Page 60 of Bite
Pick you up at your place in 20?
Perfect! See you soon, bitch!
As I slide my phone into my purse, I already feel a little bit lighter. Now I just have to figure out how to arrange a ride.
Slinging my purse over a shoulder, I tug on a pair of black leather riding boots and head for the door. As soon as I pull it open, Ozzy darts out past my ankles in a flash of fur and rebellion, nails clicking against the polished wood as he barrelstoward the kitchen. His little body disappears around the corner like a shadow before I’ve even stepped over the threshold, and I can’t help but feel a little pang of envy watching his gleeful escape.
If only my life were as simple as chasing my next meal.
I step out into the hall and start toward the sweeping staircase, making my way downstairs slower than usual. Each step is a reminder of the tender ache coiled in my thighs and hips, my fingers curling tightly around the banister to steady myself. Below, the grand foyer stretches out, the floor awash with watercolor sunlight streaming in through stained glass.
My timing is perfect, because a member of the household staff happens to be crossing the foyer just as I reach the last few steps. She’s older, dressed in all black with salt-and-pepper hair woven into a tight braid.
“Hi!” I call out, prompting her to stop in her tracks and pivot toward me with a polite smile.
“Miss Holt,” she greets warmly, clasping her hands in front of her. “Do you need assistance with something?”
“Actually, yeah,” I breathe, shifting my purse strap up my shoulder. “Could you call me a car? I need to go downtown.”
Her smile falters a little, brow creasing. “Of course, but… well, I should probably check with Mr. Devereaux…”
I stiffen, fingernails biting into the leather strap of my purse. “I’m not a prisoner here, am I?” I ask, suddenly feeling a whole hell of a lot like I might be.
Color rises to her cheeks. “No, of course not!” she rushes to reply, shaking her head. “It’s just… well, with Mr. Devereaux’s position, there are security protocols for when he leaves the estate. As his donor, I assume those extend to you.”
“There’s no need to disturb him,” I insist, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering. Straightening my spine, I tip my chin in the same way I’ve seen James do, trying toproject a similar air of authority. “Arrange the car, please. I don’t want to be late.”
Remarkably, it actually works. The woman dips her head and murmurs, “Right away, Miss Holt,” before she hurries off, footsteps soft and quick on the marble.
I dart a glance around the foyer as she disappears from sight, exhaling a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.
Shit, maybe I’m starting to fit in around here better than I thought.
The ride into the city is a blur of gray skies and even grayer buildings. My knee bounces anxiously the entire way, keeping time with the nervous beating of my heart. By the time the car pulls up outside Bex’s apartment building, I’ve rehearsed at least a dozen versions of how I’ll smile, greet her, and try to act passably normal.
All of that goes out the window the moment I see her.
Bex bursts out of the building just as I’m reaching for my phone, oversized sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose and a devilish grin stretching her lips. The driver gets out to open the car door for her, but she beats him to it, plopping onto the seat beside me like she owns it and yanking the door shut to seal us inside.
“Oh my god, chauffeur service now?” she laughs, sliding her sunglasses up to rest atop her head. “Who evenareyou?”
“Don’t get used to it,” I say with a wry chuckle.
Her smile fades as her eyes flick over me. “You seem weird. What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t sleep great,” I lie, turning toward the window as the car eases away from the curb.
“Uh huh,” she deadpans, not buying my bullshit for a second. “How many drinks is it gonna take for you to spill? Should we just go straight to the bar?”
I turn back toward her with a slow exhale. “At least three, but we’re shopping first. I need to do something that feels normal.”
Bex snorts a laugh. “Normal? As if we’re the type who could ever afford retail therapy.”
Girl has a point.
“You know what I mean,” I sigh, waving her off. “Something mindless. I’ve got a credit card dedicated torounding out my wardrobe… whatever the hell that means.”
“It means buy all the pretty things on his dime,” she snickers, scooting closer and catching my hand. “You sure you’re okay?”
