Page 135 of Chasing Lyric
“I really like him,” I whisper against Lyric’s ear, and she exhales contentedly.
“Today’s going to be a good day. I can feel it.”
Smiling at her, I gesture for the house. “Shall we go inside?”
Lyric turns to face the main entrance. “Yeah, let’s go.” She steadies her shoulders, and we walk up the white stairs to the front door. She bursts out laughing as her eyes widen when she turns to face me. “Holy shit! I have to show you something.” She presses the doorbell, and it plays aSavage Riotchorus from their very first hit. I glance at Lyric, and she’s beaming. “How cool is that? Did you know you can get customized doorbells?”
My chest swells with pride at the affection she has for her family. “Got to give Stylo credit. Hedoeslove his band.”
Lyric exhales. “Oh, I know thatalltoo well.” She lets out a soft chuckle and reaches for the door, but before she can push it open, it swings wide, and there she is, Lyric’s mother. Blonde hair twisted into some fancy updo like she’s about to walk the Grammys red carpet. Diamond earrings hang from her ears,catching the sunlight just right, shooting spears of glare straight into my eyes.
Her black top hugs her body tight, cut with slashes that flash bare skin just above her cleavage. It’s bold and deliberate. Her jeans are so tight they’re practically painted on, and ripped just enough to look expensive, not careless. For a split second, I wonder if she’s actually getting younger, but then I catch the faint lines at the corners of her eyes. She’s clearly had work done, but hell, she looks almost exactly like she did the last time I saw her, which was years ago. She’s untouched by time. Polished. Dangerous in that way women get when they know exactly how to play the game, when they need to stay young because their husbands are uber famous.
“Mom,” Lyri yells, then slams forward, wrapping her arms around her in a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
Her mom eyes me, a little too suggestively, as she wraps her arms around her daughter tightly, then swings her from side to side. “Baby girl! When your father said you had lost weight, I didn’t think he was telling me the truth. You were always a little tubby in the belly, but look at you, getting all trim for your man.”
I furrow my brows at her in disgust.
Who says shit like that?
Lyric pulls back, glancing down at her tummy with an exhale. “Speaking of… Mom, this is my boyfriend, Chase.”
She sticks her hand out for me to shake. “Chase, I think we met once when your company was dealing withSavage Riot.”
I tilt my head.“Oh?” is all I manage to say, feeling an overwhelming urge to mention her minimal wrinkles, but drill down that she does, in fact, have them.
This woman is really rubbing me the wrong way.
Her eyes linger on me longer than necessary, and I can’t help but feel uncomfortable. “Your father was in a meeting with the band, and I was waiting outside the office. I asked for coffee,with something a little…stronger,” she says with a quick wink my way.
Oh, yeah, that’s right!She grabbed my ass and asked if I could lace the coffee with whiskey.
“Good to see you again, Mrs. Griffin.” I grab her hand to shake, but she turns her hand as if she wants me to kiss the back of it.
I don’t.
“Annie. Call me Annie, please. We’re practically family.”
Lyric glances from her mom to me and back again. She can either see the way her mom is eye-fucking me or the way I’m definitely uncomfortable, so she grabs my arm, effectively pulling my hand away from her mother’s. “Is Dad inside?” Lyric asks.
“Yes, baby girl, come on in. Make yourself right at home.” She waves her hand through the air to lead us through as Lyric scrunches up her face.
“Thiswasmy home, Mom.”
Annie grimaces, letting out a mock laugh. “And it still is, baby girl.”
Lyric stays close, her arm threaded through mine, steadying herself as we step into the house. The tiles beneath our feet shine with a high-gloss finish, the kind of result that doesn’t come from a quick mop but from someone down on their knees, working until the floor practically reflects every detail. There’s no doubt someone’s been paid well to keep this place pristine in their absence.
I take it all in.
This isn’t just wealth, it’s curated prestige.
The kind of luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself, because it’s already built into every corner. From the carved wood paneling to the carefully chosen fixtures, everything hasbeen designed to impress and maintain the illusion of effortless perfection.
My place is high-end, no question, but this space wasn’t just made to be lived in, it was made to leave people speechless. It’s where fame and power settle in, comfortable in the knowledge that nobody’s ever going to question whether they belong.
We move through the grand foyer, the kind of space made for dramatic arrivals and bigger-than-life egos, and head toward the back of the house, where the noise picks up. Sounds of voices, footsteps, and bursts of laughter, that unmistakable buzz of a full house. Lyric grips my arm a little tighter. I keep pace, ready to meet whatever this moment holds.
