Page 75 of Married to Number 22
My eyes lock with my mom’s, and I tilt my head toward the house.
Thankfully, she snaps out of her surprise, takes Luna’s arm, and draws her inside.
I hear the front door close, lock, and exhale, stuffing down my temper and bracing myself to deal with the asshole contingent of the Blacks.
Luna’s dad, Frank, if I remember correctly, brushes by his son, who’s still straightening after fighting to regain his balance. And Frank does that brushing without so much as asking his son if he’s okay.
Great parenting.
But it’s not like I expect anything different.
Assholes raise assholes.
The only reason that Luna escaped the same fate was that Frank didn’t give two shits about his daughter so left her to Grams to raise after his wife died.
Thank God.
I got Luns,myLuns.
And the asshole contingent stayed far away…
Until now.
“I’m guessing that Luna’s lawyers reached out to you,” I say dryly, feeling my dad twitch beside me.
I’ll have to explain later.
For now, I’ve got bigger problems.
John’s face scrunches up again and he turns bright fucking red—and fuck if the asshole doesn’t look like an adult-sized toddler.
But it’s Frank who speaks, tilting his head, gray irises that are the same color as Luna’s but don’t have a lick of the warmth as hers locking onto me, studying me like the beady-eyed snake he is.
“Aiden Black,” he says cooly.
I extend my hand for him to shake—the man is my father-in-law after all—but he merely shifts his stare to it, and after a moment, I let it fall to my side.
So, we’re not going to pretend to be nice.
Kinda figured that after his son called my woman a bitch, but it’s always better to try, right?
Or maybe not, I think when Frank shoves a sheaf of papers in my direction.
“What’s this?” I say, barely catching them against my chest.
“Divorce papers,” he snaps. “I’ll expect them to be signed and returned to my office tomorrow.”
My dad grunts from beside me, but I can’t spare him a glance.
Because I’m too busy trying not to throttle the fuckers in front of me.
“Yeah, no,” I say, shoving them the papers back at him, taking more than a little bit of satisfaction when he scrambles to not drop them. “That’s not going to happen.”
Frank’s fat fingers close around the papers, crinkling the load of them as he shoves them at John, who’s finally recovered enough to join the grownups in conversation.
Unfortunately, his reflexes aren’t as quick as mine or even his dad’s.
Because the entire stack of them goes flying, the wind catching them, sending them off in all directions.
