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“I’m fine.” She takes another ornery sip. “Quit fussin’ over me and focus on this shindig.”
“This shindig is bullshit.”
No, it’s hell.
A hell I won’t back down from. No way I’d miss this confrontation with Redix, no matter how he left me in pieces.
“No, it’s part of this island’s game, and you know how to win it.” Mama raises her chin, considering the swanky ballroom full of Hilton Head Island’s biggest players. “Smile pretty for these bow tie-wearing, golf-club swinging, rich men in God-awful madras pants, and you can get away with murder… like they try to do.”
Redix didn’t wear madras tonight.
No, he’s proudly freeballing in tuxedo pants, making my mouth water. I mutter, “Madras pants shrivel my dick.”
Mama cackles, patting my hand again. “Not as much as bow ties shrivel mine.”
Our inside jokes. Our crass mouths. I can’t live without her.
Please, God, give me more time with her.
Okay, fine, I’ve been making lots of deals with heaven and hell, so why break a bad habit?
But after six years on the police force, I know Mama’s right. Madras pants or khakis—not all these men are as innocent as their attire.
I resisted it at first. Fighting like mad, I went in the opposite direction of my mama. All the boys who bullied me, calling me “giraffe.” All the adults who cooed, “You’re so pretty you should be a model.” Well, far be it from me to ever listen, but I did.
I spent a decade in that hellacious industry. What else can you do when you’re thirteen and soaring to five feet ten? Because like hell if I was playing basketball.
But after what happened. To me? To Redix? I became just like my mama—the law because I want justice.
And apparently, I still want Redix Dean.
Because my pulse is racing, my cheeks are flushed. My thighs are weak. My pussy wants to put on these Christian Louboutin heels herself and walk the runway to him and jump his dumbass, sexy bones.
But my heart won’t budge. It’s barely holding back the tears stinging to fall. What’s even worse? I can feel Redix feet away, laughing.
Is it at me?
“Are you gonna work the room?” Mama tries scratching, unseen, at the brunette wig itching her scalp. “You got seven pairs of eyes on you; three sets I know you’re watching too.”
“No.” Facing straight ahead, I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll make them come to me.”
Finally, my target steps into view from behind that damn centerpiece. That smirk on his face? It’s for me. His grasp controls his wife’s body, but his eyes are fucking mine.
That evil man deserves to choke blood on a magnolia flower.
That stain? I’d scrub it myself with my toothbrush from this carpet.
Uncrossing my long legs, I pour one back over the other. The attention it draws. The heat of his stare sliding up my bare calves. It’s been a long time since I wore this dress with these heels.
So fuck Redix Dean.
If he thinks he can come back after ten years, strolling barefoot in his tux across this ballroom, smiling while every asshole on Hilton Head Island toasts his charitable contributions... he can suck it.
Laugh all he wants; he’s watching me.
This outfit is driving him wild with tender memories. The Hervé Léger vintage purple bandage dress wraps my curves so tight; men can vacation in my cleavage. And these black heels let me tower over most in the room.
Not Redix.
