She turned around, rinsed her coffee cup, and put it away. I came behind her, trapping her to the counter, massaging her shoulders. The right one was still a little sore, but she told me she’d been killing it at the range. I thought her chances of getting that Olympic spot were really good. It was going to soften the blow and give her shit to focus on when we were over. I couldn’t wait to drown in unlimited pussy and cheer on Sailor as she kicked ass and took names in the Olympics. I would even toast with a drink or six when she got that medal.
“What are we doing today?” I asked, kissing the back of her neck. “I mean, other than porking each other.”
“Not much.” She turned around, her voice flat. “I’m going shopping with Emma, Persy, and Aisling.”
She’d been doing a lot of shopping lately and looking fuck-hot in her new clothes. Her hair was bangin’, too, and I overheard one of the Penrose sisters, the mouthy one, Emmabelle, telling her she should get a Tinder account. She was coming out of her shell, and in true Sailor fashion, she’d broken that bitch in two and strutted out on ten-inch heels. I couldn’t help but feel stupidly lucky to be the guy next to her. She was going to be a man-eater soon, but I had been the first to fuck her out of her weird limbo, to introduce her to society.
“I’ll tag along.” I pinched her ass.
Despite the time that had passed, I still hadn’t acquired any friends in Boston. It was goddamn near impossible. I worked with middle-aged people all day, then took evening classes in college, mainly with single moms and older people who worked full-time jobs like me.
Sailor put her hand on my chest. It was her go-to. That, and licking her finger and cleaning shit off of my face when we were eating. Just like the chest-hair pulling, I didn’t hate it.
“Um, no, you aren’t.”
“Why not?” I frowned, surprised.
“Because we’re going to talk about girl stuff.”
“Like penises and dildos?” I was supremely hopeful that was what women talked about. Naked. Other than my sister. I’d rather die than picture my baby sister naked. Sweet Jesus, why did I let my mind wander that far? Now I couldn’t not picture Aisling having a slumber party in her lingerie, and I wanted to throw up all over the kitchen island like in that South Park episode.
Fuck my life in the ass.
Sailor cocked her head, frowning. “Try clothes and boys and petty, albeit harmless, gossip.”
“I like clothes and petty, albeit harmless, gossip.”
“Did I mention we do all this to the soundtrack of A Walk to Remember? No? Because no gathering would be complete without a few chick flicks,” she drew out.
“Pass,” I grunted, not wanting to beg for her company.
She threw her head back and laughed, rubbing my arm. Sailor (Sai-lor. Pretty name, I realized, albeit fashionably-fucking-late) was not cold or distant like I’d imagined. She touched me all the time in a non-I-wanna-get-dicked-by-you way.
“I figured you’d be looking for entertainment, so I took it upon myself to call your brother and make plans for you.” She sneaked away from my touch when I began to draw her close for a quickie.
“My brother?” I echoed, spinning on my heel. Did I have another bastard brother I wasn’t aware of? Because there was no way she was talking about Kill. “You mean the asshole who looks at me like I’m cow shit clinging to his twelve-hundred dollar Magnannis?”
“One and the same.” She zipped her North Face rucksack, throwing my bomber jacket into my hands from the back of the kitchen island stool. “You’re going horseback riding.”
“You’re shitting me.” I stared at her, jacket still in hand. “Why would I do that?”
Why wouldn’t I do that?
I wasn’t sure if I was angry or in awe of her persuasion skills. I’d been successfully avoiding any type of conversation with my mom and da because they sucked all the balls, but with Cillian, I was outwardly, full-blown beefing. My feelings for him weren’t complicated or convoluted. I simply wished him a slow, painful death. My heart couldn’t be bought with a cheesesteak and the email of some TA at Harvard who overcharged for essays I could download online.
“You can’t hate your entire family,” Sailor pointed out, shouldering into her jacket. It had been pissing since that first night of rain when I wrecked her uterus. “You have to make some allies if you want to survive being a Fitzpatrick. He’s going to be your first.”
“Sounds ambitious. Also, unlikely.”
“Also, happening,” she countered calmly, shoving me toward the door with surprising strength.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I bared my teeth, dragging my heels along the floor like a toddler.
“Look at it as my parting gift to you. I don’t want to say goodbye without knowing you have a few people to rely on. Figured your mom and Cillian are your best bet.”
“Why not Aisling?” I tried to dodge her touch at the same time I tried to pinch her ass. We tango-ed like a pair of aggressive peacocks for a few seconds.
“Oh, you have Aisling’s vote, for sure. But you need the swing states’ support. Think of Cillian as Virginia.”
To put his name with anything virginal would be a crime, but I saved her my smart-ass comment.
I wanted to be mad at her, but for the life of me, couldn’t. Leave it to this crazy bitch—and I used the term endearingly—to call the other craziest motherfucker I’d ever known and negotiate the terms of my relationship with him.
“I don’t have any riding shit,” I gritted, stalling.
“Figured as much. Cillian said he’ll let you borrow some,” Sailor sing-songed.
I turned around to face her as she swung the door open. The movers were marching back from my room, dusting off their hands.
“I hate you.” I double-tipped them, waving them goodbye. Because I could be both a cunt and a great person at the same time.
“I’ll find a way to carry on.” She flashed me a smile I wanted to wipe off with a kiss.
“Don’t be so sure. It’ll be a struggle when I hate-fuck you and put a hole with your shape through your mattress.”
