Page 9 of Five
My TRB needs more info. Raph, the psycho Bully Boy, is the brothers’ historian, he has an eidetic memory filled with details, perfect for my book. But he’s always too busy nailing his husband.
I obviously didn’t struggle when I found out about the family side business. No ethical conundrum here. I actually felt like I fit right in—who wouldn’t? It’s a sausage fest withseventormented brothers. I’ve always had a thing for ruthless men. As long as their ruthlessness isn’t aimed at me. Twisted, but it’s already toolate for my wicked mind. And the consequences of my actions are only mine, right?
I’ve been fighting against bullies and prats all my life. I learned how to defend myself, and because of my eccentric clothes, odd way of expressing myself, and don’t-give-two-shits attitude I have to do it on a daily basis.
I’m not ashamed of who I am, I worked hard to reach this spectacular level of Lori-ness. I made a few mistakes on the way, but I can easily say that I like myself.
Gran would have approved the whole Angels of Wrath enterprise. She’d have made me a tea and laughed at the bloody irony. Life can truly be a slag.
The elevator finally stops at the underground parking garage. I take a second to push away the sorrow that overtakes me when I think about her, then I make my way to my car as I look for the keys inside my Dior bag. I need to cross the whole parking lot because—and this is more demonic shite to add to the pile—I couldn’t find a free spot closer to the elevator.
I’m a few feet from my car when the hair on the back of my neck stands up as though someone is watching me. Glancing around the gray cement structure, I immediately spot a man with a smirk stretching his thin lips. “Hey, do you know if there’s a bar around here?”
My eyes slide quickly over his much taller physique and long, wild as if windblown black hair brushing against the tops of his shoulders. Super tight jeans and a t-shirt under a chocolate brown windbreaker cover a fit body. I’ve never seen him before, but the firm has clients coming and going every day. His dark, calculating eyes leave me feeling slightly unsettled. I brush it offand keep walking to my car as I reply, “Drink-Me is two blocks west if you like beer.”
“I sure do. Like to grab one with me?” he asks, his voice coming from right behind me.
When I turn around, he’s right in my personal space. Once again, my blazing fire attracts moth-like personalities. My stranger danger radar is bleeping like crazy though. I tighten my hold on the keys in my fist and smile sweetly as I say, “Not even if the Guinness bloke comes out to pour it.”
He narrows his eyes with what looks like annoyance, but the smirk on his face doesn’t fall. Using an arrogantly dominant move, he places his hand on the roof of my car, forcing me to lean back. His arm brushes my curls, and he gets even closer to my upturned face. The stink of cigarettes coming off him makes my nose scrunch up.
“Just one drink. You won’t regret it, cutie.”
I like the confidence, but…cutie? Gag, hurl, and puke. “Although this conversation is as sparkling as a coal mine, I have to impolitely decline. And I’d like to breathe some clean air. Back off, Chimney.”
Surprisingly, he does. But unsurprisingly, he grabs the front of my pink shirt and yanks me toward him, pulling me up onto my tippy-toes. His playful smirk turns vile. “Let’s go for a ride.”
A ride? How can guys still not understand the word no?
“Fuck off,” I succinctly tell him.
His leery eyes halt on my lips, and just like Octopus Prime, I know what he is thinking. My mouth is a gift from heaven and a curse from hell—Gran’s words, not mine. The shape andplumpness attract men of all kinds until I part my sexy lips and the words coming out make blokes run away with their tail between their legs.
“I can easily change your mind,” he adds suggestively and very unimaginatively. I can feel his unwanted pheromones wafting my way. If I could, I’d throw up through my eyeballs.
My mood, already as dark as the pits of hell, cannot be more affected by the relentless prat.
But this is a gloriously perfect end to this sedative-use-inducing day. I need to vent, and here is my punching bag served in a pair of ridiculously too-tight jeans.
“Listen carefully, you tosser, take your hands off my favorite off-shoulder shirt, or I’ll be the one having fun here sending your balls back to their home planet.” I give him a stern look, but he doesn’t seem impressed.
Underestimating my petite size is such a cliché.
“Listen, cutie—” I don’t let him finish, too eager to get to the enjoyable part—while trying not to peel the skin off my face at the sound of that horrificcutieagain. I plant my feet down and assume the defense stance raising my hands near his chest. Then I hit his forearm hard twice with the palm of my right hand as my left fist, still gripping the keys, gets him right in the nuts. Hisoomphof pain makes my body titillate with delight.
Titillate? Ugh, what is this word doing inside my brain?
As soon as his grasp loosens around my shirt, I grab his arm and twist it, forcing him to back off as I shove him away from me.
I take two steps back, letting out a chuckle at his half-bent position and loud grunts. “Is that all you got?”
I internally wince as I carefully place my rented Dior bag on its side on the dirty, disgusting ground. If it gets stained, Chimney will die a slow, painful death.
“Getting beaten up by anundeniablygorgeous bloke almost half your size. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I should post your epic defeat.” My taunt has the desired effect as he turns his twisted mouth and angry eyes toward me.
He slides a small pocketknife out of his jacket and slowly straightens up while spitting on the ground.
Danger always brings me clarity, that’s why I’m good at fighting. My mind turns incredibly clear while the adrenaline pumps inside my veins.
