Page 13 of Big Bad Bully
“Are you doing one?”
“Yep. I’m going to talk about how hard everyone worked to keep them apart, and yet, they persevered.” She gives me a pointed stink-eye.
I wipe my mouth with a paper napkin and sit back. “And I’ll describe the half a million dollars I pledged to try to get them back together but was completely shut out by her so-called Maid of Honor.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think you can solve everything with money, don’t you?”
I hesitate because, honestly? Yeah. Most problems in my life can be solved with money. But this is the female who wore an “Eat the Rich” t-shirt as a teen. I know because I stole the photo to prove it.
“I think money is a leverage point for a lot of people. Not all. Not you, as I learned.”
The defensiveness ebbs from her shoulders. People like to be seen.
I don’t know why I want to see more of this particular person. She both fascinates and disgusts me. She embodies nothing that I value. And yet, I want to throw the doors to her closet open wide and examine what’s inside. Look under the bed and find her darkest, dirtiest secrets. Know what makes a money-hating artist want to study something like Women’s Studies and work in a hippie cafe.
“What are your leverage points, Aubrey?” My voice is soft, and saying her name in that tone sounds too familiar. Too intimate.
Aubrey's face takes on a rosy glow.
She stands. “You’ll never know, Suit.” She tosses her napkin on the table. “Thanks for dinner. It’s been illuminating.”
My brain stutters on the word illuminating. What does she think she learned about me?
Nothing. I’ve shown nothing. I never show anything. That’s how I can be ruthless.
“My place. Tomorrow night.”
Her nose wrinkles, but I would swear that I catch the faint scent of female arousal. As if my demanding words conjured up some scenario other than meeting with our engaged friends.
My wolf fucking loves it.
“I suppose you live on Billionaire Row?” She cocks a hip.
“Same building as Brick and Madi. Apartment 44. Seven p.m.”
“Did Brick even respond?”
“I’ll make sure they’re there. You just show up.”
Her eyes narrow as she considers me for a moment, then she holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
My dick twitches. I like it when she demands. I imagine her in that catsuit again. Crotchless, of course, so my tongue can reach the places it needs to reach.
I unlock my phone and hand it to her, watching without expression as she texts herself:
WWIII.
My initials–or World War III–depending on your interpretation. I’m surprised she knows my full name.
Pleased.
She thrusts my phone back at me. “That’s my number. Text me if things change.”
No chance. I don’t give a fuck if a real World War III breaks out tomorrow.
Aubrey Jane Cook will be in my apartment tomorrow night.
Preferably naked and strung up from my ceiling.
