Where One Goes(22)

“Want me to take a look at it?” Sniper rubs his palms together, a mischievous grin on his face.

“I’ll go to the motel and take care of it,” I say.

“It’s bleeding pretty badly, Charlotte. You need to seal it up. It might need stitches,” Ike says, as he stares at my ass.

“I’ll take you to the doctor and workmen’s comp will pay for it,” George bitches. He’s pissed. First, I destroy eight bottles of liquor, and now his workmen’s comp premium will go up.

“No. I’ll take care of it.” I shake my head. “Can you get me a broom, Sniper?” I ask as I survey my path of destruction.

“I’ll clean it up,” Sniper insists. “You’re bleeding all over the bloody place.”

“Either one of us is cleaning that cut and sealing it with something before you leave, or I’m taking you to the hospital. The last thing I need is for that shit to get infected,” George adds.

“I’m soaked in liquor,” I point out. “I don’t think infection will be an issue.”

“You’re bleeding all over my floor. Sniper or me. Make a choice.”

I look down and see the back of my leg covered in red, my white sock soaked in blood.

Shit!





George and Charlotte enter his office and he shuts the door behind them. Charlotte cuts me a look that says: You are not watching this!

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” I laugh. “If he gets to see your ass, then so do I.”

She glares.

I laugh more.

“Okay, tell me to leave. Say it out loud. Say, Ike, I want you to leave this room.” She narrows her eyes in frustration. She can’t say it because of George. “No? Nothing? You want me to stay, huh? Okay. You’ve convinced me. I’m staying.”

George plops down in the office chair and pulls out the first-aid kit from the file cabinet, fumbling through it for a minute. He pivots the chair so that he’s facing the desk. “You wanna lean over the desk?” he asks, avoiding eye contact with Charlotte who is bright red. It’s adorable.

She quietly makes her way to the desk and turns her back to him, her ass level with his face. He stares at it a moment . . . a moment too long and Charlotte says, “It won’t bite, George.”

He clears his throat and rolls his eyes. As if she’ll shatter at his touch, his fingers feather across the material of her shorts where it’s ripped, delicately pulling back the material so he can view the cut better. “How the hell did you cut your ass, but not your hands or knees?”

“I’m talented in the arts of clumsiness. I’m a sensei, really,” she retorts and he chuckles.

“I think you’re going to have to pull these down, Charlotte.”

“No f*cking way!” she almost shrieks as she straightens to a stand. “I’m not putting my bare ass in your face, George.”

“I can’t see the full cut.” George leans back, fighting the grin that wants to break out across his face. “You’re going to have to pull them down.”

“Yes! Yes! There is a God! Thank you!” I exclaim. Charlotte purses her lips, but I’m not sure if it’s at George, or me, or both of us.

“Seriously?”

“We’re both adults here,” George assures her. “I’ve seen a woman’s ass before.”

“You better not tell anyone about this!” she grits out as she undoes the button of her shorts.

“I don’t think anyone would believe me,” George laughs as he runs a wide palm down his face. I know he’s acting like he’s just doing this to mend her cut, but he’s going to enjoy this as much as me. Charlotte has an ass that makes a man want to slap it. Even a dead man. George’s knee shakes and it dawns on me how f*cked up this situation is. My brother and I are both getting a chub by watching a girl pull her shorts down.

Charlotte wiggles her shorts down, hissing as the waist slides over her cut, until they’re just past the curve of her cheeks before bending over the desk, arching her back so her rear sticks up slightly. The room is dead silent. Even though she’s facing away from us, I know she did this on purpose by the way her lips are curved. She’s trying to torture us. It’s working. George’s lack of breathing is definitely noticeable. Her right cheek has a rather large gash on it, but even so, her ass looks amazing. And . . . she’s wearing a G-string.

George scoots up in his chair, attempting to adjust his hard-on without being obvious. This situation is all kinds of f*cked up. I should probably leave because Charlotte might be uncomfortable, but . . . no. That’s not happening.

“Is it bad?” Charlotte places her forehead to the desk; embarrassed.

George takes out some antiseptic wipes and says, “This is going to sting a little.” With that, he begins to rub around the area before dabbing the cut itself. As soon as the wipe makes contact with her wound, she hisses and lurches forward; her body tensing. George just stares at her ass. Jesus Christ, we’re some sick f*cks. Why was that so f*cking hot? I know he’s thinking it, too. He’s my twin. I can read him like an open book.

“It f*cking stings!” Charlotte bites out as she pushes her ass back out, almost daring the pain to return.

“Sorry,” George finally manages, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.