I check out my profile, taking a second to give a nod of approval to the picture Banner chose when she helped me set it up. Followers: 1.2 million.
Uh-oh. A niggle of doubt creeps through the vodka-driven safety cocooning me. The retweets and likes climb in number.
“Uh, Banner. Did you know I have 1.2 million Twitter followers?”
Her eyes round hysterically. “Say what now?”
“One point two million,” I say, repeating the words very, very slowly.
“Holy shitballs. Cav’s going to get the message, that’s for damn sure.”
The lock turns, and the door to the bedroom flies open and slams against the wall. I spin around to face the door, leaving my phone propped up on the pillow.
Creighton, my dear brother, is wearing an expression that would not only frighten small children, but armies of small countries.
Oops.
He holds up a phone, its screen facing me. “What the fuck are you thinking? Cannon and my PR team follow this asinine account on Twitter, and in the last two minutes we’ve gotten four calls between us that you’ve decided to exercise poor judgment. So again, I ask, what the fuck are you thinking, Greer?”
Searching my liquor-soaked brain for any kind of explanation, I lift the bottle instead. “This is good vodka.”
Creighton’s expression turns even more thunderous. He reaches out and yanks the bottle from my hand. “Enough.”
From far away, I hear Banner’s voice.
“Whoa, big brother. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. Wait, do you wear boxers? Briefs? What about that sidekick of yours? His are always shoved straight up his tightly clenched ass cheeks. You might want to round up an underwear-retrieval operation for him. It’s probably damaging to his health, and most definitely damaging to his scrotum. Scrotum. What a weird word.”
I’m too drunk to cringe at my best friend’s priceless monologue. Instead, I grab my phone off the pillow and point to the screen. “She has a valid point.”
“Hang up now. Delete the tweet. No more booze.”
Turning the screen back to face me, I wave at Banner. “I think the party just ended. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Okay, hope your ass feels better. Maybe you need a medium-sized cock next time. You can’t give up on anal yet!”
This time, I do cringe. That’s something my brother never needed to hear.
“’Bye.” I wave again and tap the screen to disconnect before looking up at Creighton sheepishly. “Can you maybe pretend you didn’t hear that—”
“Already bleached from my memory. We’re never discussing it again. Now, delete the damn tweet.”
Cannon’s voice comes from the main cabin. “It’s already been retweeted over seven thousand times. Can’t put this cat back in the bag, but you need to delete it anyway.”
“Seven thousand times?” Shit. Bad Greer. Bad vodka.
“Motherfucker. Jesus, Greer. You know how to get people’s attention. Now, come on. I can’t trust you alone anymore.” He snatches the phone from my hand and wraps his fingers around my wrist to pull me off the bed.
As I follow him out into the main cabin, he tosses my phone to Cannon. “Delete it. Do whatever damage control you can. Fuck, shut down the goddamn Twitter account.”
I open my mouth to protest, but snap it shut when both men look at me like I’m a particularly troublesome child. Which I suppose I kinda am. I suck.
And I’m hammered. Instead of sinking into one of the leather chairs, I lie down on the couch and reach underneath for the blanket that’s always stowed there in these jets.
When I’m covered, I mumble, “Wake me up when we get home.”
Sleep has almost claimed me when Creighton says, “Oh, Greer. You’re not going home.”
Motherfucking bastard. I move my jaw from side to side, making sure that piece of shit Cannon Grove didn’t break it. It clicks just like it always has, but goddammit, it hurts like a motherfucker. Cheap shot. I wasn’t expecting him to swing rather than threaten.
My mistake, and it won’t happen again.
It’s not like I have a glass jaw, either. That prick hit really damn hard. Harder than I ever would have expected coming from a guy wearing a suit in the tropics. Valuable lesson, I guess. Don’t judge a guy’s punch based on his clothes. The next time I get a shot at him, though, I’ll take it. He deserves it.
I’ve already searched the house. Every single room. Greer is gone. Her purse and phone are gone too.
Watching her lean against her brother after he delivered the news isn’t something I ever want to repeat. Greer is a strong woman, and guilt lashes at me for being the reason she crumpled.
Fuck. After these last several days, I felt like we were building a new, more solid level of trust between us. But how solid can something be when you build it on a foundation of lies? If I’m being honest with myself, I knew this was all going to come crashing down sooner rather than later. But that doesn’t mean I have to accept it for what it is.
There’s a knock on the bedroom door.
“Come in.”
“Mr. Westman, would you like lunch while you wait for your plane?”
Cannon told Juan and Rea that I had to be out of the house as soon as my own jet arrived. Too bad the joke was on them. My jet subscription means that flights on short notice, especially international flights, can’t always be accommodated. The call I made today confirmed that fact.
“I’m staying until tomorrow, Juan. Jet should be here by nine a.m., and I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can.”