed in time with the silent hours, a symphony of longing that wouldn’t quiet. Parker and Madeline, an image seared into my retinas. I ground my teeth, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter. A turn of my head, the pillow cold against my cheek. The dark hid nothing from me, not the way my body ached, not the way my mind raced, not the way my cock throbbed.
The door creaked, a sliver of light slicing through the dark. My eyes snapped open. Parker’s silhouette filled the frame, cocky as ever. He sauntered in, the scent of beer and cologne wrapping around him like a second skin. A snicker cut through the silence, vulgar and sharp. “Room for one more?” His words slurred, saturated with alcohol and jest.
“Fuck off,” I spat, the venom in my voice a poor mask for the heat flaring inside me.
But he was already there, the dip of the mattress beneath his weight, an unwelcome reminder of his physicality. My body tensed, every muscle coiled tight. Parker’s laugh, low and taunting, breezed over my neck. The bed shifted as he straddled me, denim rough against my thighs.
“Jealous, bro?” His breath was hot against my ear, mocking. “Didn’t like seeing me with Madeline?”
The question hung, a provocation wrapped in amusement. I turned away, face to the wall, jaw locked down hard. Stubborn silence was my only defense. But my skin betrayed me, prickling with awareness of his closeness, the warmth of his body an inch from mine. A huff escaped me, hot and heavy with frustration. His arm grabbed ahold of mine, and he swung me around. His lips crashed against mine, hard and demanding. His tongue forced its way past my teeth, tasting of stale beer and something wild. His hands grasped at the fabric of my shirt, pulling, tearing. The sound of buttons popping, lost in the clash of our breaths.
Rough. Urgent. Our bodies melded in a frenzied rhythm. His fingers dug into my flesh, branding me with a desperation I couldn’t name. I bit down on his lip, the copper tang mixing with the heady scent that was all Parker. His weight pinned me, a delicious pressure that made every nerve ending scream. Heat surged between us, raw and untamed. Mouths moved with a feverish intensity, no space for air, no room for thought. I was ready to take him, but then Kent busted into my room and Parker was shoving me off of him faster than I could blink.
Chapter4
Weston
One Week Later
Ihated gatherings, and yet Parker, Cole, Kent and I were dressed in freshly pressed polos and crisp khaki shorts as we strolled into our new neighbors massive courtyard. We put up a fight, every single of us, but we were forced to go. My mother’s words lingered in the back of my mind—clear as my casual polo—"Socialize, boys. It benefits our family." She really meant it was beneficial for Dad’s professional connections and his bank account.
We didn’t even know the birthday boy. Some silver-spoon-fed brat who probably wouldn’t know a hard day’s work if it hit him square in his pampered jaw. The gifts we brought, shiny and ridiculous, were nothing but bribes wrapped in bows. The guy’s folks, neck-deep in tech gold mines, lured my father like sharks to chum.
“Weston, smile. We’re here for Dad,” Cole whispered, his words slithering through the air like the informant he was. Trust Cole to play watchdog. His eyes were sharp, eager to catch any misstep.
I wanted out. The suffocating crowd, the fake laughter—they clawed at my skin. But I couldn’t risk Cole’s mouth, which moved faster than news on fucking Wall Street. He’d sell me out the same way he did everything else, no hesitation. No brotherly love lost there.
