Page 5 of Vow of Revenge
“This asshole has got into me!”
A ghost of a smirk quirked the corners of his lips. “I haven’t got into you yet, and I would certainly slap you.”
“Ugh! Fuck you!” I grabbed Syrah’s hand and strutted past the bad guy who had my stomach in knots.
My cousin, Brett, was three years my senior. His parents, my father’s sister, took me in when I was thirteen. We’re tighter than brothers, we’re blood.
The guy never pushed me to talk about the reason why I moved in with his family, and I never spoke of it, to anyone. Aunt Angie, on the other hand, constantly nagged at me with annoying probing questions. Of course, she’d want to know how her only brother died, but I didn’t have the fucking answers. She even forced me to attend repetitious counselling sessions for years, afraid for my future after the horror they all said I witnessed.
I don’t remember.
I want to remember.
The sessions were a waste of time and money because I could only recall one crucial detail, and that was the catalyst to my retribution. Nothing could change my outlook or hatred. I was scarred for life.
“You’ve met, Kaleb, I see.” Brett grabbed Syrah, pulling her onto his lap like a defenceless sparrow.
She didn’t stand a fucking chance with him, he enjoyed the game as much as I did, but he knew when to stop, whereas I kept going until I won the game hands down. No regrets.
“And who might you be, little one?” he asked the mouthy bitch of a friend who had eyes like restless gold. Her long inky hair grazed a firm round ass, and those boots, those fucking boots. She had a kind of understated, natural beauty that was disarming. With each slow breath her chest rose and fell, and I knew she was completely unaware of how beautiful she was. I hated that about her. Her beauty made her dangerous.
There was something familiar about how her eyes lit up under the lights and the precision of her cupids bow, then again, all women had familiar assets to entice weak men. I was immune to her hot body and velvety slick lips, but her intense gaze made me unsettled, and that alone presented me with a new challenge. Perhaps she could be a whole heap of new fun to fuck with.
“I’m, Freya. And yeah, I’ve had the displeasure of meeting the dickhead.” Her sickly-sweet smile was forced in my direction.
“Well done, Kaleb, you’ve made an impression. Grade A for effort, brother.” Brett chuckled, winking unnoticed.
“Freya, why are you being so mean?” Brett’s latest plaything widened her eyes, craning her neck sideward in a silent request for her friend to behave, but something told me this girl had no intention of being polite.
“I’d rather go back downstairs, if you don’t mind.” Freya’s tiny waist dipped to meet the soft curves of her hips, leading to lean legs poured into tight Lycra and her breasts heaved like she was flustered.
A silent argument passed between the two women. It was clear Syrah had fallen for Brett’s allure. He was a good-looking eligible bachelor who could charm deer from the woodland with a simple wink. At thirty-one he was the sole heir to his ancestor’s inheritance, raised in a strict family circle who taught him about stocks and shares as soon as he could say, ‘money’.
I, on the other hand inherited my father’s legacy after his untimely demise. I was permitted a few years of freedom to finish my schooling. Then on my eighteenth birthday, I was gifted with his entire life’s work and an accumulation of priceless artwork, bespoke cars, and a collection of gold bullion and intricate jewels. He was a master magpie who ultimately amounted to an urn of dust.
Freya’s stance softened, yielding to the unspoken plea to stay. “Fine then. I’ll go to the bar and get a drink,” she muttered, pulling a paper note from her cleavage.
My dick twanged, watching her slide the money from her warm secret hiding place. “Hiding anything else in there?” I quipped. Her pretty lips pouted and those fiery eyes of hers narrowed in on my face, but she didn’t utter a word. “Take a seat. The girl will get your order.”
I caught the waitress’s attention. It wasn’t hard, the girl was already staring at me. With a sashay and part trot, she stopped by my side, too fucking eager. It was predictable and annoying. She was fucking annoying.
“Yes, Mr. De Courcy. What would you like?” she purred, like a porn queen minus an ounce of self-respect.
I’d already screwed her up and she still bounced back for more. “A bottle of Gran Patrón Platinum and four glasses.”
Long false lashes fluttered, and then I noticed the little twitch in her left eye. The force of restraint. The withholding of nerves. “Will you need salt and lemon?”
“Lime.” My chin dipped, and I took a step back from her keen, unnecessary high-pitched giggle.
“Of course, Mr. De Courcy. I remember.”
Shut the fuck up.
Freya’s grunt curved through the air, almost muffled by the music. “I hate Tequila.”
What’s with this thankless bitch?I swivelled to face her. “Then it’s just as well you’ve already dulled your taste buds from the shit stuff you necked downstairs.” I caught her eyes roll at the sound of my voice.
Brett roared. “I sense a little tension in the air. You two should fuck and be done with it.”
