Chapter 99: 99 Raincheck

Date = 14 August

Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)

POV - Enrique

The bass from downstairs fades, like even the club knows not to interrupt.

Jackson looks exhausted. Older than usual. Like he’s been dragging too many coffins through too many nights.

“I’m telling you to leave it, brother.”

“Why?”

“Because the truth doesn’t fix things. It just makes them heavier.”

We stare each other down, silence pulling taut as barbed wire. I suck in a breath, trying not to drown in the weight of it.

The clinking of glasses and the faint thump of bass from a test run on the speakers buzz in the background again, but all I can hear is my own breath. Thick. Shaky. Full of the kind of weight that only comes from decades of being lied to.

Jackson moves back to his seat. As if the topic is done.

“You wonder if he knows about us?” I ask quietly, also sitting down again.

Jackson, across from me, doesn’t move at first. He is messing with the tablet, pretending he hasn’t heard. But I see the way his shoulders tense — just a flicker, like a pulse in a vein.

“Our real father,” I clarify, when he doesn’t answer.

He sets the tablet down. Slowly. Deliberately. Then rubs the back of his neck with both hands like he can wring the truth out of his skin. “He doesn’t.”

I blinked at him. “You’re sure?”

He inclines his head — the elegant little motion of someone used to being believed. “Yes,” he says, like certainty is breathing for him.

“So Alexander did it all behind everyone’s backs. Paid the doctor. Swapped the sperm. Classic soap opera villain shit,” I state the facts.

That gets a muscle ticking in his jaw. I lean forward.

Silence. He studies me like I’m an interruption. I continue my apparent monologue. “So we’re the bargain-chip-children of some guy who doesn’t know we exist.”

Jackson looks up, expression bored but absolute.

“Fuck,” I whisper, dragging my palms down my face. “Are we gonna tell him?”

He gives me that look — that frustrating, unreadable, too-damn-smart look that always makes me want to shove him into a freezer.

“No.” He sizes me up like I’m a joke.

I straighten. “No?”

Jackson shrugs one shoulder. Like, we are talking about forgetting to buy milk. “Don’t feel like it.”

I gape. “Are you —? Why?”

He looks away. “Because Alexander did it to elevate himself. To create … leverage. We’re leverage, Enrique. A weapon. That man never wanted us. No need to ruin his family.”

I let that settle between us. The weight of it makes my stomach turn.

Power. We are born out of a power grab. Not love. Not family planning. Not even an accident.

Just … strategy.

“What if we swap one monster for another?” he says.

Jackson’s eyes cut to mine, steel and practiced calm. His jaw clenches. “We have enough shit … don’t need more.”

That stops me.

The idea that my brother — who spent our entire lives digging into every dirty secret, every locked door, every unspoken truth — suddenly doesn’t want to look for the one person who could tell us who we are? That rattles me more than any name will.

And I hate that he’s right … again. If this person is that powerful and dangerous that Alexander feared him … he can’t be a fucking saint.

I take another sip of the nasty coffee. Stare into the light flickering off the gold-framed mirror.

“So what now?” I ask softly. “We just go the rest of our lives not knowing who our father is? Not telling him he has sons?”

Jackson crosses his arms, lips pressed into a line. “Would you want to show up and be like, ‘Surprise! You have twin sons because you jacked off into a cup and someone paid a doctor to play switcheroo twenty-four years ago’?”

If one puts it like that …

“Fair,” I mutter. “Still. It sucks.”

“Maybe we can stalk him?” I think out loud.

His smile is a blade. “And that’s why I keep things to myself.”

“No,” I murmur, “you like keeping secrets … treat them as if they have feelings.”

He smirks faintly. “They do.”

There’s a silence between us. Charged. Unspoken.

“You know —” I say finally, “— if we ever do group therapy again, you’re going first.”

Jackson lifts his head, slow and bored.

“No thanks,” he mutters. “Therapists are nosy. Besides … I found my own little trauma counselor.” He smiles knowingly. Like a man in love.

“She’s hot. When she doesn’t speak,” I tease.

Jackson shoots me a look sharp enough to cut skin. I don’t think about it — I lean forward and haul him into a rough, chest-bumping hug, slapping his back harder than necessary, like maybe I can knock loose the walls he builds around himself.

He stiffens, then grudgingly hugs me back for all of two seconds before shoving me off as if I’ve infected him.

“Gross,” he mutters, swiping his shirt where I touched him. “You smell like nervous sweat and poor life choices.”

“Yeah? Well, you smell like morning sex and secrets.”

