Page 71 of Wicked Spite
“Yeah, well, until then,” I smirk, eyes locked onto the screen as I land a perfect headshot, “might as well enjoy the ride.”
“Enjoy the ride? Is that what you call dragging Reagan into your messes?” Lincoln challenges, his green eyes narrowing.
“Reagan can handle herself,” I say, a hint of pride creeping into my voice. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
“Or maybe she’s just as crazy as you,” Jeremiah suggests, eyebrows raised.
“Could be,” I acknowledge, the thought of Reagan sending a thrill through me. “Maybe that’s why we’re such a damn good match.”
“Still can’t believe you fucking married her,” Lincoln mutters, but there’s no real bite in his words.
“Yes, the fuck I did marry her,” I retort, hitting pause on the game to give Lincoln a cocky grin. “And look at how my plan worked out. Because all my fucking plans work out, no matter how crazy you think they are. I’ve been telling you to put some damn respect on my name.”
No one ever believes the magician until he pulls the rabbit from the hat—and then everyone wants tickets to the next show.
I slam my controller onto the coffee table, standing up andstretching. The sharp pain in my shoulders reminds me that I’ve been sitting too long.
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you. It was just a little murder,” I say, eyes looking between the two of them, waiting for them to process. The words slipped out casually, like I’m discussing the weather or the pizza we had last week.
“Wait, what?” Lincoln’s voice cuts through as he pauses the game.
“Seriously, Penn?” Jeremiah groans, rubbing his temples as if he could massage away the headache I’m undoubtedly giving him. “You can’t just drop shit like that and expect us to go back to playing. Why are we randomly murdering people in the middle of the week?”
“Why not?” I flash them a grin, enjoying their reactions. “It’s not like it’s the first time.”
“Yeah, but Reagan?” Lincoln shoots back, frustration coloring his tone. “You’re dragging her into your mayhem now? Wasn’t the whole point of marrying her to keep her the fuck quiet about what she saw?”
“Reagan? Oh please, she’s as much into it as I am,” I counter. “You think she’s some innocent bystander? Nah, she’s got a taste for violence. Fits right in. I mean sure, that’s why I married her until I found out we can do a little his-and-hers masked killer roleplay…in and out of the bedroom, if you know what I mean.”
“Two masked heathens causing distress,” Jeremiah mutters, shaking his head. “Great, that’s exactly what this family needs.”
“Hey, you should be thanking me,” I retort, leaning back into the couch. “Life would be boring without a little murder here and there.”
“Thanking you?” Lincoln scoffs, his dark eyes flashingwith barely contained irritation. “You’re gonna get us all killed one day, you know that?”
“Maybe, but at least we can go together, am I right? And honestly, only someone into a little murder could put up with me,” I declare, my grin widening. “Reagan’s perfect for this mess. Honestly, I’ve hit the wife lottery.”
Jeremiah rolls his eyes so hard I think they might pop out of his skull. “The wife lottery? Really, Penn?”
“Yeah, really,” I shoot back, not missing a beat. “You know why? Because someone with a taste for havoc would stick around. She’s got that edge, that...fire.”
“More like you’re both playing with fire,” Lincoln mutters, shaking his head.
“Exactly,” I say, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “And you know I love playing with fucking fire.” I put my arms behind me and lock fingers, stretching until I hear my back crack. “I’m gonna steal her away from the girls downstairs.”
“Can’t go a few hours without her, huh?” Jeremiah teases.
“Nope,” I reply, heading for the stairs.
I reach the bottom of the stairs, and the sound of Reagan’s laughter hits me like a drug. It’s raw and unfiltered, just like her. I push open the door to the lounge and there she is, teaching Iris and Oakley how to make some kind of green drink. Her eyes catch mine, and I smirk, letting my eyes roam up and down her body. She’s in shorts and one of my football shirts she cut up to all hell and fuck me where did she get those tall ass socks. She looks like my wife but also like some kind of demented cheerleader. Thank you, little eight-pound baby Jesus, for this gift. Or baby Satan. I don’t care which one of you sent this to me.
“Hey ladies,” I say, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Mind if I steal Reagan for a bit?”
“Penn, we’re in the middle of something,” Oakley protests, but her tone is playful as Reagan walks toward me.
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to be in the middle of something also,” I retort, my gaze locked on Reagan. “I mean, if you all want to watch, be my guess, but the two assholes upstairs are going to be heartbroken when you confirm I have the biggest Blackwo….”
“Penn!” Reagan yells, rolling her eyes as she slaps a hand across my mouth. “You fucking troublemaker.”
