I clamp my hands over my burning ears and shoot him a glare lethal enough to drop ten men on the spot. Unfortunately, the effect is somewhat wasted because my eyes can't help ... wandering.
He's sitting there in nothing but CK boxers ... and damn - every muscle is carved in exactly the right place, not a flaw on that smooth ivory skin. It's the kind of body that makes you believe in Greek gods - and explains exactly why the fashion world drools over him.
"Ugh!" I croak, pressing my fingertips to my skull like it might hold my brain in place. Everything hurts. I move extremely slowly. Sudden, fast actions are out of the question this morning.
I squeeze my eyes shut, deterred not only by the luminosity from the sunshine glaring through the open curtains but also to prevent one more glimpse of the nearly-naked specimen on the bed ... or I will be dealing with a serious flood between my legs.
"What happened? Was I smashed on the head? I swear that bitch ... uh ... whatsername ... Anna ..."
"Amanda," he corrects me patiently.
"Eh ... yep, that one, hit me on the head with a bat or something. I just can't remember exactly."
"Amanda has nothing to do with it. You just had too many blowjobs. Or maybe too much sex on the beach. No, wait ... it was the unprotected sex that blew your mind."
I crack open one eye - the left one - just a tad. Enough to squint at him through the blazing light slicing into my cornea. Is he seriously teasing me right now?
That smug little smirk on his face is infuriatingly gorgeous - all masculine menace and boyish danger in equal doses. Crap. Is he joking ... or did something actually happen?
Panic slams into me.
I shut my eye again and groan, palms pressed to my temples like I can squeeze the memory out. My thoughts are pure chaos - flickering images and half-formed regrets.
A kiss. A scorching, no-holds-barred kiss. His hands - everywhere. Touching. Gripping. Sliding.
Oh hell.
My face goes up in flames.
I yank the blanket over my head like that's going to erase the last twelve hours. Did I do something stupid? I'm sure.
Something extra stupid?
Did I - hell, no - did I suck his -
Nope nope nope! Abort that memory!
Was I that drunk? Drunk enough to forget if we had sex?
BWA BWA BWWAA!
"Will you stop blowing that freaking trumpet!" I yell, popping out from under the covers, my eyes now wide open. I swear it's a 1000-decibel sound ― or at least close to that.
"It's a vuvuzela." His laughter bursts forth with a brilliance that fills the room as he throws the thing on the bed. It looks like someone took a traffic cone, stretched it like chewing gum, and spray-painted it neon. In this case, green and red.
I look at the foreign object, wondering what ass-hat invented something like that.
Imagine a toy trumpet that got rejected from band class and decided to grow up into a weapon of mass irritation.
"I bought it in South Africa during our last hunting trip. They love to blow it at soccer matches." He went on a hunting trip. In Africa. Where there are lions. And elephants. And crocodiles.
"Ah ― newsflash, I'm not South African!" I pick up the vuvu-whatever and hit him over the head with it, getting him back for waking me up like a bat from hell. The bump doesn't even make a dent in his sudden cheerfulness. Is he happy because of my condition? Or because he got lucky.
I moan again - it feels as if I've been hit by a truck.
"Asshole," I mumble while falling back onto my pillow, pulling the blanket over my head again, all the while hoping he would disintegrate into thin air. But luck has never been on my side, so why will it change teams now?
"Sooo ... Aria, care to tell me why the whole world thinks I'm gonna be a father?"
My body stiffens for a mere minute, and I clutch the hem of the blanket, the fabric bunching in my hands as if it will bring me solace, a physical anchor amidst the turbulent sea of my nervousness.
I slowly pull it down to the bridge of my nose, my dilated eyes peeking out to look at him.
"Yeah, about that ..." I say hesitantly ... and I try to explain the situation about how they mistook the parcels to be mine instead of his sister's.
"But, just to be clear ... I never confirmed any pregnancy ... I just didn't deny it so as not to put Mel in a bad situation!"
