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“Kill her,” I tell him. “Kill her, or I fucking will.”
“You’ll do no such fucking thing. Did she kill your fucking imaginary puppy? Stop being such a child and go home to your fucking wife.” He releases himself from my hold and walks off, the knife dropping down to my side as I watch him leave.
“Fuck you, you fucking cunt.” He turns and quickly strides back to me, where he puts his hands around my throat. “Do it! Fucking do it! I fucking dare you to do it. I don’t fucking care if I live.”
His hands drop as he shakes his head. “Sleep it off, Joey. Don’t make me come back down here while my wife and children are sleeping. I can assure you that you won’t like that side of me. Drink until you pass out, I don’t fucking care. But tomorrow when I wake up, you better not be here.” He leaves, and I reach for the closest bottle of anything and down the entire thing.
Happy fucking wedding day to me.
EIGHTEEN
ADORA
He wasn’t there when I arrived last night. But did I really expect him to be? I’ve pissed him off, and out of the lot of them, he seems like the calmest.
I ended up passing out on his couch, curled up in my wedding dress. And that’s where I am when the door flings open this morning and he walks in, still dressed in his suit and looking worse for wear. His eyes find me and drag them down over my body, slow and deliberate. I’m about to smile until a sour expression touches his lips.
Joey shakes his head and continues past me without saying a word.
I thought when I willingly gave him something of me last night, I was trying, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate the gesture and that just makes me mad. How fucking cold and ruthless does someone have to be to not want their wife as she lies on a bed, and he watches her come.
Fuck this.
Hiking my dress up, I get off the couch and stalk up the stairs to his bedroom—the room I’m meant to share with him. When I enter, I hear the shower running in the en suite, and I almost stop myself from barging in. Crunching my dress in one hand, I push the bathroom door open with the other. Steam fogs up the mirror and the glass of the shower door, but I can just make out his form. He has his head leaned against the tiles, body under the spray, and he’s breathing heavily.
Is he angry?
Frustrated?
I don’t know him well enough to tell, but I know he isn’t pleased.
“It’s rude to leave your wife after she comes, wouldn’t you say?”
He doesn’t even react to the sound of my voice, and at first, I think he might be asleep. I’ve never met someone who can stand and sleep at the same time, but his breathing picks up, getting heavier.
“Joey.”
“What.”
I try not to ogle him, but, I mean, his ass is right there. However, we need to talk, so I try to keep my eyes above his waist.
I throw my hands up in the air, but he doesn’t see me. “Did you not hear a word I just said?”
“The other room is yours. I suggest you go to it and leave me the fuck alone.” Again, his voice is rough, but he doesn’t turn around to face me as he speaks.
“I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, Joey, so maybe you should change your fucking attitude.” Just before I turn to leave, he finally faces me, and I stop dead. He has a perfect body. He’s chiseled in places I didn’t even know a man could be chiseled. His sides look like they have abs—how is that even possible? And his six-pack sits just above a perfect V that leads to a beautiful cock. I’ve seen my fair share of cocks, and his is definitely beautiful. My eyes drag along his skin, taking in several random tattoos over his legs and a few on his hands. When my gaze returns to his face, he’s watching me.
Those icy blue eyes are locked on me, but not in a friendly way. He’s staring at me as if I’m the worst person to have ever graced this earth, and if his eyes could kill me, they would. This is the part when I probably should back away and give him space, but no one ever claimed I was a smart girl. I’m fucking mad. I’m mad that he thinks he can be angry at me for a situation I don’t even want to be in.
“Should I change my fucking attitude?”
He throws his head back and laughs and then it stops as fast as it began. “Never. I think you should be a good little slut and come in here and suck my fucking cock.” He pauses to smirk, but he isn’t finished yet. “Or just be a good fucking little wife… either or will do.”
“How fucking dare you.” My feet are moving before I can even stop myself, and now I’m standing in the shower, the front of my dress getting soaked. We’re toe to toe now, and I can only imagine his smirk is meant to communicate a thought of what the fuck are you gonna do about it?
“What are you going to do about it, darling?”
Huh, maybe I can read him better than I thought?
