Page 75 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

Wyatt and LaMille regale us with Mason’s trials and tribulations in boxing training. All three boys go on a lengthy tear about variant training methods, and I’m lulled into a clear headspace by the easy cadence of conversation.

And, yes, I let Vin feed me a little. Only a little.

Fuck, fine, it’s half the chicken all by my lonesome and it’s delicious.

I give Vin shit for pranking Brad on national television, then show him the online adulation he’s earned for his misdeeds.

“ILuvCannonBalls says she, quote, wishes she were the water bottle if only to leave Brad soaked and then go home with Vin,” he reads into my ear.

“Only fanning the flames,” I reply.

“There were almost 2,000 comments on this thread before you added it.”

“And now there are 700 more. Mission successful.”

He rolls his eyes, but his retort is interrupted by chaos walking in the door.

Across the room, the curtains part and the maîtres d’ escorts a gaggle of beautiful women in painfully short club outfits into the room. They look more like they were ejected from a club than that they chose to come to the city’s newest five-star restaurant.

I would know; I’ve been one of them.

Following in the rear, Brad emerges with Livvy swaying on her heels and steadied by his arm.

Fucking hell.

The maître’s d’ shows them to a table, but Brad refuses it. Words we can’t hear are exchanged, and then the cloud of cheap body glitter and mojito fumes is sat a mere ten feet away from us.

The staff rearrange several tables to accommodate the request.

“Ignore him,” Trick murmurs low enough only we hear. “He’s at least half drunk. He probably saw Vin’s tag, recognized you in part of the photo, and decided to crash. It looks like he’s trying your own tactics against you.”

“If he so much as looks at you wrong, I’m getting the fire ax from the kitchen,” Mason grumbles.

The girls are all over Brad. They paw at him and shake their tits in his direction. Livvy’s tucked up under his arm but only laughs at their overt flirtation.

It’s annoying.

That annoyance flares that he brought her here to flash their relationship in front of me. I wasn’t even in the fucking photo I posted.

And I’m a skosh offended that he thought flaunting a barista’s dozen of unmemorable women would pique my ire.

Instead of jealousy, I have overwhelming sadness for him.

“Let’s turn it against him,” Vin suggests. He uses a finger to turn my chin to him and delivers several slow, sensual, too-brief kisses.

Mason uses those long limbs to slide his hand up my thigh under the skirt. It’s obvious that he does it. He isn’t even trying to conceal the movement under the table.

And Trick leans into my back to nuzzle my neck.

Brad watches it all. His skin explodes in ruddy patches and he forces a kiss on Livvy.

It all feels . . . dirty.

Not good dirty. Gross.

On the one hand, kudos to them for so resoundingly pegging Brad’s motivations and leaping headfirst into antagonism.

But there’s no rush of satisfaction that goes with it.

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