Page 20 of Psychotic Obsession
“It’s so pretty in here.” Her gaze travels around the flashing walls.
“Yeah,” I reply, wanting to leave but enjoying her grabbing my wrist again and leading us towards the basketball machine.
“Don’t tell Gabriella we came here, or she’ll kill me.”
I’d strangle her before she had the chance.
She takes forever throwing basketballs at the hoop, then tries to get me to do it with her, but I shake my head and watch our surroundings. Men are looking at her. Why wouldn’t they? She’s hot, in a little black dress with heels.
They don’t seem to see the jacket she’s wearing that practically drowns her. If that isn’t a claim to keep their eyes off, I don’t know what is.
She goes to the claw machine, fails, then goes to the mini casino and wastes fifty dollars, then ventures to the coin machine and gets change.
“Aren’t you going to play something?”
My right eye twitches at the pinging noise of someone winning something nearby. “No.”
“As my assistant, I demand you have fun.”
I let out a laugh despite hating this place. “I’m not sure that falls under my job description, Doctor.”
“I’ll write it in. Now, play with me.”
“I like this fun side of you,” I say, taking the toy shotgun from her and aiming at the plastic cans lined up on the screen. I hit all of them and pass her back the gun with a smirk. “Your turn.”
My anxiousness of being here lessens with every game she forces me to play, like we’re teenagers on a first date or best friends hanging out.
She talks to me about my allergy to cats and how she needed glasses when she was a kid but miraculously doesn’t anymore. She asks me about my childhood, and I decline to answer. She rolls her eyes at me. She does that a lot. It’s rude and childish, but for some reason, I like it.
“It’s late. I’ll get an Uber back to my hotel. Do you live far?”
“I’ll drive you,” I reply, pulling my Aston Martin keys from my pocket. “I’m parked nearby.”
I’m glad we’re leaving. I’ve been socializing too much, and I feel exhausted. Plus, I don’t feel myself, and I don’t want to be around someone like her when I shut down.
When we reach my car, her mouth falls open at the matte black car unlocking.
“How does an assistant have a car like this?”
I tilt my head. “Are you discriminating on my job?”
“This is a quarter of a million dollar car.”
I shrug. “Maybe I stole it.”
“Did you?” she counters.
“No.”
Her eyes widen as she goes to pull the handle, and the door slides upwards. “No way.”
“I thought you were from a rich family in Scotland? Why does a butterfly door shock you so much?”
Her hand flies to her hip. “My parents are rich, not me. And they drove Rolls Royces, not super sporty cars that look like they belong on a race track.”
Aria drops into the passenger seat and searches for the seatbelt. Two minutes go by before I let out a breath and lean forward, trying not to inhale her scent like a creep while I reach for the seatbelt behind her. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, and my gaze lifts to her as I yank the material from being trapped in the door.
“How do you know I’m from a rich family?”
