Filthy English

Besides, it wasn’t proper for a Blay male to turn down a dare. It was on.

But today before we’d left for the club, I’d had to deal with my father, Mr. Winston Blay, a former United States ambassador who’d gotten my English mum pregnant with my twin and me, married her—then promptly divorced her a year later.

He’d called me earlier from his mansion in Raleigh to demand I go to graduate school after I graduated from Whitman.

School hadn’t even started and he was already on my back. As usual.

I’d said “hell no.”

As a fifth year senior, I was a huge disappointment to him.

But this year—this year—I had to get my shit together and figure out what I was going to do after graduation.

Which meant not living at the frat house any longer. Done. So come fall semester, I was homeless.

Wearing his standard gray leather jacket and skinny jeans, Spider adjusted his mask around his bright blue hair and nudged me, reminding me to put mine on. With his penchant for getting tossed in jail for brawling and using heroin, I’d officially been his babysitter this summer in London until his bandmates, the Vital Rejects, reunited for their tour. What can I say? I’m a good cousin, and it gave me the chance to get out of Raleigh for the summer.

We waltzed inside the main area of the club where a fifty-foot bar lined the back of the room and a sizable dance floor held a shit-ton of writhing bodies.

Spider smirked as he looked around the place. He loved the masks because he could hide who he really was. “Any bets tonight?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.

“Dude, if you want me to take your quid, I will.”

All summer, we’d made silly bets for miniscule amounts of money.

Who could last the longest in an ice-cold shower? Me.

Who would stand up in the pub and sing “I’m a Little Teapot”? Me.

Generally stupid stuff, but Spider needed all the distraction from trouble he could get.

“I’m feeling lucky tonight,” he said with a grin.

I nodded. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

His brown eyes gleamed from behind his mask. “Who can get a quickie shag in the loo first?”

I grimaced. “No.”

Normally, I’d be all over a random one-night stand—even in a bathroom stall—but no one had felt right in a while. But, if the perfect girl came along, I’d ditch my celibacy in a heartbeat.

“You sure? You are the self-proclaimed Sex Lord of Whitman. Hmmm?”

I arched a brow. “You’re really going there—you’re throwing down the gauntlet?”

“Yeah. You’re a pansy who needs to get laid. You’re not gay are ya?” He squinted at me. “You are a tad pretty if I say so myself, plus all those bulging muscles.”

I snorted. With Declan’s encouragement for me to stay busy, I’d worked out this summer at the local gym, let my hair grow longer than normal, and had gotten my first tattoo. Spider was covered in them, the main one a black widow on his neck, and seeing his had given me the bug for ink.

“Not gay,” I said.

“But you have to admit, you like to moisturize and exfoliate. Plus there’s the hair products and clothes—oh, and we can’t forget the man-bag.”

“It’s a messenger bag.”

“Bollocks!” He slapped me on the back. “I love teasing you. But seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, arsehole. Maybe I’m setting my standards higher.”

“Tosser,” he chuckled. “Come on, pick a wager already.” He tapped his fingers against his legs—a sign that he was antsy.

“Give me a minute,” I said as I surveyed the bodies gyrating on the dance floor, then scanned the bar area. Nothing interesting. Same music. Same girls we saw every time we came here.

Wait, wait. Except for her. The tall girl in the blue dress.

Nice. My eyes stopped and roamed over the curvy brunette with long, glossy hair.

Sitting on a barstool with her arms crossed and a snarl on her face, she radiated banked anger—with a dash of sexy. Her lips were carmine red, full, and heart-shaped . . .

Tingles of awareness rolled over me. My cock twitched.

But she wasn’t my type. I preferred them blonde, petite, and less angry. And if I ever wavered from that stereotype, inevitably I’d be punched in the heart with a sledgehammer.

Remember Remi?

I shoved thoughts of her where I put things that made me crazy—down deep in my gut.

I exhaled heavily. By now she was married to Hartford Wilcox, who also happened to be an Omega—my fraternity’s biggest rivalry. Bunch of wankers.

I’d been president of the Tau frat at the same time he’d been president of the Omegas, and our two houses hated each other. Omegas were the preps who dressed like Ralph Lauren models and played golf. Taus were the bad boys, a mixed bunch of mongrels who did whatever the fuck they wanted. We battled for top spots in everything on campus from who won the most intramural games to who had the hottest girls as “little sisters.” It wasn’t unusual for fights to break out at a mixer or after a tense game of football.

Moving on, I surveyed the rest of the club, but before long my gaze went right back to the mystery girl. Roving. Checking her out. Lingering on her hair that flashed under the strobe lights. Even with her arms crossed and a belligerent expression on her face, she was, well, interesting.

My fingers itched to take her mask off.