Page 30 of Wicked Spite
I scoff, trying to ignore the way my pulse races at his proximity. “This is your idea of a proper goodbye? Assaulting me in a fucking alley?”
“Oh, come on, hellfire,” he purrs, his breath hot against my ear. “We both know you like it a little rough.”
With that, Penn’s grip on me loosens, and I suddenly find myself free, but not for long. His hand brings a cloth to my mouth, and its seconds before everything goes hazy.
Chapter 11
Penn
“Damn, that worked faster than I thought,” I mutter as Reagan’s body goes limp in my arms. Gotta love chloroform for its efficiency. I keep one arm wrapped around her waist while I yank the mask off my face. Can’t be too careful with those fumes.
“Like catching a grungy fallen angel.” I tell my unconscious little obsession. I am truly about to kill two birds with one stone. Double points that I get to be the first one to get married, beating Lincoln and Iris to the altar. This is way better to lord over his head than him using his birthday being before mine. I can’t help it that the perfect sperm to make me took longer than his did. You can’t rush perfection.
At the end of the alley, a black Suburban idles, and I throw Reagan over my shoulder. She’s lighter than she looks, or maybe it’s just my adrenaline kicking in. No doubt my cousin Ramsey is impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel because I ‘take too long’. Again, you can’t rush the process, but no one seems to understand that but me.
I stride down the alleyway until I reach thetruck, and I open the backseat door, trying to make sure I don’t hit her in the head or something. I’d prefer my bride not to have a fucking goose knot, but shit happens. I lower her in, careful not to wake Sleeping Beauty. My fingers brush her long hair off her face and linger just a bit longer than necessary on the soft, relaxed skin of her face. No smirking, no scowling. She really is almost angelic.
“Jesus, Penn, could you take any longer?” he snaps, rolling his eyes.
“Show some respect, will ya? I’m your elder.”
“By what, three years? You ain’t no fucking elder, man.”
“Maybe you should put on your glasses, mini me. Clearly, I’m superior.” I grin as I climb into the front seat. “Now onward, Jeeves.”
“Fuck off, Penn,” Ramsey grumbles, but I can tell he’s holding back a laugh.
“Don’t talk to your favorite cousin like that. Such a crude mouth. What would your father say? Incest is not best even if you are sort of pretty looking.”
“Favorite? I tolerate you,” Ramsey shoots back, his blue eyes narrowing. “And barely. Why do you insist on saying shit to make me and others so damn uncomfortable?”
“Because I fucking can,” I laugh, savoring the way he’s all wound up. “Speaking of favorites, make a stop at Bloomin’ n Shroomin’.”
“Seriously? We’re in the middle of a fucking kidnapping, and you want to make a pit stop? What the fuck kind of business is this, anyway?” Ramsey’s voice rises an octave, incredulous.
“Charming little flower shop that also sells mushroom coffee. The owner owed me a favor, so I need to go collect.” Ican’t help but let out a chuckle as Ramsey rolls his eyes, knowing that this detour has to be worth it.
“Fine, whatever,” he mutters, pulling up to the quaint little shop with an exasperated sigh. I hop out of the car, leaving Reagan slumped in the back seat, and return moments later with a long box wrapped in a bow and a bouquet of wedding flowers.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Penn,” Ramsey groans as I climb back into the car. “She’s unconscious! What the hell do you need flowers for?”
“Because bitches love flowers,” I retort with a wicked grin, patting the box that holds a veil. “Now move your ass back to the summer cottage, Jeeves.”
As we pull up to the Blackwood summer house, I hand the bouquet and veil box to Ramsey before scooping Reagan into my arms. The feel of her body against mine sends a shiver down my spine; I’m intoxicated by the scent of her, the curve of her hips pressed against my chest. But there’s no time to savor the moment.
“Come on, you hockey fuck,” I call over my shoulder as I carry Reagan inside. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Fuck you, Penn,” he replies, though I don’t miss the hint of amusement in his voice. “You seriously owe me for this.”
Once inside, I place Reagan on one of the chaise lounges while snatching the veil box from Ramsey. The black and red lace, adorned with bats instead of flowers, is as beautiful as the woman it’s meant for. I arrange it over her head, marveling at the sight before me.
“Can’t forget the bouquet,” I say, picking up the blood-red gladiolus flowers and placing them in Reagan’s limp hand. The bouquet looks like it belongs at a funeral more than a wedding. The petals are velvety soft, and their scent is sweetand a bit metallic. They’re perfect for my fucking hellfire. She looks like a twisted bride straight out of a Tim Burton fairytale; a vision that captivates me.
“Do you always have to be so dramatic?” Ramsey asks, leaning against the doorframe.
“I’m sorry, but do you or do you not have a good fucking time when I’m involved in shit? What’s that? I can’t hear your disagreement with that statement because you know it’s fucking true. You’re welcome for me taking you under my wing and making you my little mini me. It will serve you well.” I cant my head to the side and just smirk at my not so little cousin.
“I hope you know what you’re doing. You’re gonna have her running the second she wakes up,” Ramsey says, but there’s no real malice in his voice. Just a resigned acceptance of our fucked-up reality.