I meet his eyes, chin up like I've just won some moral high ground. Surely saving his sister earns me at least one get-out-of-jail-free card. Right? But then it hits me - he's not exactly innocent here either.
"You're the one who said how excited we were about the baby, remember?"
"I thought they were talking about Mel," he says, all smooth. "A little heads-up would have been nice."
"You were grumpy when I returned, didn't wanna talk to me." He grimaces - a I-know-I-am-guilty-but-I-will-never-admit-it one.
"Nonetheless ... you did sell it pretty well in this photo, don't you think?" He scrolls through his phone and hands it to me. And there I am, caught in glorious HD, looking down at my hand resting protectively on my stomach. I have to admit ... I look radiantly pregnant.
"They caught me off guard. I was checking for fat rolls, not a baby," I blurt. That's the truth.
"Fat rolls?" He frowns like I just said I eat gravel for breakfast. "Why would you-? I mean, you have the perfect body, so why ..."
He clears his throat. "Never mind. Anyway - let's not forget you assaulted a man. That calls for serious punishment."
He gets this slick, wicked, hot, little smile on his face that short-circuits my mind and wakes up my womanhood again.
This is exactly why I should never have agreed to that stupid punishment clause in the contract.
Clause 8.
It states that if one party breaches or otherwise violates the terms of the contract, the other party has the right, at its sole discretion, to impose a punishment in the form of a dare, task, or challenge. There are certain rules stipulated there to follow.
The person being punished may decline - but if they do, there are no rules.
Crap.
Meanwhile, my traitorous eyes drift down to his chest - still bare, still stupidly perfect. Half my brain wants him to put on a shirt. The other half wants to burn all his shirts.
Suddenly, his right pec flexes. Just a tiny twitch that moves his boob.
But dear sweet baby Lucifer ... it's sexy. My lips part in silent surprise, my hands jerk, and of course ... he chuckles.
The smug jerk caught me staring. And drooling. Flip. I frantically get my mind in place.
Where was I? The paparazzi guy I hit ...
"That man had it coming -" I say, trying for calm but sounding about as composed as a tipsy karaoke singer. Time to throw the ball into his court. "- but let's not overlook your little interaction with your ex."
He snorts and pulls tight his lips. Those very sexy lips. Nope, not getting distracted again.
"She's not my ex."
"Doesn't matter. Tit for tat. Punishments cancel out."
He grimaces. I have no idea if that's a yes or a no, but I'm taking it as a yes before my brain gets distracted by his pecs again.
"Now, about Brian ..." he says, steering the conversation like nothing's going on. His multicolored eyes scrutinize my whole demeanor, and just like that, my nipples decide to salute through the thin T-shirt.
Ship.
I glance down and finally process the fact that I'm wearing one of his shirts ... and his boxers. Definitely not the dress I had on last night.
Also? My underwear has gone AWOL.
A frantic scan of the room reveals my lacy set lying in a heap on the floor - looking as traumatized as I feel - right next to the pillows that, for the record, I always put between us before bed. Yet somehow, every morning, those pillows have mysteriously migrated to the floor, while I'm in Enrique's arms.
The red bra screams into my mind, and that mind tries to fill in the blanks ... but nope. Nothing. Just static.
Flipping fish sticks! What happened last night? Was he serious about the blowjob part? Could I really forget having a sexual encounter with a man like Enrique? Now, that would be ... tragic.
A fresh wave of embarrassment floods me, so I yank the blanket higher, trying to hide both my flushed face and my pumped-up nipples. But of course, Enrique's too observant for his own good - the man misses nothing.
Panic mode activates. So I babble some more to hopefully distract him a little.
"Uh... Brian bumped into me on the street, then helped us change our tire, and later - totally random - he and his friends just happened to be in the same restaurant." The condensed, definitely-not-suspicious version.
Enrique's jaw tightens into a deep scowl. Yeah, he's not buying the whole thing.
