Blake Hart
patreon
Roomies in Arms - Part 22
🕑 Added 2025-08-08 20:00:07 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
Hunter’s jet — or more likely his father’s — looked less like a plane and more like an airborne hotel lobby feng-shui’d by a Formula 1 driver with crypto sponsorships.
Glass bar. Light leather seating imported from somewhere endangered. Mood lighting that adjusted based on the drink in your hand. The word gaudy didn’t cover it — this was gold plated wealth in heatstroke.
“I thought private jets were meant to be subtle,” I muttered, running a hand over the veiny marble inlay on the champagne cart.
Asher gave me a look. “Says the man born on one.”
“That’s not—” I paused. “Okay, yes. I was. Technically.”
Lex blinked. “Wait, what?”
I sighed, settling into one of the aggressively quilted chairs. “My mother — Clara Renfield — decided, last minute, that she must give birth in London. Tradition, lineage, whatever the aristocratic excuse was. My father, of course, was in New York, trying to negotiate a bank merger and avoid being in the room wherever I was born.”
“So,” I continued, “I was born somewhere over the Atlantic. The doctor missed Heathrow by about forty-five minutes. The certificate just says ‘International Airspace.’”
Lex whistled. “Man, you’re not just posh. You’re airborne posh.”
“Thank you, I guess,” I said automatically, then winced. “Fitting it seems, at boarding school they called me the Anglo-American mutt. I suppose that sums me up. Neither quite one nor the other.”
Asher leaned forward, voice warm. “You’re no mutt, Seb.”
“Nope,” Lex said, kicking his feet up onto the table. “You’re actually more British than Asher.”
Asher laughed, the sound dry and affectionate. “Embarrassingly true.”
That settled something in me. Not everything — but enough to breathe deeper.
Across the aisle, Hunter was explaining the benefits of flying above 40,000 feet for skin hydration.
“I had the whole cabin retrofitted,” he was saying to no one in particular. “Zero-pressure moisture diffusers. NASA gel flooring. Helps with jet lag and vibe recovery.”
“Vibe recovery,” Brock echoed flatly, eyes still on a laptop.
Hunter grinned. “You say it like it’s not real, but your skin’s never looked better.”
“I’m twenty-six,” Brock replied.
“Exactly.”
I exchanged a glance with Asher, who simply sipped his water like it was gin.
Hunter turned to him with a flash of teeth. “So, Asher. Economics major. British prep. Quiet but confident. How’re you still single?”
Asher didn’t blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” Hunter continued, utterly undeterred, “you’ve got the voice, the cheekbones, the quiet judgmental vibe. It’s working for you.”
Lex muttered, “He flirts like a hedge fund.”
Asher gave a tight smile. “I prefer not to mix business and compliments from men wearing gold chain anklets.”
“Fashion is confidence,” Hunter replied. “And I’m confident we’d get along.”
Asher didn’t dignify that with an answer.
To my left, Lex nudged me lightly. “You okay?”
I nodded, then shook my head. “I don’t know. This whole thing feels… enormous. Like it’s moving too fast and I’m trying to steer a yacht with a teaspoon.”
Lex leaned closer. “You don’t have to steer it alone.”
Asher chimed in, soft but firm. “You’ve got us, Seb. We’ll meet your father together. And if he hates me on sight, I’ll just remind him I’m a Viscount’s son.”
Across the cabin, Brock closed his laptop. “We’ve got the draft papers ready. Cap table, provisional equity, SAFE structure — it’s all lined up. Meeting his father tomorrow?”
Hunter nodded. I nearly groaned.
“Seb,” Hunter said, suddenly gentler. “I know your dad’s intimidating. But this thing? Astra? It’s got legs. And I think he’ll see that. I’m betting on you.”
I blinked. It was the most sincere thing I’d heard him say since we boarded.
Lex gave me a quiet nod.
Asher met my eyes. “Let’s just get through it. After that, we can talk vibe recovery or whatever.”
And for a moment, it felt… possible.
◆◆◆
The Belgravia house was not a house.
It was a palace. Not quite in the Versailles sense — but there was fountains shaped like cherubs orgasming into urns — with the aggressively silent, oil-painted, marble-underfoot sense that made you instinctively lower your voice and stand straighter.
“Jesus,” Lex said as we walked in. “This place makes Buckingham look like a fixer-upper.”
Hunter dropped his duffel onto a velvet chaise like it was an Airbnb. “You should see the Dubai one. Has a saltwater pool just for my feet.”
“I believe you,” I said dryly, stepping over a Persian rug that likely cost more than my tuition.
“This one’s my London crash pad,” Hunter continued. “Technically it’s my dad’s, but I have squatters’ rights through trust law or something. Right, Brock?”
Brock didn’t look up from his phone. “No, it’s just your Dad’s.”
“Samsies,” Hunter said brightly, tossing his gold hoodie across a Ming-era chair.
I resisted the urge to fold it.
Asher wandered into the parlor and gazed up at the chandelier. “Did you see the nude fresco of him?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very subtle.”
We regrouped in what I suppose was the “informal” lounge. Which still had two grand pianos and a butler who looked like he could win in a fencing duel.
Hunter sprawled dramatically on a fainting couch, one arm draped like he was posing for a scandal.
“Tucker Inc HQ, Bank Junction. Tomorrow. 9 a.m. sharp. Try to look semi-capitalist. Asher and Seb, you’re good. Lex… I guess just dress him?”
I nodded. “I’ll try.”
Lex gave me a slow sidelong glance. “So… does that mean I shouldn’t wear something with cat ears on it?”
“Probably.”
Asher raised a brow and a little smirk. “ So, Bank Junction, not Winfield House?”
I shook my head. “I’m honestly surprised he didn’t try to host it there. But he likes to appear as though he separates business from his ambassadorship. Appear is the key word.”
“Right,” Asher said.
I tried not to fidget. “He’ll be evaluating everything. Hunter. Astra. Me.”
“You’ll be fine,” Asher said, with a certainty I didn’t share.
I stood. “We should get some rest.”
Hunter stretched like a lion in silk. “I call the blue suite. The bed has magnetic suspension.”
Brock followed him, still typing. “Wake-up call at seven.”
“I’ll take the one with the balcony,” Asher said, already heading upstairs.
Lex turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “So?”
I hesitated. “Separate rooms. Might be best. You know. Professional setting. Less… distraction.”
Lex shrugged. “Sure. Whatever works.”
◆◆◆
Naturally, it didn’t work.
I lay in bed — in crisp monogrammed sheets, under a gold-threaded duvet, surrounded by art that looked like it judged you for blinking — and did not sleep.
My stomach twisted. My chest buzzed. The pressure of my father’s name. Of Astra’s future. Of Lex, and what we were now, and what I was afraid to name aloud.
Eventually, I gave up.
I padded barefoot down the silent corridor, wrapped in my old tartan pajama set — the one I’d ironed to death in uni halls, the one that still smelled vaguely like lavender detergent and anxiety.
I knocked gently. Then cracked the door.
Lex lay half-awake, shirtless, one sock still on, his laptops—plural—blinking quietly beside him.
He blinked at me. “Can’t sleep?”
“No,” I admitted. “I tried. But the wallpaper keeps looking at me.”
He pulled back the blanket wordlessly.
I climbed in.
He spooned me without hesitation — warm, solid, familiar.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” he murmured against my hair. “Tomorrow’s going to go amazing.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
And for the first time in hours, my heartbeat slowed.
