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“I’m going to spank your ass. This is almost over, and I managed to not kill him. Who knows how much longer I’ll hold.”
“Kill him, for all I care.” She still follows me, and I drop her at the entrance of the cigar room.
“Not until he signs that contract. Take a seat in there. It’s booked for us. I’m going to get the contract from the car. Can you behave for five more minutes?”
She narrows her eyes. “I’ve done nothing but behave. Can you behave?”
I ignore her, hurrying toward the exit. I can’t see Wynne by the valet service, and he’s not in the parking lot either. I somehow missed him coming back in. He must already be in the cigar room.
Alone with Kayla.
And I don’t like that one bit.
27
KAYLA
you should see me in a crown - Billie Eilish
Jerome Wynne is already sitting in a leather armchair by a fireplace.
Why would they light up the fireplace in summer?
There’s another chair near him, only separated by a small, wooden coffee table.
His legs spread before him, and he’s grabbing a cigar from a box. He smells it, hums to himself, and puts it back.
Ignoring him, I walk around the room. It’s an old money kind of room, the whole building is. There are some ugly-ass rugs on the floor and shelves full of books. Not many colors except every single shade of brown and red that’s ever existed. And wood. Lots of wood and old leather.
I bite the nail of my index finger as I look at the shelves, pretending to read book titles. It’s even harder to walk around in these heels now that they’re being swallowed by the giant rug at every step I take.
I hear him shift in his seat behind me, the leather creaking under him, and I take a book in my hands, opening it and dragging my eyes along the lines. It takes me forever to read the dedication, and I’ve already got a headache from all the wine I drank at dinner. The food was nothing like what I’ve tasted before, and I didn’t eat much of it, so the alcohol is getting to my head. No chance of reading now, but I can still pretend.
A hand lands on the book from behind me, and I startle, dropping it to the floor.
“What the f—”
His hand at the back of my neck cuts me off, and the next second, I’m plastered face first against the shelves.
My first instinct is to fight back. I raise my leg, attempting to crush his foot as I slam my heel to the floor, but I miss and instead hurt my ankle when I lose my footing from the heel’s instability.
“Fuck,” I hiss. “These fucking shoes.” The pain tearing through my ankle drags a whimper out of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s sprained. That was a very unnatural movement.
Wynne presses me harder against the shelves, and I throw my elbow back, but my strength is not much use now that I have a weakened leg and no footing. Without balance, it’s hard to throw a punch, especially to someone behind you who you can’t really see.
“How much does he pay you?” His free hand comes to the hem of my dress, and he’s already pulling it up.
“What are you doing?” I heave, my lungs suddenly freezing. “I—He’s not paying me.”
Wynne isn’t exactly a young man, probably in his late fifties, but his strength is surprising, to say the least. With my cheek against the spines of the books, he easily brings a hand to my face and wipes the foundation I put on my tattoo with his thumb.
“I’ve been seeing this shit under your makeup all night. North Shore trash suddenly married to a Stoneview resident? What are you if not a whore?”
I press my palms against the shelves, attempting to force my body back and get him off me, but my ankle screams painfully, and he easily slams me back. My head hits the edge of the shelf just above me, tearing a grunt from my chest.
“Get off me,” I bark. “I swear to god, you don’t want to fucking mess with me.”
I wish I could accompany this with a bullet to his head, or at least a knife in his chest, but I’m slightly limited in self-defense right now.
