Page 77 of Smith

“Welcome?”

“To the club. The puss?—”

“Ugh, why do men say pussy-whipped?” Aria complained.

“Because we’re not creative enough to come up with anything else,” Cooper told her.

I figured he was correct and had nothing to add to a conversation that would likely dig a hole I didn’t want to be in.

Christ.

I was pussy-whipped.

“Realization has set in. Enjoy your balls while you still have them. One day she’ll be telling you no more kids. Then snip-snip, your balls are gone.”

The thought of that made my stomach roll and my balls crawl up to safety.

“I get why your wife puts up with you, but seriously, she deserves a gold medal,” Aria pointed out.

“My wife deserves more than I could ever give her,” Zane said.

But when he said it he was staring me dead in my eyes, saying something else.

Bastard had gone from ‘touch her and die’ to playing commando cupid. I suddenly missed him threatening to pull my intestines out through my throat.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I was on my second pink drink, something called Chesapeake Punch. The punch part of the drink tasted more like jungle juice—in other words it was nasty. Yet I was still slurping them down in the hopes that the rum would kick in and calm my nerves.

To say my father had officially entered the ‘I’m still your father no matter your age’ zone would be an understatement. My first call to him hadn’t gone great because I hadn’t told him about the pictures Smith had found. I took my ass-chewing like an adult, admitted I was wrong, explained why I hadn’t told him, then endured another lecture about him wanting to know because he was my dad and loved me. By the time the call ended, we exchanged ‘I love yous’ and everything was good.

The second call of the day was total shit. We’d argued about the state of the house and what I was going to do with it. My father wanted me to dump it immediately and walk away. I wanted to let the police do what they had to do, finish the house, and at this point break even. The conversation had deteriorated to the point Smith nabbed my phone out of my hand—while he was driving—put it on speaker, and took over. I would’ve been pissed at this maneuver if Smith hadn’t calmed my father down.Not all the way calm but enough he lost his Captain Taylor gruff tone and slipped back into being my dad.

Not that he’d changed his mind—he still wanted me to sell immediately, but he’d softened his demands and turned them into safety precautions. It wasn’t the gun that had put him over the edge, it was the break-ins. Smith had explained I would never be in that house alone and this latest incident happened when we weren’t there. My father was far from dumb—he read between the lines as had I. Someone waited for their shot when the house was empty, which meant they might be desperate to gather their sick-as-shit pictures and whatever else they had hidden but they weren’t desperate enough to do it while the house was occupied.

The call ended when Smith told my father I’d be working out of the Z Corps offices for the next few days, and when his team got back from talking with George Calvin, they’d be paying a visit to Billy Rice.

After that, we did what Smith had said we were going to do—we went to my house and I checked my mail, which made me think of the letters that had stopped coming. I was grateful that was one less thing to deal with, but it was strange. I wasn’t one to buy trouble but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to know why. Every two weeks since I’d bought the house, then nothing. When I’d mentioned this to Smith, he told me Cooper was still looking into who had sent them and why they’d stopped.

The part that didn’t happen that Smith had decreed was I didn’t look around my kickass house that I’d remodeled from floor to ceiling in every room and remember why I loved my job. Being in my home reminded me why I couldn’t live in it. And that reminder pissed me off. Seriously pissed me off. Smith felt it, ushered us back out, and off we went to Libbey’s with Jonas following us in another company SUV.

I wanted my life back. I wanted to drive my own damn car. I wanted to make Smith dinner in my kitchen. I wanted to see him lounging on my couch while we watched TV. This wasn’t me being ungrateful or being one of those women who, even though they were in danger made stupid decisions. This was me wanting to live my life and being angry I couldn’t because some jackhole was fucking with my life and my livelihood.

Now I was sitting on the deck of a kickass restaurant. I loved sucking back shitty drinks, listening to Jonas and Smith talk about their team’s meeting with George.

I should’ve paid close attention but I no longer cared.

My creative vision for George and Brittney’s childhood home was a bust. With all the damage I’d have to repair, I’d have to adjust the budget again, which was going to mean the walk-in closet I’d planned would no longer be a woman’s dream but rather have wire shelves.

The only good part was that Smith’s hand was on my thigh where it’d been since we’d sat down and had remained there through my first two drinks. But then a waitress delivered a basket of wings, which meant I’d be losing his hand so he could eat.

Which I did, but not before he gave my thigh a squeeze.

“Aria?”

“Huh?”

“Jonas asked you a question.”

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