Redness rushes into her pale cheeks. I want to make her cry and then eat her pussy. Listen to her sob while she comes all over my face…
“Mr. Parker never kissed me,” she whispers. “He was a gentleman.”
“He was a weirdo playing fucked up games with his cock.”
Her face registers only confusion. Fucking virgins. “He was edging himself. Waiting for you to grow up. Fantasizing over your jailbait pussy like it’s an apple getting ripe enough to eat. He’s a freak.”
She shakes her head, dark curls whipping around her shoulders. “You’re a psycho.”
I roll my tongue across the inside of my cheek and grin. “Yeah, but I’d never piss ten years away waiting for a girl to get legal. Now you’re eighteen, I don’t plan on waiting ‘till the end of tonight.”
“Please leave me alone,” she whispers, beautiful tears collecting in her eyes.
I look up the stairs. Where the fuck are the others? I was planning on saving this bombshell until my brothers were around but they’re taking too fucking long. For years I’ve watched this brat float around with her head in the clouds. Pearl earrings; summers in Paris; parties with nine different fucking birthday cakes. She’s a spoiled bitch. Already crying when nothing’s happened yet. She’s not cut or shot or getting it in all three holes.
I get to my feet. “Quick question. Do you think the first time I saw you was when you met with the Archbishop for marriage counseling?”
Her hand jumps to her throat. “What do you…?”
“If I could extort my way into being the priest at your fucking wedding, who do you think you’ve been confessing your boring, petty sins to?”
Horror stretches across her face. “No, you can’t…”
“I can’t?” I tap my chest. “I dunno. Do you have a weird thing about secretly eating tiramisu that you feel the need to tell priests about?”
She throws herself on the carpet and resumes her silent snuffling. My enjoyment is slightly deprived by realizing I should have put two and two together about the Italian housekeeper. This bitch had way too much access to tiramisu.
“Doc?”
Basher bounces downstairs, buttoning the sleeve of his navy shirt. He reeks of Tom Ford and his dark hair is ruffled with wax. I know exactly what he’s doing. “Dressing up for the little brat?”
Basher looks pointedly at my bare feet. “You know you’re not seventeen, right?”
“You know you’re not the bass player in a Midwestern wedding band, right?”
Basher rolls his eyes. “At least you’re not in the priest outfit.”
He doesn’t know January’s awake, otherwise he’d be making soppy eyes at her like always. I smile at him. “Whaddya think of the girl up close? Pretty scrawny, huh?”
“Have you gone blind? She’s stunning.”
I want to turn and see January’s reaction so bad, but I keep my eyes on Basher. “You get the tarp?”
He takes the wad of clear plastic from under his arm. “Where does Adriano want it this time? Because last time—”
“Bobby?”
The tarp falls to the ground. Turning on my heel, it’s hard to see who looks more horrified, him or her.
“You’re… awake,” Basher says in a strangled voice.
“Yes. What are you doing here?”
Basher doesn’t answer, just stares at her like her pussy invented cold fusion.
I clap my hands. “We’re losing traction here. Tits, your precious algebra tutor shouldn’t have been teaching you math any more than I should have been taking your confession. Basher, she’s been awake the whole time, sucks to be you.”
January looks like she’s going to pass out. Surely, she can’t be far from it. How many rugs can someone get pulled out from under them in one day?
