Shit, Snow, you’re killin’ me.
“It’s a bad habit I have, makin’ things worse.”
“Gerard doesn’t think so.”
“What the hell does he know?” I bark right in her face. His opinion means jackshit, and if he were standing here right now, I’d spit on him.
I suck in a collective breath. My father is a sensitive subject. As sensitive as igniter fluid near a chemical fire. He’s the last thing I want to think or worry about. It’s Kira who needs my full attention. “Let’s talk, Snow.” I tug on her arm. Once I concentrate on it, I realize just how delicate and soft her skin is beneath my fingertips.
Kira is hesitant to move, or speak, or even breathe apparently. My little outburst must have spooked her.
“Don’t be scared. You came to me for help, so let’s see if I can help you.”
I can tell she’s calculating her decision. She doesn’t trust me. Not one bit. Maybe that’s a good thing, for the both of us.
It will force her to keep her distance, and remind me to keep mine.
For now.
“I don’t know who I can trust. I’m starting to even doubt myself.”
I’m torn in so many directions when I look at this woman. My attraction to her is wild. My resentment toward her fierce, and my curiosity is slowly raking me over hot coals because I want to know more. I want to know more about her, about her life with my estranged father, and why she thinks someone is following her. A smart man would just walk away and never look back. Actually, a smart man would seduce the fuck out of the vulnerable woman standing half-naked in front of him, get his rocks off, and then ghost.
Consequences be damned.
But I’m too glutton for punishment to do that. I’m also afraid if I have her once, I’ll want her again. And again, and again.
“Let’s talk.” I remove my hands from her, giving her all the space she needs. All the space both of us need.
“I should put on some clothes.” She tightens the towel around her.
“I’m cool with what you’re wearing.”
Kira shakes her head. “Sit at the kitchen table. I’ll be right back.”
“Is that that long glass thing that looks like it seats twenty?”
“That would be the one.” She nods, heading out of the room.
I meander through the first floor. It’s one big, white, palatial floorplan, and I take a seat right at the head of the table. I slink down into the colorless, modern chair that is surprisingly more comfortable than it looks. I gaze down the length of the table, and anger sneaks up on me. How many times has he sat here? How many breakfasts and dinners has he shared with his new, shiny family? Or with high-profile, LA snobs he used to talk all kinds of shit about?
I clench my fists over and over until the blood turns my knuckles red. I hate this place. I fucking hate him.
“Drink?” Kira suddenly shoves a beer bottle in my face.
“Yes.” I grab it straight away, pop the top, and take a swig before she even has a chance to sit. I read the label as the familiar tang passes over my taste buds. I guess some things don’t change. Same piss, different establishment.
Kira takes a sip of her beer meekly. No, not meekly, politely. I have to recognize the difference. The women I’m used to don’t have such . . .etiquette.
“I didn’t take you for a Miller girl.” I chug down the beer, attempting to extinguish the rage burning like fire at the back of my throat.
“I have one every once in a while. I started drinking them on poker night.” Kira lifts one knee to her chest, and that’s when I take notice of her outfit. Ultra-short shorts and belly shirt to match. Why did she even bother to change out of the towel? It covered more.
“Poker night?” I repeat, distracted as I steal a glance at her run-on thighs. She’s definitely not wearing underwear. Nope, definitely not.
“Yeah, Gerard started it.” She smiles as she takes another sip of beer. “Him, my mom, and me. We were so terrible at first.” She laughs. “But Gerard is a good teacher.”
“That he fucking is.” I pour the amber liquid straight down my throat, resisting the urge to put my fist right through the fucking glass table. I remember all the poker nights we used to have. He started teaching me at the ripe old age of two. It was our thing, always. Even into adulthood. He had the whole club playing, and it was always us hustling everyone else. You can do that when you’re the Prez. The money never mattered all that much. It usually went back into the pot for the next game. It was us against everyone else that mattered. That made it fun. That bonded us.
