Page 55 of Possessive Park Avenue Prince

Who was the one person who’d want to ruin my date to get back at me for spending the last week teasing and tormenting his ass, and also had the means to do it?

MotherfuckingDaire.

A string of curses flooded my mind as I glanced back out at a hysterical Trevor pulling at the ends of his hair in frustration.

Screw the waiter. I wasn’t gonna sit around and wait for his ass to show up.

Getting to my feet, I pulled out a few bills, more than enough to cover what we’d had, and slid them between the square glass candle holders in the center of the table.

I thought I’d finally push Daire to my way of thinking with my stunt tonight, but he’d managed to get ahead of me and ruin my plan.

And now, instead of kissing him, all I could think about doing was kicking him. Hard and somewhere he wouldn’t easily recover from.

TWENTY-TWO

daire

MAN, IT WASN’T often I was proud of myself, but tonight I deserved a fucking medal.

Leaning back in the leather swivel chair in my room, I kicked my feet up on the matching footrest. The only thing that could have possibly made me feel better was if I’d been there to witnessed Trevor the Tool’s precious car being towed away. A lone tear rolling down his cheek as it faded into the distance…

I didn’t feel bad. I mean, why would I? It was Gavin’s fault.

If he hadn’t been so hellbent on torturing me these past few days, then he would still have a ride home tonight. As it was, I had a feeling he’d be calling up Scotty or Ubering it back home, since Trevor would no doubt be glued to his phone, trying to work out where to go to get back his precious cargo.

I glanced over at my guitar in the corner, wondering if maybe I should pen an ode to Trevor’s misfortune. But in the end I opted for scooping up the rectangular tin sitting on the glass side table to my left and flipping open the lid. Yeah, this was what I needed. Nestled inside were several wraps, a small grinder, and some of the finest weed money could buy, Caviar Gold.

Setting the tin aside, I ground the weed down so it would burn more evenly, then I unfolded the wrap and brought it to my lips to wet it before loading it up.

There was something about the process I found rewarding, even relaxing, as I began to squeeze and roll the blunt between my fingers before snatching up my lighter to seal it. Then I started in on a second one.

I’d usually save this for a night out with the guys, but drinking wasn’t enough of a celebration for what I’d pulled off tonight. So I’d decided to pull out the big guns and enjoy.

I got to my feet and opened the small window in my room to allow some of the smoke to escape, then I slumped back down in my seat and lit up. The view of the skyline kept me company as I drifted off into my happy place.

The music had a nice, throbbing bass to match my mood—no need for my alternative bands tonight—as I blew smoke rings up above my head and let the last few days of torture leave my body.

I was about halfway through my first blunt when I heard the distinct sound of the front door being flung open, followed by a loud slam and stomping footsteps.

Footsteps, I noted with a big smile, that could belong to only one person.

Just as I’d predicted, Trevor hadn’t even bothered seeing Gavin home. Nope, he was probably busy trying to track down his one true love—his douchemobile.

“Daire!”

My name echoed up the hall and into my room, even over the bass pulsing out of my sound system. But if Gavin thought I was about to get up, he was out of his mind.

“Daire! I know you’re in—” Gavin came to a halt somewhere behind me as I blew out another set of rings, high above my head, knowing how much it pissed him off when I smoked in the condo. “What the hell are you doing?”

I brought my feet down from the footrest and toed the floor, spinning the chair until I was facing my fulminating roommate, who was standing in the doorway.

“I’m relaxing.” I brought the blunt up to my lips and inhaled before blowing out the smoke in his direction. “Well, I was until you stormed in here screaming.”

Gavin planted his hands on his hips, probably annoyed and irritated—but to me he looked like a pissed-off librarian. You know, someone who was trying to be all scary and mad but failed.

“I wasn’t screaming.”

“You drowned out my fuckin’ music. So you weren’t exactly whispering.”

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