When I get outside my apartment, however, it's not just Roan sitting in his car. There’s a blond dude talking animatedly with his hands while Roan stares bored out the windshield. When Roan spots me, he perks up and slaps the man in the chest, who in turn looks out the window at me with a lopsided grin. I walk across the street and throw open the back door.
I settle myself in the middle of the back seat and cross my legs and arms. Both men whip their heads toward me, Roan scowling and the other biting back a smile. Roan looks me up and down with derision, and I can’t say I don’t feel the same. “What are you—”
“I have somewhere to be tonight and, congratulations, you’re my new boyfriend.”
He rears back, and the blond laughs before clapping him on the shoulder. “Congrats, brother.”
“Archangel Winebar, and we’re already running late so you might want to step on it.” I nod at the road ahead of us.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Cortez? I’m not your goddamn chauffeur, and I’m sure as hell not your boyfriend,” he growls. His masculine scent mixes with the smell of the expensive leather seats. Somehow it makes his blue eyes feel deeper, but not in a dark way—in an almost intoxicating way.
Before I can get drunk on it, I relax into the seat and reply, “Archangel is a lot smaller than Trixie’s, and your whole lurking-wet-blanket shtick tends to stick out.”
“So?” He sounds exasperated, and I realize I’m in for a long night. I briefly consider calling Matt to cancel, but changing my plans would let this bastard win. And who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll finally snap and quit. A girl can dream.
“So, my friends don’t know about my family, and I’d like to keep it that way. So you need a reason to be there.”
“No fucking way.” He shakes his head and turns around in his seat.
His friend’s eyes bounce between us. “I’ll do it. I’d be honored to serve as your arm candy for the night, Miss Cortez.” He offers a smile that I’m sure is panty melting to most girls, but there’s something about his eyes that doesn’t light a spark in my stomach. They’re the same icy blue-gray as Roan’s, but don’t have the same pull.
I narrow my eyes. “And who are you?”
He reaches across the vehicle to offer me his hand. “Lochlan Fox, at your service.”
When I leave his hand hanging saying nothing but okay, I notice a quick flash of a subtle smirk from Roan. It’s then that I realize that anything that makes him happy, I want to do the opposite of.
I clasp his hand and offer a warm smile. I meet Roan’s glare in the rearview mirror, then give Lochlan a wink. “Step on it. Papi and I are running late.”
1. Play with Fire (feat. Yacht Money)—Sam Tinnesz, Yacht Money
Chapter 7
Fucking Hell
Roan
Lochlan was just supposed to drop off my dinner and leave. 1 Yet, somehow, here we are. He and Reggie are talking like fucking high school girls going over the details of their fictitious relationship. He’s having entirely too much fun. She’s a fucking job.
There’s an open spot along the curb right out front, a sign on the sidewalk indicating it’s valet drop-off. I pull up into it and park. A kid in a burgundy jacket runs over to me, already reaching out to hand me a ticket.
I watch my punk-ass brother make a show of opening the back door for Reggie, sweeping into a bow and holding out his hand. She laughs. There’s something painfully light about the sound, and all I want to do is smother it.
I look at the guy trying to take my keys in exchange for a numbered ticket, and something about the desperate and spineless way he’s catering to me pisses me off. I ignore him and head toward the bar door.
“Uh, sir, you can’t park here. It’s reserved for valet.” Breathe one, two, three—ah, fuck it.
I pull my gun from my waistband and spin around, holding it visibly at my side. His eyes shoot open, and he stumbles back. “Tonight, it’s reserved for me.”
“Erectile dysfunction. Makes a man real grumpy,” I hear Lochlan confess behind me, and I get the urge to punch a hole through a wall. “For the inconvenience,” he says, while I’m sure handing the valet a roll of Benjamins.
This place is indeed much smaller than Trixie’s, but there’s an open seat at the bar and I head straight there. I don’t like drinking on the job, but I deserve a fucking medal for putting up with this shit. The least I’m owed is a drink.
I don’t look at the bartender, instead keeping my eyes glued on my brother and her. Her body is tight and wicked in a pair of painted-on black jeans, and my jaw grinds when I catch Lochlan getting an eyeful of her ass. “Scotch. Neat.”
“Sorry, we only serve wine.”
“Fucking hell,” I grumble.