The Billionaire Bad Boys Club(6)
Author: Emma Holly

He groaned Trey’s name, hands urging his head closer.

“Please,” he gasped, totally thrilling him. Trey sucked him harder, and Zane let out a wail.

He came like Trey had, in a burst so big it couldn’t be contained, tremor after tremor milked out by his suckling. His final sigh echoed Trey’s, his fingers combing Trey’s hair over him.

Trey pulled gently up him, leaving one last kiss on the warm wet crown. As if it had been waiting for the salute, his c**k sagged downward immediately afterward.

“Wow.” Zane’s breathing was ragged. “You’re better at that than you gave yourself credit for.”

His hand was on Trey’s shoulder, gripping it like he was a teammate who’d scored a goal. Trey wanted to hug him but decided not to push. He didn’t know what Zane was feeling—apart from more relaxed.

“So,” he said carefully. “You want to try this again tomorrow?”

Zane flashed the devilish grin that made all sorts of heart flutter. “Screw tomorrow. Tonight isn’t over yet.”

CHAPTER TWO

Bad Girl

REBECCA Eilert was dreaming. Same as thousands of other girls, she danced with a famous actor who’d invited her to prom. You look so pretty, he said. There’s no other girl like you. She didn’t believe him. She wasn’t that special, but she liked hearing it. When she laid her head on his shoulder, he rubbed her back. Let’s ask your parents if we can run away.

The fateful words yanked her from her slumber, the slap of reality causing her heart to pound. She had no parents, and she couldn’t run away.

Her mother was dead.

Her father was permanently “off on business.”

Her two seven-year-old brothers only had her to take care of them.

Though no one had celebrated, her sweet sixteen had come and gone yesterday.

Oblivious to her distress, Charlie and Pete were locked in their usual morning war. Who got to use the bathroom first was a favorite squabble, along with Pete’s habit of stealing his twin’s backpack. Charlie knew which one was his because it had no rip in it. When Pete yelled at Charlie for sticking his toe across the duct tape that split their room, Rebecca wanted to yell too.

Their house had three bedrooms. None of them had to share. The problem was, not sharing meant giving up on the pretense that their father would return.

Her final image of him came back to her. He’d been standing by the front door, his overnight bag zipped and bulging by his feet on the penny tile. He was handsome—maybe a little weak, a little less pulled together since his wife had gotten too sick to spoil him. Her funeral had been a week ago to the day.

I can’t handle it, Rebecca, he’d said. Your mom being gone. You. When you try to cling to me like this, all I want to do is run.

He’d actually shuddered. He’d been too disgusted by her needing him to hide his repulsion. In that moment, if there’d been a knife in her hand, she’d have shoved it into his heart.

How dare he make her feel like she was the needy one? Like it was her fault he was abandoning them.

Call child services, he’d said. There’ll be someone who wants the boys.

Clearly, he couldn’t conceive of anyone wanting her.

So it was on her now: taking care of the boys, of herself. As Pete and Charlie’s turf war hit a new crescendo, she yanked her flowered comforter over her head. She wished she could stay under here forever, pretending everything was all right. She knew they were lucky they had the old brick row home. She wouldn’t hold her breath about her dad sending money, but their mother’s insurance payout covered the mortgage. They could keep the house they were used to—even the same bedrooms. As long as no one got sick and the roof didn’t spring a leak, they were safe from starving.

Probably anyway.

On the bright side, she was getting really good at forging Sam Eilert’s signature.

Before her stomach had time to clench, her bedroom door burst open and banged against the wall.

“We’re hungry,” Pete announced, finally in agreement with his brother.

Rebecca sat up and glared at him. Though she was tired and angry, her heart twisted. Pete looked hungry. Like his brother, he was skinny as a rail—pale too, with pinchy shadows around his eyes no boy his age should have.

“Sorry,” he said guiltily, though her glower had faded. “Forgot to knock. Charlie ate the last of the cereal yesterday.”

Without their mother to cook for them, cereal and milk had become their go-to meal.

I’m screwing up, Rebecca thought. If I’m going to keep them out of foster care, I need to do better.

“I’ll make breakfast,” she announced, immediately wondering if she could.

Charlie skidded down the hall in his socks and bumped into his brother. He and Pete were blond like her, but not identical. Charlie was a hair taller and had a wider, more anxious mouth. He hung his pointy chin over Pete’s shoulder.

“Pancakes?” he said hopefully.

“Yes,” she said with as much firmness as she could muster. “Whole wheat with syrup.”

Throwing off the covers, she swung out of bed in her Dalmatian-print pajamas. She tried not to think about her mother shopping for them with her. Paula Eilert been sick already. That trip to Macy’s was one of their last outings.

“We don’t have syrup,” Charlie said.

“I’ll make that too,” she declared.

Her tone must not have been as confident as she’d meant. The boys exchanged doubtful glances with each other.

“I will,” she said. “Go set the table so I can dress.”

The twins must have found a smidgen of optimism. By the time Rebecca reached the kitchen, they’d put out the plates and silver. Praying she could whip this together before the elementary school bus arrived, Rebecca set to work.

To her relief, pancakes turned out to be a cinch. She’d watched her mother prepare them so often she needed no recipe.

The syrup was trickier. Sugar dissolved in water didn’t taste right at all. Trying to think fast, she chopped and threw some apples in the saucepan. Maybe a pie-filling thing would do. She’d seen her mother make them too. Muttering to herself, she rummaged through the pantry for ingredients that might work. The boys watched her dash around with big eyes, reminding her to flip the pancakes as they fluffed up and browned.

“We don’t have to have syrup,” Charlie said, trying to be helpful.

“I’m not giving up,” Rebecca growled, though her apples had gone mushy. Cursing, she strained them out with a slotted spoon. That disaster discarded, she noticed the remaining juice had thickened. It smelled pretty good. Hoping to salvage something, she blew on the spoon and licked. The miracle that hit her taste buds had her gasping with excitement.