Page 66 of Wolf.e
“Sad, if you ask me. Waste of a good scotch,” I tell her.
“Agreed,” she says, following.
The den is dark when I enter. I flick on a lamp that sits under a big picture window. It’s an old library of sorts with black out drapes. I pull them back, the moonlight and her vast property fills my sight. There’s an old desk on one wall, it looks antique and expensive, and a wall-to-wall liquor cabinet. Chalked full.
“Key’s in the second drawer.” Brinley enters behind me.
I fish the key out and unlock the cabinet, pulling out a forty-year-old Boralini scotch that must be worth ten thousand dollars.
“I don’t believe in special occasions,” I tell her as I pop the cork and swirl the bottle.
Brinley shoots me a smirk. I don’t think she intends to be sexy, but she is. She has this whole freshly fucked glow about her. Her hair is still damp and her face is free of any makeup. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, and she doesn’t even realize it.
“Neither do I, so…bottoms up?” she asks, making her way to an open shelf and grabbing two crystal glasses down.
I tip it back, drinking it straight from the bottle in a twelve-ounce curl.
“My dad is probably rolling over in his grave.” She giggles as she watches me swallow.
Fuck me, that’s good.
“What happened to them?” I sit in a leather chair in front of an old stone fireplace, genuinely curious and still surprised I care. She sits in the one across from mine and we face each other at arm’s length.
“My dad died when I was eighteen, I’d just left for college. He went to work that morning—he was a lawyer,” she tells me. “Although, you probably know that.”
I shake my head. “Never went further than their names and that they’re no longer alive,” I tell her honestly. “Once I knew they were dead, there was no reason for me to keep learning about them.”
She nods and leans forward to take the bottle. “That makes sense,” she says.
I toy with her for a beat just to see the spark in her eyes. I hold the bottle tight and don’t let her have it for a few seconds. The look of determination I’m starting to crave comes out and I let her have the scotch as a reward.
“He was in the middle of his second meeting of the day and he just died. Massive heart attack. He was only forty-eight,” she says. “I hadn’t seen him in a month, and oddly enough, I didn’t really know him, even though I spent my whole life with him. My mother died two years ago from a short battle with cancer.”
I listen as she speaks because I want to drink in her every expression. The way the light reflects off her silky skin, the wave that takes hold of her hair as it dries. Her lips moving as she talks—every single part of her is perfection.
“He always wanted me to be something he wasn’t able to be growing up. He sent me to the best schools, I sang with the worship team at our church.” She grins “That’s where I met Lay.”
I grab the bottle back from her and take another big swig.
“And now look at you, here with me, and she’s married to my Sgt at Arms.”
“But where did that wholesome life get either of my parents?” Brinley asks as she pulls the bottle from me. “Both dead before they were fifty-five? A boring marriage. I never even saw them have a single affectionate moment. They had their dinner parties and school events and social status. Their country club, church life. They had all this”—she waves a hand around the stately room—“but they had nothing. I didn’t know them, and they didn’t know me. They thought they knew who I was and vice versa, but I learned more about them going through their things when they died than I ever did while they were living,” she says, handing me the bottle back.
I reach out to pull it from her but wrap my hand around hers at the same time pulling her forward, she comes with it into my lap. I slide a hand up her thigh and it wakes my cock where she rests against me. I struggle as I watch her, fighting the urge to get used to her when I know where my club life could lead her.
I’ve always heard of an instant connection, the immediate, unspeakable draw to someone. Fucking Ax talks about it all the time. I just never in a million years thought I’d experience it.
I take a sip as Brinley trails a finger down my bare chest over the ink, her eyes focus taking it in. The lyrics and quotes mixed with vines and the club insignia, a reaper in chains, numbers, and phrases that remind me of my time overseas, my mother, men I’ve known that have died. It’s an eclectic blend. When you’re covering most of your skin, you have room to be creative.
“Are these bullet holes?” she asks as her finger runs over the raised skin.
“Yes.” I take another drink.
“From your time as a Marine?”
“One of them, yes,” I answer.
She nods but doesn’t question the other and takes the bottle from me and I wonder what it takes for her to get good and drunk. This scotch is potent—my guess is not much.
