Page 65 of Wicked Spite
“Well, consider me flabbergasted,” Reagan says, her voice laced with mock surprise. She places a hand on her hip, eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s the catch? You expecting a reward or something?”
“Wouldn’t say no if you offered one,” I respond, my voice dropping an octave as I tilt my head, letting my gaze travel up and down her body. “But nah, just figured you’d want to see the show. Though, if you feel like showing some appreciation later...” I leave the sentence hanging, a smirk tugging at my lips.
“Maybe I’ll let you eat me later. How’s that for appreciation?” She laughs, a sharp sound filled with both amusement and incredulity.
“We both know you love it when I take charge,” I say, shrugging nonchalantly.
“I hate gifts, but this one I’ll take,” she says, shaking her head. “Careful because I’ll start thinking you care about me—” Her voice trails off, leaving it hanging in the air.
“The burn still healing on your fucking neck tells you what you already know. Just go get ready,” I cut in, voice firm but playful. “Before I take Ramsey instead of you.”
“Fine,” she huffs, turning on her heel and marching up the stairs. I watch her go, appreciating the way her hips sway with each step.
Shaking my head, I push off the wall and head toward the kitchen. The sound of laughter and clinking dishes reaches my ears before I even enter the room. The gang’s all here except for Grammy, lounging around the table, grinning like a pack of hyenas.
“Yo, what’s up, fuckers?” I announce my entrance, already bracing for whatever bullshit they’re about to fling my way.
Jeremiah’s seated at the counter, nursing a beer like it’s his lifeline and close enough to reach out and grab his girl. Lincolns got his feet kicked up on the breakfast nook bench. A devilish grin spread across his face. Iris leans against him, her eyes sparkling with mischief, while Oakley’s plating up food, and moving around the kitchen with ease.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our resident Casanova,” Lincoln starts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Decided to grace us with your presence, huh?”
“Careful, Linc. Your jealousy is showing,” I shoot back, grabbing a beer from the fridge. The cold bite of the bottle feels good against my palm.
“Jealous? Of you?” he snorts. “Nah, man. Just surprised you’re not crawling back here begging for mercy.”
“Yeah, all that shit about us being pussy-whipped and now look at you,” Jeremiah adds, smirking over his drink.
“You’re delusional,” I retort, popping open my beer and taking a long swig. The bitterness settles in my throat, grounding me. “Unlike you losers, I actually get shit done.”
“Done? You mean like getting all cozy with Reagan St. Pierre?” Lincoln’s eyes narrow, his grin widening. “Pretty sure you’re wrapped around her little finger by now. We all saw that mark on her. You fucking give a shit about her.”
“You’re hilarious,” I say dryly. “And it’s Reagan Blackwood. She is technically your sister now. Just don’t fucking think about touching her like you touch your other sister.”
“I swear to God, you need to stop the sister fucker jokes,” Lincoln says, flipping me off. “Stepsister and fucking barely that. She’ll be Mrs. Blackwood soon enough as well.”
“How about no?” I reply, glancing over at Oakley, who’s now holding two plates piled high with food.
“Here,” she says softly, handing them over. “Saved these for you and Reagan. Thought you might need some fuel before the concert.”
“Thanks, little Ashford,” I mumble, feeling a rare twinge of gratitude. She’s always been the considerate one in this chaotic mess we call a family.
“Don’t mention it,” she replies, her eyes meeting mine with that warm, unwavering gaze. “You’re a good guy for the people you care about, pennywise. Don’t let these assholes tell you otherwise.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, but there’s a hint of a smile on my lips. I flip Lincoln and Jeremiah off with a flourish, savoring their laughter as I start to walk out of the kitchen.
“Be careful out there, lover boy!” Lincoln calls after me, his tone half-mocking, half-serious.
“Aw, our little Penn is growing up,” Iris mocks, but there’s an edge of truth to it that pisses me off.
“Eat shit, sissy,” I retort.
As I climb the stairs, plates balanced precariously in my hands, I can’t help but feel a strange mix of anticipation and dread. Tonight could either be a step forward or another disaster.
I push open our bedroom door and step inside. The warm light of some fancy fucking lamp she bought casting shadows on the walls. Reagan stands in front of the mirror, towel wrapped around her, droplets of water glistening on her skin. She catches my eye in the reflection, and for a moment, the world outside this room doesn’t exist.
“Food,” I announce, setting the plates down on the bedside table.
My gaze drops to her bare shoulders, the curve of her collarbone, the hint of cleavage peeking from beneath the towel.
