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“Of?” he asks, tossing the cube back into the bowl, bored with it.
“Of life.”
“The cube is unbeatable.” He lifts his brow.
“It’s supposed to be.”
“Didn’t take you for a loser, Aldridge.”
“I am the cube in this situation, Reed.” I mimic his flippant tone. “Life is the player.”
A satisfied grin spreads across his face. He looks like a wolf, only more deadly. “Or, in this case, Priscilla.”
His wanting to talk about Payton right now and asking these types of questions is grating on my nerves. We need to talk about work.
Not girls.
Sure. That’s the reason you’re annoyed.
It’s not because thinking of Payton right now is a bad idea. Nor the fact that I’m fighting a very strong desire to see her naked again. The memory of those perfect tits popping up in my head every few minutes isn’t doing me any favors.
Neither is the prospect of hate-fucking her all over the house.
The idea holds great promise.
I shouldn’t take it off the table just yet. Seduce her. Dump her. Leave her wanting. It’s more appealing than it should be.
However, with her spine, I doubt she would be game for that.
More like she will one hundred percent be against it. I’d have a better shot at convincing her that Santa Claus is real, and I play golf with him every Sunday.
Not happening.
I finish the online poker game, exiting out of the tab without enjoying the victory. “You’re not here to talk about her.”
“Maybe I am,” he says, shrugging. “Ever think about that? Ivy wants answers.”
“Then tell my sister to call me herself.”
“She’s been busy.” Lame excuse.
“I’m busy, too, yet I would find time for her if I had questions.”
“Give her a break. This is hard for her, too. Maybe harder.” The rough edge to his tone offers no leeway. It’s an argument I won’t be winning, nor do I want to.
I exhale. “You’re right.”
We are both quiet in thought for a minute before Cyrus speaks.
“I hear you moved that girl in. Petunia.”
“Petunia? Couldn’t come up with something better?”
“Your mother would like it.”
It comes off as a “yo mama” joke, but it’s not. He’s absolutely serious and so fucking right. Mom’s thing is gardening. So is Ivy’s, for that matter. Fitting, considering Mom named her after a flower and me, the Latin word for gushing waters.
Growing up, Mom would cement into us the fact that, like a flower and water, I need Ivy to see beauty in life, and Ivy needs me to grow. She failed to mention that we needed to depend on one another because our dad was destined to utterly and spectacularly fail us.
