Page 23 of Addicted

Her eyes narrowed, and I could see the anger flareup again. “How long are you planning to keep me?” she asked, her voice tight.

I leaned back in the booth with my arms crossed over my chest.

“As long as I want you.”

She looked like she wanted to fly across the table and smack the taste out of my mouth. Her hands clenched into fists on the table, her jaw tight, her eyes blazing. But she didn’t move. She just sat there scowling at me.

I let the silence stretch between us for a moment before I spoke again.

“Ishmael is fine,” I said. “And he knows you’re alive.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “How do you know that?”

“I got my men watching your condo,” I said. “Making sure he stays out of trouble while you’re away.”

She looked surprised by that, her expression softening just slightly. Then she nodded, her voice dry.

“Thanks.”

She took another sip of her drink, then looked at me again.

“I’m gonna lose my job if I don’t at least call my boss,” she said. “Tell him I’m sick or something.”

I smirked.

“Roman can’t fire you unless I say so.”

Her eyebrows rose in question. She probably wondered how I knew her boss, but I’d done my research on her and Ishmael the night they caused a disturbance on my corner.

“I own Velvet,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I own the club,” I repeated. “Roman works forme.”

“I’ve never heard of you before,” she said, her voice skeptical.

“That’s how I want it,” I said. “The employees don’t need to know I’m the owner.”

She stared at me for a long moment, processing that information. Then she shook her head slightly, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

The waiter returned with our food, setting the plates down in front of us.

“Enjoy,” he said, then left us alone again.

We ate in silence. Indie focused on her food, cutting into her salmon and taking small bites. I watched her between bites of my steak, my mind drifting to what I was gonna do to her when we got back.

When we finished eating, I paid the bill and we left.

The drive back to the crash pad was quiet. Indie stared out the window, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. When we pulled into the driveway, I noticed the three big boxes sitting on the front porch. Good. My niggas had come through. I’d shot them a text earlier when Indie complained about not having any clothes.

I parked the car and got out, walking around to open Indie’s door. She climbed out without a word, her eyes landing on the boxes.

She didn’t ask any questions as I unlocked the front door and told her to go inside.

She walked into the living room and sat down on the couch, watching as I brought each box into the house one by one. When I was done, I locked the front door and turned to face her.

I nodded toward the boxes.