"Aria, you need to be careful around him. He hates me, so he might try to use you to get to me." He sighs. "And Graham hates Damion."
So I'm not imagining things. They are trying to piss off the boys. There's history here. The messy kind. I'll ask Mel. She'll know.
"Okay," he says casually, "how about a greasy breakfast at the club to fight off that hangover?"
"As long as it comes with a side of headache tablets."
Enrique stands, and my eyes immediately dart to the red undergarment on the floor again. Flipit. I need answers.
"Uh, about last night..." I mumble, staring at my lap. "Can you tell me what happened? I mean ... did we ... did something ... how exactly did I end up in bed like this?"
He sits down again - VERY very close this time - and my pulse does a little drum solo. His mouth curves into the sexiest, most dangerous lopsided grin I've ever seen, and I find myself locked on those eyes of his. Blue and gold. I can't decide which shade is more sinful.
"Well," he says, leaning in, "first, you puked on me while I was carrying your drunken ass inside." I can feel his breath fanning over my cheek - he's that close.
My jaw drops, but before I can respond, he continues, voice low.
"Then we took a warm, steamy shower together to get rid of the vomit." Our eyes are stuck in a battle of wills. His head tilts closer, so close our lips are almost touching, and I swear my brain short-circuits.
"You kissed the hell out of me." Oh. No. Ship. My hands fly up to cover my burning cheeks, muffling an involuntary gasp.
"And then," he finishes, "I put you in bed. We slept. I don't fuck drunk girls, no matter how cute they are or how much they throw themselves at me."
"Did you ..." I stammer from behind my hands, "... see me ... um ... naked?"
"Not officially." He gently takes my hands away from my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Anything else you want to know, Batnip?" I don't know why he calls me that. But it's sort of cute. Special.
I glance at his lips - the ones I apparently kissed. My mouth waters. I swallow fast before any spit makes a run for it.
"Uh ... nope. That's ... plenty, thanks."
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I instantly bite my lower lip. My brain races - would another kiss break our contract ... or just break me?
"Fuck it," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on mine - hard, urgent. For a split second, I freeze, stiff as a cucumber in Antarctica, but instead of shoving him away like a sensible human, I loop my arms around his neck and slide my tongue into his mouth.
His arms lock around me, hauling me onto his lap. My knees frame his hips, his hands slip under his shirt on my body, and oh sweet mother of temptation - he's getting hard between my legs. A tiny, sensible voice in my head commands me to get out before it's too late, but my body's possessed by a whore spirit. I actually grind into him.
"Uh ... did we come at a bad time?" The voice at the door snaps me out of my Enrique-induced haze. My head jerks in shock - straight into his cheekbone.
"OW! Dammit," he hisses, rubbing the spot. I scramble off his lap like a cat caught on a hot stove.
"Fuck Jackson!" Enrique barks, dragging the blanket over his ... very noticeable situation. "Ever heard of knocking?"
"Sorry. My bad," Jackson smirks. He doesn't look too sorry.
"But, since you're done -" his tone making very clear he doesn't believe that for a second "- you did say something about breakfast at the club."
His vigilant baby-blues sweep the room, pausing way too long on the red lacy bits on the ground. Then, like some testosterone-fueled version of the Cheshire Cat, he grows a smirk that makes my cheeks go pink all over again.
"So here we are."
"We?" Enrique asks, standing up and clutching the blanket around his hips like some very indecent Roman emperor. Jackson tilts his head, grin still locked in place.
Enrique drops the blanket, ambles to the cupboard without shame, and pulls on jeans and a shirt - all under the sharp scrutiny of the twin leaning lazily against the doorframe like he's watching live entertainment. Only when Enrique finally turns around does Jackson answer.
"Your other brothers, Lee ... and Leyla. Haley dropped her just as we arrived."
"Who's Lee?" Enrique's voice still has that husky, just-woke-up-and-maybe-made-out tone.
"Oh, you don't know yet ... I got a new roommate. Lee's our new goalie."