That earns me the barest twitch of his mouth. He flicks his eyes down at his watch, like he’s bored already. He gets up.

“Midday sex,” he corrects dryly. “Now that can work for me.”

I roll my eyes, but the thought doesn’t sound half-bad. He catches the flicker of my smirk and snorts, already stalking toward the door.

“Enjoy, asshole,” I call after him, “And remember you’re my best man tomorrow!”

“I’ll wear a tie.”

“A peach one,” I fire back.

He glances over his shoulder with a grimace. “What the hell is it with you and this peach obsession?”

“That’s my secret,” I grin.

His brows arch, a silent you’re-ridiculous, before another snort breaks out of him.

“Fantastic. I’ll be wearing a fucking peach tie.” His tone is grim, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.

I gasp. “Do I smell character growth?”

“Don’t push your luck.” He waves me off with a flick of his hand, halfway into the shadows.

“Jackson.”

He stops. Doesn’t turn.

My voice comes out rough. “Do you think our real dad would’ve liked us?”

The silence stretches until I almost regret asking. Almost.

Finally, his voice drifts back, low and raw, carrying more weight than he probably meant it to.

“I think he would like you.” A beat. His shoulders tense. “Me … I’m not so sure.”

Then he disappears into the dark hallway, leaving the door cracked. I stand there alone — with answers, half-answers, and a whole new set of questions gnawing at my ribs.

Should we tell him after all this time? Will he accept us? Could he be a monster? Does he have a family? Do we have other siblings?

I shake my head and turn my thoughts to something more pleasant.

My phone buzzes on the counter with a low, demanding hum — just enough to interrupt the daydream I’m very invested in, one that involves Aria, a dressing room, and my zipper in peril.

I glance at the screen.

Ilkay.

The other secret-keeping fucktart. He knew about this whole our-father-is-not-our-real-father business too.

I answer. “Hi, bro.”

There’s a faint crackle of airport noise on the other end, followed by his eternally calm voice. “Dude. Just letting you know — I landed in Chicago. Catching a connecting flight tonight. I’ll be in San Francisco by five a.m. Send someone non-sarcastic.”

“Wait — so you’re actually coming?” I say, trying not to sound like I’m about to cry or propose to him.

“In the flesh,” he replies evenly. “Unless this next flight goes down, and then I’ll be there in spirit. And probably all over the headlines.”

I snort. “Rega not good enough for a connecting rescue?”

“Not our jurisdiction. And I’m technically on vacation,” he says. “But don’t tell the Alps. They’re possessive.”

He couldn’t make it to Kiara’s funeral. He was in the mountains saving some dumbass who fell into a glacier. Watched the funeral on Zoom, in full dress uniform, standing in a supply room next to boxes labeled ‘Emergency Llama Feed’ or something equally Swiss.

He didn’t say it, but I knew it ate him up. This? Him showing up for the wedding? It means something.

“Five a.m.,” I repeat, just to be sure I heard him right. “So I will assign one of the minions to go collect your jetlagged ass from the airport.”

“Precisely. Don’t be late.”

I lean against the doorway now, lowering my voice. “It’ll be good to have you here. For the wedding.”

“I’m staying for the birth too … made a promise to Mel.” Always a man to keep his promises. A man you can trust. And I almost forgot my sister is due in a week or two.

“We’ve … missed you.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Ditto.”

And that’s all we need to say. Because feelings are hard, and we’re still Blackburns.

Then — classic Ilkay — he adds, “Also, I’m bringing chocolate. Real Swiss chocolate. I expect applause.”

“You’ll get kisses,” I say. “But they won’t be from me.”

“Even better. See you soon.”

The line goes dead. And I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, thinking — my brother’s coming home.

But the second that wave of warmth passes, my brain shifts hard left — straight back to Aria. And all the things I could be doing to her if walls and moral expectations didn’t surround me.

I glance around. No River. No Luke. No Lili.

No Mel.

No humans in general.

The sun is warm. The club is quiet. All the staff are gone. Only the people who know about the wedding are decorating.

The afternoon is long. And Aria must be in one of the private booths, wearing that tank top that commits crimes against my self-control, sorting out the bouquets for the bridal party.

A midday quickie sounds — frankly — like a medical necessity. A blowoff behind the velvet curtain of a private booth? A full-on floral arrangement session with bonus tongue action?

Yes, please. I deserve this. I’ve been so good. No lies today. Only mild manipulation. And I didn’t even punch Jackson.

Growth.

