Page 67 of Wicked Spite
“Both,” I whisper, letting my tongue flick against her earlobe. Her shiver is my reward, her scent intoxicating.
“And what about you? Should I be worried about the guys and the girls?” She twists in my arms, her eyes challenging mine.
“Jealousy looks good on you,” I say, smirking at the fire in her gaze. “I don’t care if someone is a man, woman, or any of the in-between’s. Are they hot and do they suck dick like a professional?”
She just glares at me, and I let her spite fuel me. She’ll never admit it, but I can see it written all over her.
“But you know better. I haven’t touched anyone else and won’t.” We just stare at each other for a long, tense moment.
“Just shut up and listen to the music,” she finally says, pushing me away playfully. But her eyes betray her, dark and burning with desire. And fucking terrified about what I just said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, a wicked grin spreading across my face. As the next song blares from the speakers, I flick my tongue against her ear as I sing the lyrics about fighting and fucking right to her.
The song changes and we move with it and my wife looks like a goddamn rockstar under the strobing lights. She’s lost in the music, eyes closed, body swaying against mine in perfect rhythm.
Fuck, this goddamn concert was one of my better ideas.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, half-expecting some dumb meme from Lincoln or Jeremiah. But no, it’s the group chat.
Linky-Loo-Boo
Graham’s awake
My heart skips a beat and then slams into overdrive. I can feel Reagan’s eyes on me, but I keep my face neutral. No need to alarm her just yet. I glance down at the screen again, waiting for more, but nothing comes through.
“Lincoln says Graham woke up,” I yell into her ear, trying to keep my voice steady. Her eyes widen, and she nods, gripping my arm tighter.
“That’s good news, right?” she asks.
“Maybe,” I reply, fingers flying across the keyboard. I need more information. A second buzz interrupts, this time from Jeremiah.
Jerry
He can’t move his legs. Docs don’t know if he’ll walk again.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair. “Graham can’t move his legs.” The words feel like lead in my stomach.
“Fuck.” Reagan breathes, her face paling. “He won’t walk?”
“Don’t know,” I say, shoving the phone back into my pocket. The concert’s energy feels distant now, a cruel contrast to the worry gnawing at my insides.
Reagan’s grip on my arm tightens, her knuckles whitening as she yanks me toward the edge of the pit. “Where the fuck are we going?” I shout, trying to pull back.
“To the hospital, jackass!” she snaps.
“We can finish the concert,” I argue half-heartedly, my voice swallowed by the surging crowd and thundering music.
“No, we fucking cannot,” Reagan insists, her tone brooking no argument. She shoots me a look that could melt steel. “They’ll play more shows. Right now, we need to be at that hospital.”
“Fuck. I don’t know if I can do it. Walk into that room and see him and know he can’t walk.” I admit, finally giving voice to my worry.
“Grow up. He’s your brother and walking or not, you need to be there. He’d be there if it was you in that bed. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you and your brothers is that it’s Blackwood over everything. No matter what.”
Chapter 24
Reagan
The setting sun behind the cathedral on campus casts long shadows on the cobblestone path as I walk hand in hand with Penn. The cold breeze tugs at my hair, but his warm fingers entwined with mine keep the chill at bay.
