“Don’t be jealous of my charm, Rems.” I walk up to him and catch him by the shoulder. “To make it up to you, I can put you in a Jacuzzi with a flavor of your type.”
He lifts a brow. “How many?”
“How many do you want?”
“Three.”
“They’ll be there.”
“Then you’ll disappear so they won’t throw themselves on your dick instead?”
“Of course. What are bros for?”
“You got yourself a deal, Lan.” He shakes my hand.
“Seriously?” Bran asks. “You were just whining about how he’s always occupying our space, Remi.”
“I just remembered his parties are fun. My lordship inhales fun.”
“Which is why your lordship is such a good sport,” I say with a straight face, despite internally cringing at how he calls himself that.
Mum also has an aristocratic title, but you don’t see me flashing it and calling myself a lord for anyone to hear. I wouldn’t shy away from using it as a plug in front of the right people, though.
At any rate, the mission is complete. There will be another mindless party, where I can invite the scum of the scum and crown myself as their leader.
It’s one of my countless attempts to not get stuck in my head for longer than absolutely necessary. It’s good for the art but usually bad news for everyone else. Especially for those who will be the target of my anarchy and their closest circle.
Lately, that’s been a certain goth blonde Barbie that so inexplicably happens to be the only form of a muse I’ve ever had.
She’s been trying to avoid me ever since she shattered all over my fingers a week ago, but I know how to smoke a mouse out of its hideout.
I’m about to go back upstairs, not really caring about football, when Bran catches up to me and grabs my arm.
I stare at his hand and then at his face. “Something on your mind, little brother?”
“Mia.”
I pretend to be unaffected and suppress the instinct to narrow my eyes at him. I know she’s somewhat friends with my brother. That didn’t particularly bother me before and that shouldn’t change now if I’m being logical. But for some reason, I don’t like it.
“Who’s that?” I ask while tapping an index finger on my mouth.
“You know exactly who she is, considering you’ve been going after her.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“I don’t need her to tell me anything. I’ve known you all my life, and I can recognize when you’re up to no good, which is, unfortunately, more often than not lately.” He releases a long, frustrated breath. “Haven’t you done her brother enough damage already?”
“She’s not her brother, now, is she?”
“No, but he’ll kill you if he finds out you’re targeting his sister.”
“Not before I kill him.” I pat his head. “Don’t worry about me, little bro.”
“That’s the last thing on my mind,” he mutters, his face harder than usual.
Hmm. Does he really care for Mia? Maybe in that sense?
Too bad she was soaking wet for me, not you, Bran.
“Surprise!”
Three girls with different hair colors—blonde, white, and chestnut—swarm through the front entrance, carrying what looks like takeaway boxes.
Ava, the one who announced the unbearable surprise, grins as she dumps the armful of what I assume is Indian food, judging by the smell, on the coffee table.
She’s blonde, loud, and has little to no concept of personal space. In short, a mellowed-out version of Remi but nineteen.
The white-haired one, Cecily, is more like the mother hen of the group, a position that she’s been fighting Bran for.
But considering the repressing shit my brother is into, I’d give her the crown any day. Where Ava is too loud for anyone’s liking, Cecily is soft-spoken and likes to baby everyone around her.
She carefully places the contents in her arms on the table and nods at us.
The third girl abandons some drinks beside all the Indian food and walks in my and Bran’s direction. Her chestnut hair with natural blonde highlights falls to her mid-waist.
Glyndon is the only one in our family who got some of Dad’s glorious blond Viking hair, as Mum calls it. She’s over four years younger than me and likes to pretend that I barely exist.
She hugs Bran and he wraps his arms around her in a sweet, mushy, and absolutely unnecessary show of affection.
I don’t understand why neurotypical people vie so much for validation and find it vital to display care and love. It’s not that they can’t possibly survive without the tedious emotions.