I roll my eyes. Great. Probably another cocky, ego-driven, panty-chasing menace to add to the roster. Like Big Red, the loud Scottish brute living with Logan ... lucky us.
"You?" Enrique actually looks shocked. "A roommate?"
Jackson sags under the weight of Enrique's disbelief. "Yes." I wonder where Jackson stays - he doesn't live in the complex like the others. Axel occupies his house here.
"Are you serious?" Enrique presses. Honestly, it's just a roommate - not a hostage. What's the big deal?
"It's complicated. I -"
A high-pitched, drawn-out girly scream slices through the air, and before any of us can react, a figure barrels past Jackson into the room, tripping over his own feet and fumbling frantically with the front of his jeans.
Both twins freeze. The same cloned, graveled, psyched-out fix on their mugs - but they've got nothing on the new guy. His face is pure panic, eyes blown wide, breath coming in sharp bursts.
"Ssssppider," he stammers, still waging war with his stubborn button.
I blink once. Then again. Maybe even a third time because my brain can't quite process what I'm seeing. This ... is not the hockey player I pictured. Not that I know anything about hockey.
I blink once more. Maybe my hangover is fogging my brain.
Hell, he's about the same size as Mel ― female petite. Which makes him smaller than me. His head barely reaches Jackson's chest.
Dressed in an oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans stuck into ankle-length black combat boots, which look like they could walk away on their own, his whole aesthetic screams emo-goth skater boy - with heavy emphasis on the boy part.
If you tell me he is sixteen, I'll believe you. His flawless skin and delicate features are way too pretty for a man ... in fact, it looks like they've been ripped straight from a K-pop stage.
Then he glances up, and - holy hell - his eyes. Big, amber, and golden-bright, like a lion in human form. He could very easily pass as a K-pop demon. Tiny Saja.
He does a double-take, swinging his head from one twin to the other, like a tennis umpire trying to call a very confusing match.
Jackson comes to his senses first.
"What spider?" This seems to bring Lee out of his daze.
He finally wins the battle with his jeans and mutters, "In the bathroom. Big spider. Huge." His hands are still trembling.
Weird kid.
Following Jackson, we trail down the hall toward the guest bathroom, crossing paths with Logan halfway, with coffee in his hands. He's cradling one moodcup, the ceramic a true blue - meaning the laid-back brother is chilled. No surprise there.
Then Ilkay shows up.
"What's the racket?" he asks, scanning his brothers like one of them owes him an explanation.
"Just a spider," Jackson says, leaning against the wall like he's settling in for a show.
"Really? You're scared of a spider?" Logan asks Lee, who has at least stopped shaking.
Lee shrugs. "Bad Arachnophobia. But just spiders ... not scorpions." Lee pulls a strange face. "That's why my sister tied a fluffy spider keychain to my backpack."
"Charming," Enrique mutters.
"You catch it, then," Lee fires back, nose tilted in defiance. The kid's got some bite.
"I will." Enrique strides into the bathroom. Silence follows ... until -
"Holy hell, it's huge!" He bolts back out, nearly mowing down Logan. "Nope. Not happening."
I can't help myself. "Maybe blast it with your vuvuzela - could be a South African arachnid, you never know."
Lee beams, dimples popping. Enrique snorts like I've just offended his ancestors.
Logan rolls his eyes, hands over his cup, and steps into the so-called war zone. I peek around the corner - not because I'm brave, but because I want to see if this thing's big enough to file for property rights.
A blur skitters across the tiles to Logan's right. He jumps left like a startled cat and backs out fast. "Nope, nope, nope ... that's one big-ass spider."
Okay, so it's officially terrifying.
Ilkay exchanges a glance with Jackson ... then Enrique ... then Logan. It's a look I can't read, but whatever it is, it freezes my insides. There's something here I'm not being told. Lee notices it too - his head tilts, brows knitting. Great. Another observant type. Just what we need.
