Page 67 of Big Bad Bully
“I know the place. I’ll go and give her the message.”
There’s a pause as Madi takes that in. “You will?”
“Of course, Luna,” I say smoothly, like I’m doing it for her, not for Aubrey.
“Good. Make sure she’s having a good time. Give her a ride home or something if she needs it.” Madi uses a bit of alpha command in her voice, which isn’t warranted in this situation. But she’s a smart woman–sharper than most of us, and we’re all Ivy League. I suspect she’s onto me. I’ve shown too much interest in her best friend than is warranted. Now she’s making this an order to give me the pretense of having Aubrey all to myself tonight.
I don’t hate it.
“I’m leaving now,” I clip and end the call before Madi can glean any more information.
I give a short whistle, and Pepper’s little head whips around to look at me, ears pricked, eyes alert for my command. When I snap my fingers and point to my heel, he bounds over, tumbling a little when his body gets ahead of his legs.
“Let’s go, Pepper. Your mom needs us.”
Aubrey
She’s not coming. And no, I didn’t take her call when she tried the last ten times. Because if the call was just to say she’s running a few minutes late, she would’ve texted. The fact that she’s calling me means she wants to apologize, and honestly, I don’t want to hear it. I will either say something I regret and permanently damage our friendship or burst into tears, and neither of those are appropriate when I’m at a live music event at my favorite venue. In a fantastic turquoise leather jacket that looks amazing on me.
I squeeze a lime into my drink and stir it with the mini straw. I haven’t eaten anything, and the vodka tonic is going straight to my head. Of course, it’s my second one, so that probably explains it.
A group of rowdy white and Asian college guys next to me at the bar keep looking over, giving me smiles. They’re looking for encouragement to strike up a conversation, but I steadily ignore them and watch the band.
They’re playing my favorite Pat Benatar song, “Invincible,” and I would love to grab the mic and take over the vocals because their vocalist doesn’t have the range for it. Not that I’m judging. I don’t think you have to have a great voice to make music. Any voice will do. It’s the desire to sing, to express yourself, that matters.
The door swings open, and there’s a Wild West saloon moment when someone so very out of place walks in.
Billy Billions.
Still in his Wall Street suit. What is he doing here? And how did he find me?
He looks pissed as hell, like he’s here to make heads roll. Heh. It’s probably because I left Pepper there. I check his arm to see if he’s carrying my dog, but he’s empty-handed.
His gaze flicks to the guys standing near me then locks onto me.
For some reason, flutters start in my belly as he strides over. I’m not afraid of his anger. Hell, I want it. The flutters aren’t fear–they’re pure excitement. My pussy clenches at the thought of him trying to punish me again.
Will I let him?
That is the $10,000 question.
Billy doesn’t confront me when he arrives, though. He pushes his way between me and the group of guys, angling his back to them and his front to my side.
I wait for him to say something, but he’s signaling to the bartender for a drink. “Crown Royal. Neat.” He drops a hundred on the counter.
He leans his hip against the bar in what for him is probably his most casual stance and looks at me. “Nice jacket.”
“Thanks. It’s vintage.” I was hoping to show it off to Madi.
Now I doubt she’ll ever see it.
Billy keeps studying me. I could make a comment on his stuck up suit, but I don’t feel like it. I’ve really lost my mojo if I don’t have the energy to make fun of Billions.
Then he says, “Madi stood you up.”
Of all the things I expected him to say, that was not it.
Sympathy laces his words. Understanding.
