“No—“
“Hello,” she quips, studying the closeness of the pest behind me. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Emmy,” Alexander offers for me before I can get a word in. “My date.”
The small, jagged blade in my purse decides then to call out to me. It begs for me to use it against this idiot who believes he can rope me into whatever the hell this is.
“Date?” If the woman wasn’t too interested in me before, she definitely is now. She takes her time studying what I’m wearing and what my figure looks like as if to figure out how to take me down.
She’s got her work cut out for her if I was interested in her choice of men. My pretty-in-pink A-line cocktail dress and matching pumps contrast perfectly against my hair. And it would’ve been in Bishop’s benefit because it’s high on my thighs and cute on my butt.
“Nope,” I quip. “Not a date.”
Alexander chuckles, his hand dangerously finding the small dip of my back. “We just met.”
The brunette’s brows knit, then zig-zag between the two of us. Obviously not able to tell if we’re fucking with her or being serious. This is way too soap opera for me.
“I’m…confused.” A nervous chuckle comes off her lips. “Are you dating again or not?”
“Not,” he denies confidently, which wasn’t twenty seconds ago. “Which would conclude why I didn’t tell you I was coming after all, Tabitha.”
Her jaw descends, and—thank God Almighty—my savior, Wade Lockwood shows up to our small gathering, every inch of the word exasperated and sour at the man behind me.
I knew the guy was new.
“Anthony, I thought I told you to stay away from my assistant,” Wade imparts, his lips hovering over his glass. “Last time I checked, they spoke English in New York.”
“Oh, they do, but I didn’t take the threat seriously.” He matches Wade’s stare with a stupid one of his own. “And it’s Alexander.”
Wade slowly lowers his brandy regarding him and the ways he could destroy him by the end of the night. Unfortunately, that might involve me, and I’m not in the mood for any extra work tonight.
I only came to make sure Wade stayed and showed his face. And I want to go home to wallow in junk food, think of ways to make Bishop’s life a living hell, and watch Netflix.
Petty girl shit.
“Emmy, do you still have that guy’s number? The who published that story last year on the young, aspiring man who allegedly stalked women at parties then would non-stop call, text, and showed up at their homes?”
“Yep.” I let my last letter purposely pop.
Alexander doesn’t want to try this. Wade and I, we’ve always worked well together. I helped him become the most powerful man in the world when he was elected President of the United States. He’s always been overprotective of me and men but never wanted me to be alone. He’s torn between keeping me from heartache or letting me go out and get attached to a man with tattoos, long dark hair, and lucid blue eyes.
Not that he knows about Bishop and my history. He bitches at me enough as it is.
“Good. Anthony, I see you around my assistant again, I’m going to string you up by your balls and let every blogger and reporter hang you for making me repeat myself.” Wade glances over at me. “Ready to go? I think we’ve both had enough for the night.”
Again, my hero.
Glancing over my shoulder, I hold up two fingers for Alexander and literally peace out.
I left Scarlett tucked in on my couch with a mug of coffee at the house while I camped out inside my trailer, telling her I wanted to check the appliances since I haven’t been there for a while. She clearly didn’t buy my brand of bullshit but put up no argument either.
I don’t think she wants to know. I don’t want her to know.
Hardy, on the other hand, requested to be my sidekick for the last few days while I came up with every excuse under the fucking sun to be here.
And while he should be home with his daughter—whom I seem to avoid like the Bubonic plague—I let him play along.
Fuck it.
If he wants to do the brotherly bonding thing with me and see how screwed up I grew up to be, so be it. At least he won’t have to feel sorry for not sending me a Christmas card this year.
I set up a perimeter around the double-wide. Anything that trips the alarms or steps into its boundary will shoot to my phone. Hardy takes my bedroom while I take the lumpy and cheap couch that practically stabs me no matter what position I lie or sit in.
With my Glock on my chest, I stare up at the yellow and brown stains on the ceiling. The buzz of my cell goes off for the third time tonight in its annoying feat to get me to answer it.
Giving in, I power the screen to find the only person I’ll talk to that doesn’t drive me up a wall.
KYSON: How’s it going, bro? Did you handle it?
BISHOP: You’re joking, right? I’ve been waiting over two decades for Bubba’s ass to show back up.
KYSON: Atta boy. Took you, what three weeks?
BISHOP: Try three hours since I got back into Shitty Grove.
KYSON: But you’re not back yet, what’s up?
BISHOP: Hardy’s little girl got into a car accident. Mom died.
KYSON: Oh fuck…
KYSON: He good?
BISHOP: Seems to be. I guess he wasn’t with the mom. They broke up years ago.
KYSON: Spending family time then?
BISHOP: I guess so.
KYSON: That’s good, you need it.
BISHOP: And you need to get off my phone, but here you are.
KYSON: You can be a dickhead somewhere else. Your vague text messages weren’t warm and mind-easing of where you went.
BISHOP: Was busy.
KYSON: Yeah, thanks
