Free Lies of the Stepbrothers: Billionaire Stepbrothers Romance (2 Wicked Stepbrothers, 1 Innocent Girl Book 3) by Stephanie Brother Page A

myself.
    I always get what I want.
    So I’ll roam the streets, if I have to. I’ll sleep in this dark alleyway, if it brings me closer to my goal. I’ll ignore the trash that litters it – be it people or garbage, it’s all the same to me.
    I pull my hoodie over my face, shielding it from the curious onlookers. I hide, because I don’t want to be found.
    Not just yet.

Chapter 2
    3 months later
    My life has changed, and not for the better. I'm a man of the streets now, claiming one corner in particular for my own. I snarl at other homeless people who walk by, desperate to keep at least this small piece of the sidewalk as my only possession.
    Sometimes I'm fed, but more often, I'm hungry. I eat when I have the money, or when someone gives me a sandwich, takes pity on me. And instead of feeling grateful I'm consumed by the red mist, angered that someone would think I need help.
    However, I really do.
    I'm not a man that can take care of himself. I've been shielded by my father, and later, by my brother, and I've never had to work a day in my life.
    Now, I know going back to anywhere where Blane might find me is too risky. So I stay here.
    At first, I tried to find a job, but it proved to be useless. No one is hiring, and since I didn't even have a shower, they wouldn't take me as a bartender or something similar.
    So I've started doing the one thing I've always been good at.
    I'm selling my art. If you can call these diluted, boring, de-personalized pieces art.
    I am good at this, and I know it. But if you want to sell, you have to suit the needs of your buyer. And my buyers, people on the street - tourists and moms with strollers - probably don't want to buy paintings of a ripped open, stripped naked Emme.
    Which is all I seem to be able to paint at the moment.
    So I've settled for landscapes, even an odd portrait. But with every brush stroke, I have to stop myself from smearing red across the canvas. The color calls to me, begging to be used. The people's faces asking for me to split their lip, gauge an eye out.
    I fight all of those instincts, and then some, because there's still only one thing on my mind.
    Revenge.
    I make my first painting with things I find in the garbage of an art supply store, and it sells the same day. Pretty soon, I have a reputation, and people gather around my corner to see my newest works.
    I don't ever tell them my real name.
    Never look them in the eye.
    I just take their money until I have a small stash in my pocket, the wad of paper notes getting thicker each day. But it's still not enough, because most of these people are just watchers. They don't buy shit, just stand around, admiring this and that.
    As much as I want to smash their faces in, I prevent myself from doing so. Instead I smile politely, inquire what they like, try to get in their heads. Convince them I'm the next big thing.
    ***
    It's just another day, the same as every one in my routine. I'm not selling today, instead fighting a hangover from two bottles of cheap wine I had the previous night.
    I am not an alcoholic.
    But there is no denying the fact - there's a certain kind of calmness at the bottom of each bottle. And pretty soon, they are becoming the only way I can fight back the red mist.
    I'm slumped on my corner, the wind howling through the streets, but just then, it stops. And in the same second, my time stops still as well.
    Because on the other side of the road, the one with the fancy shops with expensive things in the mirror, is a couple strolling by, their laughter soft and sweet, their conversation friendly. But the man's hand on the small of the woman's back suggest there's more to their relationship, especially when his palm wanders downward, toward her buttocks.
    The couple are Emme and Blane.
    They're walking by only a few feet away from me, not even noticing me. I immediately feel the red mist settling over me and I spit on the sidewalk, snarling at the sight of them.
    They made me this way.
    They sent me