The eldest brother heads in next, confidence written in his stride. Two minutes later, he's back - paler, lips tight. He quietly shuts the door and leans against it. That same loaded glance passes around again. Silent. Heavy. They're covertly communicating.
Then Jackson steps forward and opens the door. I watch as he reaches down to grab the spider, steady as a surgeon. Not scared at all.
But the thing makes a break for it, darting across his wrist and into the corner. Jackson jerks like he's just been zapped by a taser. For a heartbeat, he's frozen - and then he turns a shade of white that would make a ghost envious.
Without a word, he walks past us in a stiff, mechanical way, heading straight for the kitchen.
What the hell? He's clearly not afraid of spiders, so what just spooked him?
"Shit," Ilkay murmurs, shooting a loaded look at Enrique - who now also looks faint.
This is not normal. And judging by Lee's slow blink and furrowed brow, I'm not the only one thinking it.
If it's not fear ... what rattled Jackson? Was he bitten? Oh, hell, could it be venomous? Should we be rushing him to a hospital right now?
"What you doing?" A small voice pipes up behind us, and we all whip our heads in perfect sync. My little sister stands there, eyebrows raised like she's caught us playing dress-up in Mom's clothes.
"We're, uh... strategizing," Logan says, smooth as silk. "Figuring out how to catch the huge-ass spider in the bathroom before it webs us in our sleep."
She blinks once. "You guys are hilarious." Then she pushes past us. "Hilarious ... but stupid."
The brothers snort in unison. Apparently, they're fine with being roasted by an almost ten-year-old.
Before I can prevent her from certain death, she walks up to the spider and lets it crawl onto her hands, holding her palms together. Black and orange, hairy, and big enough to qualify for its own zip code.
Lee takes three steps back, just in case he needs to make a run for it.
Without a flinch, she carries the beast past our frozen corpses. We're still standing exactly where she left us when she strolls back in.
"All done. You're all safe now." She's grinning, shaking her bold head like we're the village idiots.
"Oh, and by the way," she adds sweetly, "that's a Mexican Red-Knee Tarantula. They don't make webs, only silk out their burrows, Logan." She beams at him like she's just taught a toddler the alphabet. Logan doesn't seem to believe her. And the brothers are suddenly fascinated by every space in the room that isn't occupied by a human.
"I'm pretty sure it's someone's escaped pet," she continues. "You don't get them in San Francisco. Anyway, it's in a box in my room."
That's my sister - loves animals, mostly those that make you squirm. Wants to be a biologist. Or an artist. I just hope she lives long enough to pick one.
"Can we get a vivarium for it, Ricky?" she asks sweetly, already nicknaming my 'boyfriend.' "Pretty please? I can't let it go outside - it'll die."
Enrique nods like she's just proposed world peace and starts drinking Logan's coffee, still in his hand. The cup has now turned a questionable muddy brown. Mood unclear.
"Well, that's that," Logan says, clearly eager to erase the memory of their squeamish behavior. "Let's go."
Ilkay just makes a face and struts away like this entire house is beneath him.
"Are you all joining us for breakfast?" Enrique asks, still sipping Logan's coffee as if it belongs to him now.
"Oh," Logan says, serious suddenly. "Well, you called an S1 DAT."
"A what?" Lee asks. Logan looks weary at the newcomer.
"It's one of our guy codes," Logan explains, tone loaded with mystery. "You'll learn them eventually, pipsqueak. S1 means serious level 1. DAT means Drink And Talk."
"You need a code for that?" I ask.
They all look at me like I've just failed a very simple math problem. Whatever. Men are stupid - I should know that by now.
"Ug, you guys are so weird."
"Totally," Lee mutters.
Logan shoots him a glare. "You're one of us now, dude."
"Unfortunately."
Ug. Men. Put on this earth solely to annoy us so we don't die of boredom.
PS – please note – no animals were harmed while writing this chapter.
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The Actor's Contract 
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