The Anti-Hero (The Goode Brothers, #1)(59)

“Anytime, dear.”

Then Sage and I leave through the front door without another word.

“That was nice,” she says sweetly as we reach the car. “I really like your mom.”

I pause as I unlock the driver’s side. Then I glance up at her as I reply, “She likes you too. I can tell.”

Which isn’t a lie.

Sage seems pleased with this response. Warmth and pride color her features as she opens the door and climbs inside.





June

The Anti-hero





Twenty-Five

Sage

“W hy are the views so low on our latest videos?”

Adam is hovering over my shoulder as I lean against the counter, scrolling through our feed. Our feed is full of videos by now, but he’s right—views have been down. The first one that went viral, the scene in his dad’s office and one of us making out in his childhood bedroom. None from the last two weeks are as popular as we anticipated.

And I think I know why.

“Well…” I say with a wince as I stare down at the screen.

“I have an idea.”

“What?” He leans back on the counter and stares down at me with his arms crossed.

I pull up the first video, specifically the part where he’s choking me from the front. “This,” I say, pointing at the image.

His brow furrows as he stares at the feed, and after a moment, realization dawns on his face. “Oh. That makes sense.”

He hasn’t so much as choked me or smacked my ass since, and viewers miss the degradation.

And honestly…so do I.

“So, I think in today’s video, we should throw in some more of that. They really seem to like it,” I say as I cross the room toward the couch where the tripod is already set up.

Adam has been spending more and more time here since we started filming these. Some nights, he even sleeps over—

on the couch, of course. Nothing has happened between us since that confusing make-out sesh on his bed. It was real—of course, it was real. But my wires are still a little crossed and I can’t quite make sense of whether it’s just physically real or if

I’m the only delusional one who’s sensing more here. Either way, I’m keeping it all in my head.

Adam has been in a better mood too. It’s like watching him piece himself back together, slowly, one piece at a time.

“But do you?” he asks, throwing me off. I was so lost in my thoughts I missed the original question.

“Huh? Do I what?”

He slowly crosses toward me. “Do you like it? The degradation? Me choking you, pulling your hair, calling you names?”

I swallow my nerves, turning my gaze down and away from him as I try to hide my facial expression. “Does it matter? It’s not real.”

“It’s real enough,” he replies.

Is he really worried about my well-being here, or is he trying to get a read on my sexual interests?

“Do you?” I ask, trying to turn the attention back on him.

“I asked first,” he replies.

When it’s clear he’s not going to relent, I let out a huff and throw my shoulders back. Staring up at him, I give him an exasperated look. “Fine. Yes. I do sometimes like it. Don’t judge me for that.”

“Why would I judge you?” he asks, sounding offended.

“Because that’s what you do, Adam. You judge me. You don’t like the way I look. The way I dress. The way I act. The way I live, so I sure as fuck don’t expect you to like the way I fuck.”

I throw my arms up and stare at him, letting my heated words permeate the air, and it’s quiet after I utter them. He only stares back, no expression on his face.

And for a moment, he has the nerve to appear as if he’s the one offended.

Then when I turn back to the couch, he steps a little closer.

Until he’s standing just over my shoulder. Not close enough to feel his breath, but close enough to feel the energy emanating from his skin. Like a warm ray of sun I want to bask in.

“I don’t judge—”

“Let’s just shoot this,” I say, interrupting him.

“Where do you want me?” he asks as he tears off his shirt.

My lips twist in thought as I maneuver the camera on the tripod downward, hitting record. Then I kneel and stare up at him.

His eyes widen in surprise as he takes in this prime blow-job position I’m in. “It’s going to be hard to fake that, Peaches.”

“I want you to slap me.”

He forces a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“Just do it. Not too hard.”

“I’m not slapping you, Sage.”

With a roll of my eyes, I stare up at him in frustration.

“Stop trying to be so chivalrous, Adam. Slap my face, grab my throat, and spit in my mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he stammers, grabbing his hair at the scalp.

“You’re really asking me to do that?”

“I’m telling you to,” I reply stubbornly.

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“But you do,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “I know you do.”

He looks mentally worn and frustrated as he paces around me. Clearly at war with himself, and a little part of me starts to feel bad for it.