I should walk the other way, meet Wells.
But there’s always this urge to go toward her. It’s not a simple barrier between us; it’s a moat. Too wide to cross. I could take the smashed morality fence and build a bridge to her. That’s not a drunken idea. It’s nothing new.
Neither is the other thought I battle whenever she’s around, especially when she complains about the tight rein her brothers keep on her—I hope they keep her locked up because I’ll kill anyone who touches her.
Those are usually whispers in a heavy metal concert. Barely discernible. Because the rest of my thoughts are the deafening beat.
Hammering.
Banging.
Screaming.
Reminding me she’s off-limits.
Even more so now that her brothers have insisted that I keep my distance. Well, it wasn’t directed at me exactly. It was directed at my whole family. One and the same.
But right now, seeing her here alone, near the goddamn sex club, the whispers are the only noises I hear.
She spots me before I maneuver through the guests coming and going, and she freezes. Smiling tentatively. That’s an odd look for her. She’s the freest person I’ve ever known.
Deciding it must be guilt, I waste no time getting to my point, voicing it before I even reach her. “What the hell are you doing down here?”
She huffs an indignant laugh, her eyebrow piercing twisting asshe scrunches her forehead—it makes the dainty diamond chain that connects to her nose piercing graze the apple of her cheek. “I live here. What the hell are you doing here, Reynolds?”
That’s unusual. She’s never called me by my last name. It feels impersonal. I don’t like it.
And while her residence is indeed in the penthouse of this New Orleans resort—La Lune Noire—with her five older brothers, it is most certainly not on this floor.
Stopping before her, I cross my arms over my chest; otherwise, I might reach out and string my fingers through her pink-and-blonde strands, styled in soft, flowy curls today. “You don’t live down here.”
All the patrons bustling about us disappear into the speakeasy relics, ceasing to exist until I get to the bottom of why she’s here.
Her mouth curves into an exaggerated pout. “Aww. Thanks. I’m great. It’s good to see you too.” She flits her hand around in front of me—my face and chest. Always so animated. “You’ve got a whole weird vibe going on right now. I’m not sure if I dig it yet. What’s with you?”
So many god-awful things. None of which I am willing to divulge to her.
“There’s no reason for you to be on this floor.” I might be feeling off, but that’s a valid point. Not only are we by the sex club, but we’re also lingering on the outskirts of the high-rollers casino floor—neither of which she should be wandering around. No way her brothers are okay with this.
Her lips fall open to answer, full and painted a shimmery pink—always pink—but her gaze lifts to the stairwell door I just emerged from, and her face pales. “Were you at Magie Noire?”
She appears stricken. Hurt. I should tell her I was and leave it at that. Leave her with an image of me that will turn her sour. She always looks at me like I’m … I don’t even know. Something. I could squash it right here. It’s what her brothers would want me to do.
But I can’t.
So, I tell her the truth. “I was having a drink.”
She cackles, hands concealing her porcelain face in an incredulous accusation. “Right. Because the thirty-two other bars were sold out of Kraken and Coke.”
She knows my drink. I hate how that excites me. That, and the nipple piercings poking through her thin mauve corset-like top. Those are a little over a year old. I notice things too.
Things I have no fucking right to notice.
I shake my head and drag my hand down my face. My skin is hot. The alcohol must be catching up with me. “I needed a change of scenery. It doesn’t fucking matter. Why are you on this floor?”
“And why does that matter to you?” she volleys, poking my sternum with her black-and-pink manicured nail.
No touching.
