Page 21 of Claimed By A Blue Eyed Menace

Shooter nodded. “Favorite movie?”

“Step Brothers.”

He smirked a little. “Figures.”

I squinted at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look like you enjoy corny ass movies,” he teased, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

I gasped. “Corny?! That movie is a classic.

Shooter laughed under his breath. “I hear you.”

I crossed my arms and shook my head, muttering under my breath, but secretly, I kind of liked that he was asking me shit. “Okay, my turn,” I said, turning to face him. “What’s your favorite color?”

Shooter took a moment before answering. “Black.”

I smirked. “Obviously.” He cut me a warning look, making me laugh. I rested my elbow on the car door. “Alright, what’s your favorite movie?”

He glanced at me, then back at the road. “Casino.”

I blinked. “That mafia movie?” He nodded. I tilted my head. “Makes sense. You are a criminal, after all.”

Shooter smirked. “A very successful one.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t deny there was something about his confidence, the way he owned his world, that was…intoxicating. Even if he was annoying as hell.

We rode in silence for a moment, the hum of the car filling the space between us. Then, Shooter glanced over at me again. “You was hella excited to marry Silas, huh?”

His question caught me off guard. I scoffed, “Hell no. Marrying someone off should be illegal. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Shooter didn’t press, but I could feel his eyes on me. After a beat, he smirked. “You ready to drop a bag on my dime, wifey?”

I turned to him, grinning. “Oh, absolutely.”

Shooter chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course you are.”

I crossed my legs, my diamond anklet catching the light. “Gotta make up for all the bullshit I’m going through. Speaking of, who was the bitch?” I asked, keeping my tone light, but the heat in my words was undeniable.

Shooter smirked, like he’d been waiting for me to ask. “Not important.”

I scoffed. “Not important? You came home with her suck marks on your fucking neck, Sebastian.”

He chuckled, gripping the wheel tighter as he switched lanes smoothly. “That what’s been eatin’ your ass up?”

I rolled my eyes. “Nigga, please.”

Shooter glanced over at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Parker, if you want the dick, all you gotta do is act right. I’ll get you right.”

My whole body tensed. I turned and glared at him, but the way his voice had dipped, low and full of heat, sent a slow, infuriating shiver down my spine. “You’re disgusting,” I muttered, looking back out the window.

I clenched my jaw, battling my thoughts. I refused to be turned on by him. Absolutely refused. But my body had other plans, and that realization made me even madder. The rest of the ride, I fumed in silence, staring out the window, arms crossed, trying not to think about anything he said. Shooter just smirked, turned up the trap music, and let the heavy bass shake the car as we sped through the city.

Shooter

T h e m a l l w a sbusy as hell, people moving in and out of stores, the scent of designer cologne and fresh leather mixing in the air. I wasn’t really a mall type of nigga. I preferred having shit brought to me but today was different. Today was about Parker.

I walked beside her, my presence commanding space, my eyes sweeping the area for any sign of bullshit. Parker was in her element, flipping her curls, looking around with a little smirk on her face like she was about to run up every last dime I had. I let her.

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