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“Wanna take a picture, babe? It’ll last longer.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, I just have a healthy sexual appetite and I must say…” I tease, slowly making my way toward the bed. New strategy: distraction. “It’s been a while since I’ve been fed.” You know, distract him away from the fact that I just got caught checking him out, but the way his eyes haven’t moved from mine and the way his shoulders are jiggling from laughter, I’d say I’m not winning. I’m beginning to realize I very rarely win when it comes to him, too.
“Get changed.” He nudges his head toward the closet, breaking through that fucking laugh.
“Why? Where we going?” I brush off, trying not to sound offended by his blatant rejection.
He walks into the closet. “Stop asking questions.”
11
I should have asked more questions. Stepping out of the car, I close the passenger door. “Where are we?” We drove around for an hour out of the city, and again, I definitely should have asked more questions because this building is… strange. The structure had to be built in the early twenties—maybe before then. The old brick looks to be held together by green moss, and the old Victorian windows are framed by white wood. It’s elegant, yet a little disturbing.
Bryant shuts off his Audi Q7 right outside the large concrete steps that lead up to equally wide twin doors. There’s a little doorknocker that hangs off it, carved as a lion’s head. Ha. Perfect. Fits the creepy house to a T.
“So where’d you bring me? Don’t tell me you married me, let me off on your brother’s…” I look around, uncomfortable with talking about it so openly. “You know… all for you to bring me here and kill me…”
He quirks an eyebrow and grins cockily, putting a cigarette between his teeth. He sparks it, and then blows the smoke out slowly, walking around the car toward me. “You know damn well you are too expensive to kill.” He winks at me and then nudges his head. “Ready to have lunch with the olds?”
Oh Lord.
Okay, now I wish it was a torture house. Now, I know I said how lovely his parents are, but I would still prefer a little warning. The prick obviously knew that.
“Uhhh…” I answer absently, and when he leaves me in the dust by heading to the front door, I quickly catch up to him. Since the wedding day, I’ve noticed a slight change in Bryant. He’s not being as cold as usual, and I don’t know if that’s all part of his plan, but I’m not going to complain. If only he could break and give me more sex. I mean, we had sex last night—yes, but I’m a girl with needs, very demanding needs, and I’m seriously in need right now. His hands running down my navel—
“Isa!” he snaps at me from the top of the stairs.
“Coming.” I walk up toward him, clearing my throat from my quite obvious daydream.
He grins down at me, right when the front doors swing open. “What were you thinking about just now?”
I look up into his eyes, searching their dark green depths. “I—”
“Son!” his mom greets with open arms. Because the wedding went so fast, I don’t remember either of his parent’s names and I feel terrible for it. I’m hoping Bryant introduces us again or, I get a random outburst of remembering.
“Mother.” Bryant hugs his mom, and I see the side of his eyes soften at her embrace. Looking back toward his father, I see him smile at me, but it doesn’t have quite the same warm effect as when Bryant’s mother smiles at me.
“Isa.” He gives me a curt nod, rather formally.
I reply with a soft smile. “Hello.”
“Isa, oh I’m so excited. I found a whole bunch of old baby photos as I was clearing out some old things in the attic,” Bryant’s mom announces as she ushers me into the house.
My eyes go wide as I peek a look over my shoulder at Bryant, unable to stop his persistent mother from dragging me into the house. His mom is not what you’d expect from a rich family. Not saying that most rich families are snobby, but her son is, and eighty percent of the wealthy population tend to have gold cactus launched up their asses. It’s why I love Devon and my little life in New Orleans so much.
I chuckle under my breath with found realization at how uncomfortable Bryant must be what with his mom showing me his baby photos and all.
She gestures into the vast living room where couches are sprawled out tidily. It’s cozy, warm, and inviting—not so much how I interpreted it from the outside. “Have a seat, Isa. I’m so sorry that we didn’t get much time to chat after the wedding.” She takes a seat on the sofa opposite me and crosses her legs at her ankles. Despite the fact that I was raised in a wealthy home and my father is who he is, good, or even decent, etiquette has never been my strong suit. Or any suit. In fact, I don’t wear suits, I wear ripped jeans and tanks, and by my memory, my legs are open more than they’re crossed. Especially by my ankles.
