Betting on the Wrong Brother(8)

By: Cathryn Fox



The women he went out with, when he actually dragged himself away from his computer, all wore skimpy floss that had to ride up and chafe like a son of a bitch. More times than not they were the aggressors, turning on the sex kitten act to get what they wanted from him. Hell, his brother, a pilot for one of the major airlines, and also a self-proclaimed bachelor to the end, had his own harem of sexy, barely clad knockouts throwing themselves at him.

And then there was Andi Palmer. With a sweet, pouty mouth that was quick with a comeback, she seemed different than most. She had just enough curves to let him know she wasn’t the type to live off lettuce alone. Christ, he hated that. Healthy and fit was one thing, but cutting out food to stay wafer thin was another. He sensed she’d found a happy balance, and there was something refreshing about a woman dressing for herself and for comfort that piqued his interest and stimulated his brain—as well as another body part. One a little farther south.

He drove his hand into his pocket and shifted his still hard dick. She’d started that launch sequence the second she gazed at him with those whisky eyes. Combine that with her long brown hair that looked like it had a mind of its own and a body made for sin, he was about ready for takeoff.

Andi Palmer. The name sounded a bit familiar. In fact, she looked a little like a girl his kid brother knew from back in Cedar Point.

Did he know her?

Perhaps he’d give Nolan a call and ask. First thing’s first, though. He had to get the hell out of this room, and as far away from the stage as possible. He glanced at his watch. He wanted to check in on his pregnant sister, and if he hurried he could still talk to his little niece Katie before she went to bed.

The director stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Bony cheekbones prominent, the man cupped his chin and tapped a long finger on the hollow of his cheek. The director went thoughtfully quiet as he checked Ryan out. Ryan looked up at him. At six foot two, Ryan rarely had to tilt his head to meet a man’s eyes, but this guy was taller than most, and pencil thin.

Like a light bulb had suddenly flicked on, the man’s beady eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers. “Got it.” He grabbed a walkie-talkie from his belt loop, pressed a button and said something Ryan couldn’t make out over the static.

He secured the two-way radio back onto his belt loop and focused on Ryan. “What are you waiting for? Get undressed.”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, but I do.” He gave Ryan another once over. “They’re going to eat you alive, soldier.”

Soldier?

“I’m not a model, I’m—” Shit. Think Ryan, think. Thanks to rabid fans and a near death experience with an overzealous stalker, admitting he was horror writer Parker Perry was out of the question, so was going by Jack Wheeler, his first and last name. A few years back his pseudonym had been linked to his real name and leaked to media, which was why he now went by his two middle names, Ryan Grayson. “There’s been a mix up. I’m just a—”

“What you are is a live one.” Ryan looked at the man’s name tag, Nathan, as some guy stepped up to them and shoved a pair of army pants into Ryan’s hands. Military issue boots landed at his feet, along with a prop rifle.

“What’s this?” he asked Nathan.

“Your costume, of course.” Nathan’s gaze fell to Ryan’s crotch, and his lips split. “But I see you brought your own gun. And a big one at that.” He winked and added, “Down boy.”

Fuck no. His gun wilted as Ryan pushed the clothes into the other man’s hands. “I’m out of here.”

“Oh, come on,” he waved his hands, dismissing Ryan’s protests. “It’s all for fun and the profits go to literacy. How can you turn your back on that?”

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