Page 6 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“Efficient?” I laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
“She’s playing a game,” Ethan snaps. “She’s testing us. She wants a reaction? Fine.”
“Don’t be a dick, Ethan,” I warn him. “She’s flirting. Play along.”
Ethan ignores me and continues to glare at the phone. My fingers fly across the keyboard. I’m not letting this slide. If she wants to play, I’m all in. I type out a reply, voting Red, but warning her that she’s going to cause a riot.
I hit send.
A second later, a new bubble pops up. Asher. He didn’t hesitate. He calls the red torture.
I look back at Ethan. He looks furious. He looks like a man at war with his own instincts. The logical CEO is screaming at him to shut this down, to be the responsible older brother. But the man in this suit? The man staring at that red silk? He’s losing.
Another bubble appears on my screen. Ethan. He actually replied.
Unless you want trouble.
Ethan shoves his phone into his pocket immediately, crossing his arms over his chest like he didn’t just participate. He looks out the window, his jaw working.
“You called it trouble,” I point out, reading the notification on my own screen. “You know that’s not a warning, right? That’s a dare.”
“We are not discussing this,” Ethan snaps. “We go to the party, say hello, and act like professionals.”
My phone vibrates in my palm one last time.
Tessa: WRONG CHAT! Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Ignore that!
I laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet car. “She’s panicking,” I announce.
I look at Ethan. He doesn’t bother to check his phone. He just keeps staring out the window, entirely rigid. He knows exactly what he saw.
“Professionals,” I mutter. “Right.”
Velvet is a sensory assault. It smells of sweat masked by designer perfume and spilled vodka. The bass from the DJ booth shakes the steel railings, rattling the ice in my glass.
We’ve been here for ten minutes, and I’m already itching for a distraction. Usually, I own rooms like this. I work the floor, shake hands, and lie to investors until their wallets open. I am the unofficial diplomat of the Phantom Trio, the one who smooths over the feathers Ethan ruffles and Asher ignores.
But tonight, the noise feels grating.
“We have fifty minutes left,” Ethan says, checking his watch, again. He is standing with his back to the bar, scanning the room like he’s providing security detail rather than attending a party.
“Relax, E,” I say, leaning back against the counter. “Have a drink. A real one.”
“The server migration is at 2 AM,” he shoots back. “I need to be sharp.”
Beside me, Asher is typing on his phone under the cover of the bar.
“Coding?” I ask.
“Their firewall,” Asher mumbles. “It’s pathetic. I could breach this place in thirty seconds.”
“Please don’t hack the venue, Ash.”
“Too late.”
I sigh, taking a sip of my whiskey. My eyes drift to the door again. We haven’t spoken about the text since the car, but it’s hanging between us like a live wire. Every time the door opens, all three of us tense. I wonder if she’ll actually do it. I wonder if she has the nerve.
“She’s here,” Asher says.