Sailor gave me another shove. “Then I truly hope your friends won’t mind sleeping on a Sailor-shaped mattress, because I’ll definitely be taking the new bed. Good luck and goodbye!”
The door slammed in my face, and all I could do was laugh.
Goddammit, Sailor.
Downstairs, Kill picked me up to go to the equestrian center. I spent the ride fiddling with the Dala horse on my neck while Cillian sneered at numerous things we passed along the way: a bed of wilting flowers, a broken tree on the side of the road, general litter. Everything pissed the asshole off. He was going to be dead by age thirty-three of a heart attack. He gave me such rotten-ass juju I’d need to lock myself in a Hindu holy site on an Indian mountain for a decade just to get rid of his negativity.
When we got there, I found out Cillian had a few horses that legit belonged to him. Apparently, he hadn’t limited his riding hobby to my ass alone. I knew Kill had played polo in his youth, too, and was more accomplished than I (insert shocked emoji here), but when we hurled our tall frames onto two twin, black Arabian horses and began riding, it was pretty clear we were both skilled.
Cillian handed me a helmet, a saddle, and a pair of boots. He looked like an eighteenth-century aristocrat in his gear, and I wondered if he enjoyed being so perfect twenty-four-fucking-seven. From the outside, it looked exhausting.
We headed to the neck of the woods, the saddle—made of rich leather that’d been broken in by my brother—tinged my nostrils with an earthy scent. I’d missed riding. There were signs scattered across the woods warning riders about hunters (ironic). When Cillian shot me a sidelong glance to see if I cared, I shrugged, aided my horse, and galloped forward. Straying far on a horse I wasn’t familiar with in woods I didn’t know was supremely stupid, but I knew my brother was responsible enough to keep us both alive.
Kill caught up with me quickly.
“So, are you still playing the part of Auguste Dupin and scheming Sylvester’s downfall?”
Of course he’d reference an Edgar Allan Poe character before Sherlock Holmes. Kill thrived on being different. He probably thought I was under the impression Auguste Dupin was some sophisticated French dessert. I rode faster, making him sweat for the conversation.
“He’s cooking something up,” I clipped. “Years of being an asshole make me an expert at recognizing shitheads when I see them.”
“I trust your instincts,” Kill drawled with his usual, grave politeness, ignoring the pack of blonde stable girls who burst out of a corner of the woods, giggling and pointing at us. Cillian didn’t even spare the groupies a look. I realized, with some annoyance, that I wasn’t particularly interested in sampling their goods, either.
“Then why aren’t you backing me up on this?” I seethed.
Did Kill’s hatred for me trump his love for Royal Pipelines? I tried to remain calm. Cillian loathed emotions. I wondered how, exactly, he was going to give Da the precious heirs he was obviously waiting for when my older brother was appalled by any type of emotion, lust included.
“You started this, put things in motion. Now it’s your job to finish it,” Cillian explained, aiding his horse and quickening its pace, his back straight as an arrow. We kept chasing each other, changing paces. I remembered his words: “Everything is a pissing contest.”
I launched forward, catching up with him.
Song of the day: “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones.
“I don’t like tests,” I hissed.
“I don’t like taxes,” he deadpanned. “But guess what I’m doing every Aprilfifteenth? Let me give you a hint, not five Californian cheerleaders on my friend’s fourteen-thousand-dollar carpet.”
I almost laughed. For all his shittiness, my brother was cooler than a Trader Joe’s cashier.
“That sucks,” I groaned, referring to Syllie. I still couldn’t remember the orgy.
“Welcome to adulthood. Leave your joy and creativity at the door.”
“What if I can’t nail him?” I dug my nails into his horse’s coat. I’d noticed Kill was warming up his black Arabian, aiding him frequently, like he wanted to jump him. I found it typical that he hadn’t even given his two favorite horses names. He was impersonal, even to the things he was fond of.
“Shame for Royal Pipelines, but we had a good run,” he said dispassionately, staring ahead.
The horses lunged like a dream and took to the saddles well. They were young but calm and good-natured. We rode into the thick of the woods, surrounded by trees and moss. There was a clear path leading hell-knows-where, the sun seeping through the needled pines, the fresh scent of earth surrounding us.
Cillian was just as suspicious of Syllie as I was. That’s why Syllie loathed him. And it was why Kill hadn’t ridiculed me when I presented my theory.
“You want to see if I fuck it up.” I snapped my fingers, finally getting it.
My brother removed an invisible piece of lint from his riding coat. “You need a good challenge. Just make sure to hang the rebel in the town square instead of humping his leg when you’re done.”
“Fuck you.”
“Language is a powerful tool, ceann beag. You better stop abusing it.”
“Meaning?” I gave him the stink eye.
I loathed his self-control. It freaked me out. I imagined he was one of those sociopaths who could fuck someone for hours without coming just to punish them. He was that disciplined.
“Priceless and worthless are the same sum, presented in different manners. Words make you or break you. By cursing, you reduce yourself to someone who cannot convey their feelings sufficiently.”
“Okay, Geoffrey Chaucer Jr., back to Sylvester. What do you think he’s planning?”
“Considering he asked for more shares and a substantial raise a few months back and got turned down for both, I imagine he knows he’s on his way out and wants to stick his hand in the honey pot before it’s too late. He could skim millions from the company. Billions, if he’s ambitious and feeling extra vindictive.”
He said billions in the same tone I said pennies. That sum was utterly disposable to him.