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Her face pales and she tries harder to keep her plastic smile in place. If there’s anything Susan hates more than lack of attention and money, it’s putting her fake social façade in jeopardy.
She must’ve forgotten that, during the few weeks I spent sleeping like a distorted version of a mummy, Gwen asked Nate to file a restraining order against my dear stepmother out of fear that she’d cause me physical harm while I was in the coma.
Which was smart. This woman is not above injecting acid in my veins. She’d even take pictures with my corpse and safeguard them as precious memories.
One of my few regrets about that unfortunate coma, aside from Nate romancing my daughter, is giving this woman a pause.
Susan steals a peek at the horde of crooked journalists watching our every move.
“This isn’t over, devil,” she hisses under her breath, then leaves in a cloud of pink, revolting rose perfume, and horrible memories.
I empty the contents of my glass in one go, then slide it across the counter toward the bartender who seems to have been waiting for a nuclear war to erupt.
He nods, appearing half-fearful, half-disappointed, before pouring the amber liquid.
I retrieve my Zippo and flip it open, and it’s like I can breathe the pungent smell of Dad’s cigar. He used to have a peculiar liking for the finer things, including women, wine, and cigars.
Mom ordered this special edition gold Zippo for his birthday when I was about five. I remember his joy and how he only used it to light his cigars.
How my mother smiled with pride and muted happiness.
Until she didn’t.
Until he threw the Zippo, along with her clothes out on the lawn, when he kicked her out of the house.
Until she held this damn object in her hand during the last moments of her life.
This Zippo is a reminder of my father’s betrayal, my mother’s vain hopes, and her short life.
I grab the new glass of whiskey, intent on drinking it and leaving. My mission for the night is done, and I can go back home, hit the bag for an hour or so, and pretend the house doesn’t feel like a cemetery without Gwen in it.
It’s been two days since her wedding and she’s called me only once a day. Apparently, she can’t find time for me now that she’s on her honeymoon.
I pause with the glass halfway to my mouth when I spot an infuriatingly familiar mane of red hair. It’s the color of erupting volcanos, furious embers, and Satan’s favorite wallpaper.
Aspen stands in the middle of a group of men, listening in to what I’m sure is nonsense. She’s wearing a black dress that molds against her voluptuous curves in a “you can look, but you can’t touch” kind of way.
She holds a flute of champagne with the elegance of an ancient goddess and smiles with feigned interest.
Aspen might have inherited her ancestors’ wickedness, but she also got their soul-shattering beauty. The type they used to lure men and feast on their livers, hearts, and dicks.
She has the type of presence that steals everyone’s attention. And it has little to do with her defined cheekbones that could cut stones, the way her eyes reflect both the earth and the sun, or how her full lips would look perfect with a dick in them.
It’s her confidence, her finesse, and her infuriating determination.
She’s a hellion and the worst part—she knows it and wears it like a crown.
And while she’s not my type now, I can see why young me used his dick for brain energy when he hooked up with her.
She’s a puzzle any man would want to solve.
A wild horse they’d strive to tame.
That’s what the sorry fucks who are eating her with their eyes are currently trying to do. Unfortunately for them, she chews on their testosterone for breakfast.
She nods, excusing herself from their King Arthur-like circle, discreetly checks her surroundings, then makes her way to the stairs.
I don’t think about it as I abandon my glass on the counter and follow after her.