With each step, my dick goes harder. Like just the thought of her summons it into action.

Aria is in the corner booth, surrounded by buckets of roses and peonies, her hair tied up in a messy knot that’s already driving me insane. She’s hunched over the bouquets like she’s arranging national security codes instead of flowers, muttering something about symmetry and ‘peach, not apricot’.

Perfect. She’s distracted.

I slip behind her like a snake in Gucci sneakers, wrap my arms around her waist, and kiss the side of her neck. “You smell like heaven and high-stress creativity,” I whisper.

She doesn’t jump. She never does. She just keeps fussing with a ribbon. “You’re about to smell like eucalyptus and regret if you mess up this arrangement.”

“But what if we take a small break?” I murmur, lips brushing her ear. “Five minutes. Ten if you’re generous. I won’t even ask for full nudity. Just partial. Tastefully scandalous.”

“Are you seriously trying to seduce me during flower hour?”

“Yes,” I say, already kissing down her throat. “Because you’re hot and I’m depraved and we’re getting married tomorrow and I haven’t sinned enough today.”

She chuckles, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating against my chest. “No sex before the wedding.”

I silently curse the sadistic bastard who invented that rule. Probably some dried-up monk with nothing better to do than ruin my life.

“Fine,” I murmur, dragging my mouth along her jaw. “Then I’ll settle for a quick blowjob. That doesn’t count as sex.”

Her breath catches — sweet and sharp, like I just struck a match too close to gasoline. Her hand drifts lower, grazing the edge of my waistband, sliding closer, making my pulse jackhammer in my throat.

And just as her fingers slide over my bloomer — someone shouts.

“ENRIQUE!”

Lili’s voice. Urgent. Full-blown emergency tone.

I freeze. Aria pulls away, sighing dramatically, and steps out of my arms like a goddess who has too much dignity for public sex, even in a booth surrounded by peonies and questionable lighting.

Fuck. So close.

“WHAT?!” I call out, rearranging myself with the quiet despair of a man robbed of joy.

Then River barrels into the room like a wild porcupine with hair gel. “It’s Luke!” she shouts. “He’s been a moron again!”

I glance around, scanning for their guards — and then it hits me. Right. Mel gave them the day off. Against Jackson’s will, naturally. But no one goes against a heavily pregnant sister with swollen ankles, an ironclad glare, and the emotional range of a Shakespearean thunderstorm.

Not even the devil himself.

“What did he do?” I choke.

“He fed the tarantula!” Lili screams behind her. “A spider buffet!”

“He said it needed to feel emotionally safe!” River adds.

“What tarantula?!” I demand, my brain still running on fumes — most of my blood has taken an express trip south, leaving very little up there for rational thought.

“Petunia,” Luke says smugly, walking up like he didn’t just ruin my afternoon boner. “I read that they like to choose their food.”

“It’s a spider,” I shout.

He shrugs. “Spiders are just misunderstood creatures.”

“You are ALL misunderstood creatures,” I snap.

“And now she’s missing!” Lili wails.

“She’s what?!” My brain flatlines.

River nods solemnly. “Luke put all these different bugs on a plate on the kitchen counter for her to try.”

“It was a decent spread … worms, crickets, stinkbugs, termites, a rat and a squirrel …” Luke sneers, still proud. I briefly wonder how he acquired all of that — and then decide ignorance is not only bliss, but the answer will absolutely ruin the rest of my already ruined day.

“Now, Petunia and her food are somewhere in the penthouse,” Lili informs with a huge eyeroll.

“The food’s alive?” Somewhere. In. The. Penthouse.

“Yes!” Lili and River shout at once.

I groan and longingly look back at my fiancée — her sexy mouth and dirty morals, and possibly a wet, hungry pussy. She smirks and pats my cheek. “Raincheck?”

I close my eyes and whisper to the gods of sex and sanity — “Why do you hate me?”

“Why isn’t Petunia at home in her cage?” Aria asks, brow furrowed as she eyes the suspicious trio.

The kids exchange a long, guilty glance, then all three simultaneously look down at the floor like it has suddenly become fascinating.

“We just wanted to take good care of her until Leyla gets out of the hospital,” River says with a dramatic pout, then promptly shoots Luke a scathing glare — as if world hunger, climate change, and this current disaster were all his doing. “But stupid boys ruin everything.”

I adjust my shirt, straighten my spine, and march off, following the chaotic children who certainly do not belong to me, but somehow always ruin my moments.

Taking a deep breath, I call my brothers for backup … to face the spider and her undead spread.