Everything for Us (The Bad Boys #3)(44)
Author: M. Leighton

I slump down in my seat and lean my head back against the cushion, letting my mind wander for a while. It travels back in time to a night that I’m living to regret, one that haunts me. It’s the night I became a victim of my own game, a victim of my own need to make my brother suffer.

I was in New Orleans a year or two ago. Even now, I can remember the smell of the air with perfect clarity. I breathe it in, just like I did that night, and I remember . . .

The air is balmy and laced with the scent of salt water. I let the loud music and wild celebration flood my mind, rid it of all other thought. For just a little while, I need to forget who I am, what I’ve done and the road ahead. I need to get lost in the moment, and there’s no better place than Mardi Gras.

I’m anonymous. In the French Quarter during this time of year, everyone is. I’m not wearing a mask or costume like most people, but I’m just as masked in every other way. No one knows me here. And that’s just the way I like it.

Girls flash their tits from balconies all along the street, collecting strings of beads for their efforts. The people are drunk, the music is loud, and hedonism is the theme of the night. The same holds true for the luxurious private homes I pass.

This one is no different.

All the French doors are open. Music and light are spilling out into the street, and laughter can be heard as it mingles with the other elements of the party.

Something breaks the monotony of the night. It reaches out to grab my attention and pull me back to the present, to my troubles, like nothing else can.

It’s someone calling my name. It’s a woman’s voice.

But who the hell would know me here?

I look around and see no familiar faces. I hear my name again. This time, I use the sound to triangulate where the voice is coming from.

Then I see her.

She’s standing on the balcony of the house, leaning over the intricate scroll of the wrought-iron railing.

My eyes meet hers and I know she’s talking to me.

“Nash! Ohmigod, what are you doing here? Come on up!”

She’s smiling down at me. Widely. Almost too widely. I think she’s drunk. I’ve seen her only a few times, but I’ve seen enough to know she’s pretty much a cold bitch. But not tonight. Tonight, Marissa, my brother’s girlfriend, is feeling warm. And I’m feeling the warmth of taking a little revenge.

Before I can contemplate the wisdom of it, I turn onto the well-lit sidewalk of the home and make my way to the front door. The knob isn’t locked, so I enter.

In the foyer, a few people glance in my direction, but no one calls me out or tries to stop me when I head for the stairs to my right. I wonder if it’s because some of them think they recognize me, if it’s because they think I’m my brother, Cash. My brother, the imposter. My brother who’s pretending to be me.

The familiar bitterness stings the back of my throat like acid. I revel in the burn. I let it feed the anticipation coiling in my stomach, the anticipation of a little payback.

As I climb the steps, it heats my blood. I know it’s probably not smart to risk giving myself away like this. I just hope everyone’s too drunk to remember seeing me here. Or at least too drunk to question it if the topic should ever come up in conversation later. It should be easy enough to blow off. Especially for Cash. He thinks I’m dead. No doubt he’ll assume everyone was too shitfaced to know what they saw.

When I reach the second story, there’s a hall that extends left and right. It’s a crossroads, much like the one I find myself at. I could leave right now—no harm, no foul. Yes, I would feel cheated out of an opportunity to take a little vengeance, but I wouldn’t be jeopardizing my deceased status.

Or I could go ahead. I could seize this night, this chance, and, for just a few minutes, feel the satisfaction of having a laugh at my brother’s expense.

My choice is a no-brainer. I brush aside the voice that’s telling me this is stupid and I proceed to the right. From the street position, I figure Marissa must be on a balcony in that direction, so I head that way.

There are three doors on the street side of the house. The first is closed, so I don’t open it. The second one is open and filled with people. It’s some sort of upstairs parlor and I can see through it to the other side of the room where narrow doors open onto a balcony. This has to be the one.

I make my way through the tight crush of bodies toward the doors. I hear a couple of people speak as if they know me. I smile politely but don’t respond. I don’t want to draw anyone into conversation. My goal is singular. I can see it standing on the balcony. I can see her standing on the balcony.

She’s wearing a shiny, royal-blue dress that fits her like a second skin. The top pushes her tits up into a luscious heap beneath her chin and the bottom of the dress is split dead center all the way to mid-thigh. It separates into two distinct pieces, giving the appearance of a tail as it flows to the ground. Her long blond hair hangs over her shoulders in thick waves, some pieces braided, with seashells dangling from the ends. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s a mermaid.

I stop to watch her, letting the anger brew. My brother is one lucky bastard. He gets to live a great life, my life. He graduated from law school and got a job at a prestigious Atlanta law firm. He’s got a good name and he’s screwing the boss’s daughter (no doubt with his consent). And the kicker? She just happens to be gorgeous. Cold as ice, but gorgeous.

She’s gonna get a little warming up tonight, though. Then she’s gonna get some humiliation to cool her back down. I’ll piss her off real good, all while wearing my brother’s face, and leave him to clean up the mess and explain how he can be such an insensitive ass**le. In the meantime, I get to get a little taste of the good life. Sounds like a win-win to me.

I continue across the room and step out onto the balcony, right in the middle of something funny evidently. Marissa is laughing her ass off, hanging all over some tiny brunette as if she’s the only thing holding her up. And she probably is. Marissa’s plastered.

As the tuxedo-clad servant passes to exit the balcony, I grab a beer from his silver tray. The top is already off. How convenient.

I stand just outside the French doors, taking a long swig from the bottle as I wait for Marissa to notice me. When she does, she squeals in delight and launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck and smashing her body to mine.

She leans back to look at me, her face close to mine, her arms still draped loosely around my shoulders. “I had no idea. Seriously. This is the best surprise ever. I thought you meant it when you said you were busy.”