“Give me that!” I snatch the letter from her hand as she curses at me and look down, reading it.
Mr. B. and Mrs. R. Slater,
Tuition for Konnor Slater (ID 109678) has been received. Please find enclosed invoice.
We would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your generous contribution to our new sporting complex. Attached for your records are the receipt and official sponsorship certification.
If you have any further queries, please do not hesitate to contact our office at (087) 654-234.
Kindest regards,
Dean Kevin Milner
Staring at the words, I wonder how much money my parents actually have. Prepaid tuition and a contribution to the new sporting complex?
Both of my parents are entrepreneurs, so to speak, but I’ve never been able to decipher whether they are disgustingly wealthy or just strategic fakers.
I quickly flick through the next few sheets, then fold the letter and all its associated documentation back into the envelope. I don’t want to see any monetary figures.
“Pem, it isn’t even addressed to me.” I wave the envelope. “This is for my parents.”
She stands with a huff, grabs a drink from the bar, and shoves it into my hand. “Here. This should stop your bitching.”
Why the hell am I with her?
Her hair. Her eyes.
“Yes, Pemberton, I am well aware I drink too much. Thankyou for my beverage.” I raise it, giving her a cocky smile. “Cheers!”
“What are you wearing?” she snipes, motioning to my naked body. “You’re dripping on the new rug.”
I wiggle my hips teasingly, my cock slapping against my thighs. “My birthday suit.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No, what are you wearing to the bar?”
“This.” I pinch her on the backside as I walk past her and towards the bedroom area—a section of the open-plan apartment divided by a bookcase.
She groans at me as if I’m the most inconsiderate man on earth. “Seriously. I want to match!”
“It isn’t a wedding, Pem. It’s The Grill,” I call out as I rifle through my clothes, searching for a pair of jeans or, at the very least, a clean pair of track pants.
“Do you care about me at all? I want us to look like a couple. Theitcouple, you know?”
“We are a couple,” I shout to her, then mutter under my breath, “A couple of what, I dunno.”
I can faintly make out her snide mutters. “Arsehole,” I think. “Alcoholic,” perhaps. “Jerk.”
I find a clean shirt. “White!”
It only took me five minutes to get dressed in semi-clean jeans and a shirt—a bloody perfect combo—but now I must wait for Her Majesty.
I drink a few more bourbons.
Pemberton eventually emerges from the bathroom, strutting her sexy body around in front of me, teasing little minx. She’s dressed in a skin-tight white halter dress thatshows off her toned thighs and grips her impeccable arse. I mock bite my fist, ogling her. She looks stunning and, of course, I tell her as much.
She actually smiles at me.
My hair is still damp by the time we leave the apartment, and that sends Pemberton up the fucking wall, but I’m happily feeling the effects of my previous four bourbons, so I don’t care much anymore.
