Read episode 7 here: http://bit.ly/compulsionsserial
It took the same amount of time for my damned brother to finally show his face. He’d finally come in to see me and in the mental state I’d been in, I’d made the mistake of letting him know how displeased I was.
Oh, and why.
No one said I was running on any version of higher reasoning at the moment.
“So you met a hot chick at the bar—”
“A twenty–two-year old—”
“A very hot twenty-two-year old, by your own admission. And you guys hooked up.”
“We almost—”
“Damn it, Calum. I still don’t see why you’re so pissed. What exactly is the problem?” Lucas glared down at me, the look of incredulity familiar. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d been seeing it in the mirror for the last week.
“The problem is . . . ” I gritted my teeth, stopping. I hated what I was about to do. But I didn’t have any close friends aside from Dorian. Acquaintances abounded; true friends were rare in my circles.
And for some goddamned reason, I couldn’t bring myself to talk to Dorian about this, even though I knew that talking to Luke might be the worst decision ever.
Seriously, think about this. Luke?
Who, by the way, was still looking down at me and waiting for me to continue.
“The problem is, I am in no position to just go out there and attempt any type of relationship, seduction, an affair, or whatever you want to call it. I just became single.”
“But it’s just sex. You obviously really want this girl. I’ve never seen you this worked up over anything, and I definitely never heard of you doing anything this spontaneous, or rash. I’m proud right now. Or, I was, until you started bitching at me like a little girl. Why not sleep with the girl? You told me yourself that she kissed you first.”
Luke had that stubborn glint in his eyes. It was the same one he got anytime he didn’t understand where I was coming from. Which was nearly all the time. Despite this, the man always thought he knew what was best for me.
“Her last name is Payne, Luke.”
He blinked down at me, clueless.
I sat back in my chair and prayed for patience. “Margaret’s step-daughter,” I gritted out.
“Oh . . . ohhhh, fuck.”
“Exactly.”