Everyone wanted to make me the bad guy. The Villain. But really, who could blame me for what I’d done? What red-blooded man wouldn’t have pursued two amazing women? I wanted to think I’d just been misunderstood, because truly, at first, I hadn’t intended on playing Brooke and Savannah. It had just kind of happened, and then kept happening, and soon I hadn’t known how to even begin to stop it. And really, look at them. They’d married twins, two men who looked the same, yet had different personalities. Different traits. Was that so different from what I’d done? The reverse, maybe. Because, while they’d wanted one man to be two different people, I’d just wanted two personalities to make one woman.
I was the man who caught every woman’s eye — hell, even the men’s some days. I ran in an elite social circle and sat up in my office at Nike, quite comfortable, as I considered the desires of the people shopping our products. That was my skillset, knowing what people desired and occasionally giving it to them. That’s what had gotten me into the shit with the girls. Each one had wanted me. I’d known it, could read them like a book, and so I’d exploited them until it had come back and bitten me in the ass. How was I supposed to resist two amazingly beautiful women throwing themselves at me? What straight man would?
I had to admit, though, the annual Hourglass Auction night, not my finest moment…
As I stood there on the literal chopping block, my balls in a vise grip, I knew I was in trouble. Savannah was my first clue, the gleam in her eyes searing through me as I stood onstage beside Monica. I knew she was up to something. She’d been too coy, too touchy before I’d gotten sent backstage. My brain was on red alert; unfortunately for me, all the blood had rushed to my other head, and it had won the battle.
As the girls moved closer, I knew that I was in for it; they were too close, and while at first they seemed like they might just start a catfight right there in the ballroom, it was obvious I was busted. Finished. That was the massacre of Lucas Wellington. When Brooke smiled at Savannah, I knew they had figured it out. Like a game of Clue, they’d dumped out the little manila folder to unveil the mystery: Lucas Wellington, in the Nike office, with a condom.
Waiting in the hotel room was probably worse than standing on that stage. At least onstage, I had witnesses to my murder, because the look in both their eyes once they announced they’d split the cost because I had been bouncing between both of them was pure murderous rage. By the time they strutted out, my face burned from Brooke’s slaps, my nose poured blood from Savannah, and my pockets? Fifty-thousand dollars emptier.
Yeah, lesson learned: don’t mess with best friends.
But yet, as I dealt with the loss of both women, I found myself missing them both equally, wanting more. I had turned into a sissy, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it as I attempted to pick up women, but found them lacking. The real kicker happened today...
I stood outside the bar, watching Jake Worthington get down on one knee and propose to Savannah. My heart clenched in my chest as I’d become the onlooker, watching a man get half of what I wanted. I searched out the other half to the pair, knowing she would be close by as her best friend got engaged.