It wasn’t true, I told myself as I hysterically burst through the front door of the mansion. I had sped home, telling myself that Blac had made everything up. Eric hadn’t given him those photos, and he definitely wasn’t having sex with Austen, the woman that I was starting to believe could make me appear, at least to the outside world, normal—the woman I was going to marry.
I stumbled onto the second floor, breathing hard, fighting the images that danced through my head. Was it a jealousy of the flesh that enraged me? No. I was gay. I didn’t want Austen like that. It was the principle of the entire matter. I welcomed Eric into my home, accepted him as my brother, found him a job, and how did he repay me? By allowing his criminal friend to jeopardize all that I worked for and fucking Austen in my house?
No! It cannot be true, I thought, mere steps from Eric’s door. I threw the door open to find his room empty.
I felt foolish. I had allowed Blac to manipulate me into believing things that I should’ve known could’ve never been true. Eric was my brother, and although we’ve been apart all our lives, he wasn’t the kind of man to—
I froze when I heard a groan coming from Austen’s room.
I spun around, raced down to her door, pushed it open, disgusted at what I saw. Austen was in bed, naked, on her back, her legs hiked in the air, my brother, holding himself above her, pushing himself into her, both of them, sweating, thrusting, moaning so loudly, and so lost in themselves, they must not have heard the noise I made entering the house and must not have noticed me standing in the room with them.
I stood there in utter shock for a moment. Finally finding the strength to speak, I yelled, “Eric, get the fuck out of my house!”