“You really clocked her, didn’t you, Love?” Wyatt hums, handing me a pale yellow-filled flute. When I arch my brow, I’m bemused. He shakes his head and explains, “It’s champagne. More specifically, it’s 1999 Pol Roger Brut Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill.”
My face scrunches in even more confusion, “You could’ve just said it was champagne and stopped there.”
Shay cracks up at my response, “Yeah, she doesn’t care about an almost seven hundred dollar bottle of bubbly.”
I choke, coughing, trying to dislodge said expensive drink from the wrong side of my throat. “Why the hell would anyone spend that much on something that doesn’t even taste that good?” I ask, which only makes Shay laugh more.
Owen grabs the glass from my hand, smirking as he leans in, planting a kiss on the pulse of my neck, and I’m sure I’ve gone fifty shades of red.
“What would you like to drink, Angel?” He whispers before raising to his full height.
He and Wyatt look drool-worthy in their suits. Wyatt’s in a black Brioni with a crisp white shirt and black silk bow tie, and Owen is in all black everything. From his Emporio Armani black tux down to his black Ferragamo dress shoes and black diamond cufflinks in the shape of knives.
I must be staring again because Shay nudges me. “You’ve got it bad,” she teases, pretending to wipe drool from the corner of my red-painted lips, and I hip-check her. “Ayyy, gwan easy nuh, chuh, we don’t all have hips, thighs, and ass for days,” she says, giggling while rubbing her side, like my hips are weapons of mass destruction.
“Shut the fuck up. I barely touched you,” I snark, our banter entertaining the guys.
“You can be rough with me, Riri. We can battle it out and see who conquers whom,” Wy suggests, smugly, like it’s a foregone conclusion he’d win. I might not be experienced sexually, but I throw hands, feet, and elbows. I’m not going down without a fight.
“So sure of yourself, Wy? I wouldn’t underestimate me if I were you,” I state.
He quickly replies, “Oh no, Love, quite the contrary. I’m more than looking forward to your fight,” he grins, displaying all of his teeth, “and your ultimate submission. Because whether you know it or not, your submission is mine first.”
“Oh, I definitely get to be your tag team partner,” Owen adds.
Placing my hand on my hip, I point out, “Two on one can’t be fair?”
“Who said anything about fairness? This is about your total and complete surrender. There’s nothing fair when keeping you is the prize. We’ll lie, cheat, steal, and kill to have you,” Wyatt growls.
Feeling the need to reinforce Wyatt’s point, Owen asserts, “It’d be wise of you to remember that.” Both are staring so intensely, but I refuse to look away.
Both eyebrows raise in challenge, and I smirk. “Bring it,” is all I say in response.
Waving her hand between our locked gazes, Shay declares, “Enough of all this backward-ass way of flirting. This is a party. Let’s go do just that.”
47
WES
I’ve had to dodge Sam’s advances all night. Ariah beat the collagen out of her lip. I almost forgot how thin they used to be. Maybe now she’ll leave Ariah alone. Her attempts always seem to miss the mark, eventually leading to her being handled.
I step out from the corner of the ballroom, thinking I’m safe until I hear her.
“Wes, have you been avoiding me?” she laments, her words sounding slurred due to the swelling of her lips.
“Yes,” I exclaim candidly, “you are becoming tiresome.”
Her eyes smolder with a rage her bruised face can’t express, and I’m not sure if it’s because she got her ass beat or she got botox. Why an eighteen-year-old girl would need botox is beyond me.
“I wish you would stop playing games, Wes. I’m growing increasingly tired of them.”
“I wasn’t aware we were playing anything, Samantha. In fact, I’m more than positive we aren’t engaging in anything that didn’t have your ass up with me calling another girl’s name as I nut,” I respond, no inflection in my tone, just stating simple facts as I stride past her, but she snatches my arm.
“You keep fucking testing me, Wesley. You and your merry band of fuck-ups. I’ve put up with about as much of your shit as I can. I watch your friends parade around with trash. I take your berating in public and still let you fuck me whenever you want,” she snarls. I think about interrupting her temper tantrum. Instead, I decide to let her make a scene. “I won’t be treated like a bum off the street. Do you know who my parents are? Where I come from?” She’s shrieking at this point, garnering the attention of onlookers.
When my dad shoots me a look, I know it’s time to end this. “Enough. Cut it out. You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” I grit out. Wrapping my hand around the upper part of her exposed shoulder, I yank her to the corner I just came out of. “I don’t give a fuck if you are Midas’s daughter and your pussy is made of gold. You’re shit to me unless I say otherwise, and to be clear, I won’t be saying otherwise. Now fuck off!” I growl, storming off across the room.
Stopping at the bar, I ask the bartender for a drink and find a spot to decompress from Samantha’s shit. I’m going to fix her once and for all. I’m done.
