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A dark laugh rips free from my chest. I take a sip of my drink to shut it down. “Bullying? That would be your defense?”
I want to say more. To tell her she’s far too intelligent to have to stand trial for murder. Especially when she works on several construction sites where she could easily hide a body, even if it’s mine.
She blinks. No doubt surprised by how tame this conversation is by our standards. I sure as fuck am. “It worked for Betty Broderick, why not me?”
“Hmm. I could think of a few reasons why that wouldn’t work for you. First, I’m not your husband. Second, I’m pretty sure the correct word to describe what her husband did is gaslighting. Third, she didn’t get away with it.”
Her plump lips roll inward. “Right. I guess I could always dispose of the body and avoid a trial altogether.”
Smart girl. I think, but in reality, I say, “And how would you go about doing that?”
Sloane crosses her legs, drawing my attention to the smooth skin of her thighs which are on full display thanks to the short leather skirt she’s wearing. I swallow then force my eyes to look anywhere else. I’m not about to be labeled a pervert on top of being an asshole.
She leans forward. The sudden movement jostling her breasts inside the flimsy lace of her top. It’s clear she isn’t wearing a bra. Not that I’m looking. The hand resting on my leg balls into a fist as I will my gaze to stay on her face.
“Do you think I’m dumb enough to tell you, a potential victim, where I’d hide your body?”
“A potential victim?” I lean forward too, liking the spark in her gaze as she processes my proximity. “Are you planning more than one murder, Sloane?”
Her lips part. The tiny crease in between her brows growing deeper. Music pulses in the air. Drunken patrons dance less than six feet away from us. But it feels like we’re the only people in the room. Arguing with her, even in the mildest sense of the word, seems to take up all the space in my mind, making everyone else disappear from my focus.
“Maybe.” She sits back in her seat, crossing her arms underneath her breasts. “James is high on my list after the stunt he pulled yesterday.”
There’s a new heat to her words. The playful teasing from a second ago is a thing of the past. Absently, I wonder if she did this on purpose. Lured me into a seemingly playful conversation, just to bring it all back to James fucking Robinson and his overpriced hotel.
I should have more polite thoughts for my new client who’s paying through the nose for me to bring a team in at the last minute to complete the last two floors of his hotel renovation, but two things are stopping me from doing that.
First, there’s the issue with the contractor. Yesterday, I suggested him quitting with only ten weeks left in the project was somehow Sloane’s fault, but that was just me trying to piss her off. It was evident to me from the moment I met Robinson that he’s the cause of the issues plaguing his hotel venture, and speaking to Issac, the former contractor, only solidified that fact for me. The guy is rich, demanding, and unrealistic when it comes to timelines.
And then there’s the issue of the way he looked at Sloane when she came strutting into his office yesterday. His hungry eyes devoured her from head to toe in a split second. Like he knew what she looked like naked.
My vision went red. Burning rage creeping up my throat that I had to push back just so I could form a coherent sentence. Anger seeping beneath my skin as a question I had no right to ask bounced around my brain: What the fuck is going on with them?
The real question, the voice in my head reminded me, is why the hell do you care?
And I didn’t have an answer for that question, or at least not one I could admit to myself, so I pushed the entire thing out of my mind. Now, she’s forcing me to think about it again. His name falling from her lips hits me in my gut. Coaxing the anger I fucked into Kristen last night right back to the surface.
“Plotting on your boyfriend? Now that you might get away with.” I toss the rest of my drink back, returning the heat of her question with my own fire.
Sloane’s brows dip inward and then she rolls her eyes dramatically. “James isn’t my boyfriend, Dominic. Maybe you two can work something out when you’re sharing a grave though. You know, since he’s your best friend and all.”
She tosses her head to the side and arches a brow at me. I want to laugh in her pretty face. James Robinson will never be a friend of mine. Especially if he keeps saying her name like she’s a goddess whose alter he worships at every night.
Why do you care how he says her name? She doesn’t belong to you.
I exhale roughly. Thinking about her and Robinson is making my fucking chest tight, but the nagging voice in my head is right again. Sloane Kent does not belong to me, and I shouldn’t give a damn about who she is or isn’t fucking. Technically, she’s a single woman, and we aren’t friends. Hell, with Eric gone, we aren’t even sort-of family.
Then let it go, Nic.
“Is it going to be like this for the next two and a half months?”
She glowers at me. “It doesn’t have to be. You could call James tomorrow and tell him you’re no longer interested in the project.”
Something that looks a lot like hope edges into her eyes. Too bad for her, I’m about to stomp all over it. Lifting my hand, I wave the waitress over and place an order for another round of drinks. When we’re alone again, I turn to her.
“Not happening.”
Her shoulders sag a bit. It’s a small movement, one another person wouldn’t catch, but I do because I’ve spent a long time watching her. Acquiring an intimate knowledge of her facial expressions, body language, and the things that make her tick. Knowing all the right buttons to hit, that’s what makes fucking with her so much fun.
