8
Riley
The restaurant Declan takes us to is so elegant and upscale, I feel like I should have a sign around my neck apologizing for my attire.
The sign would blame it all on Sloane, of course.
The three of us sit in a corner booth at the back of a large, candle-lit dining room. Spider and the other bodyguards sit at two separate tables nearby.
Every time I glance in Spider’s direction, he’s gazing at me with stern, unwavering focus, like he’s judging my life choices.
That makes two of us.
“So, Riley. Tell me about yourself.”
Lounging against the booth with one arm slung over Sloane’s shoulders, king-of-the-jungle Declan smiles at me. How the man manages to ooze dominance and sexual prowess simply sitting there is one of life’s great mysteries.
Meanwhile, Sloane gazes dreamily up at his chiseled profile with little red hearts in her eyes.
I swear, I never would’ve believed this shit if I wasn’t seeing it for myself.
“Gee, where to start?” I muse, nibbling on a dinner roll.
Okay, nibbling is a lie. I’m gnawing on it like a farm animal. I’m so hungry, I could chew my own arm off. If the waitress doesn’t arrive with our entrées soon, I’m going to barge straight into the kitchen and start threatening people with a meat cleaver.
“I work as a freelance editor, which I adore. Mainly because of how much I love books, but also because I get to work in my pajamas.”
“And avoid all human contact,” Sloane adds, smiling.
“Yes. That’s a major benefit.”
Declan quirks a brow. “Not much of a people person, are you?”
“It’s not that I hate people, I just feel better when they’re not around.”
Sloane laughs. “Barfly.”
“I love that movie. Mickey Rourke was so dope when he was young.”
Sloane makes a face at me. “Don’t say ‘dope.’ It makes you sound so Generation Z.”
“I am Gen Z.”
“Ugh. That explains why you’re so antisocial.”
“At least I’m not a Millennial. You guys are all narcissists.”
“We are not!” she says, indignant.
When I only stare at her with my lips quirked, she laughs again. “Okay. You got me.”
Declan looks interested in the turn in the conversation. “What generation am I?”
Without thinking, I chuckle and say, “Generation Big D.”
He cocks his head, Sloane lifts her brows, and I backpedal as fast as I can. “The D doesn’t stand for dick!”
Sloane drawls, “What does it stand for then, Smalls?”
Cringing, face flaming, I lift my shoulders up to my ears and lie meekly, “Dude?”
“Uh-huh.” She throws back her head and laughs. “Oh, god. If you only knew how right you are!”
Declan looks back and forth between us. “I’m lost.”
Sloane reaches over and squeezes his thigh. “The D stands for daddy, honey.”
He glances at her hand on his thigh then looks at her mouth. His blue eyes grow hot. His smile comes on slow and heated.
And I am so out of here.
I stand abruptly, almost knocking over my water glass. Yanking at the hem of my dress, I say, “Be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Ladies room.”
“Spider.” Declan snaps his fingers. Spider shoots to his feet.
“I think I can pee by myself, thanks.”
Ignoring me, Declan makes a motion with his hand to indicate Spider is to follow wherever I go.
Knowing I don’t have a say in the matter, I sigh and head toward the back of the restaurant, tugging self-consciously at my hem and hoping Spider isn’t following too closely. He’ll probably get an eyeful of one of my pasty butt cheeks.
Gah! Why did I agree to wear this stupid dress?
I burst through the bathroom door and lock myself into a stall. I sit on the toilet with my elbows propped on my thighs and my chin propped in my hands until it seems enough time has passed for Sloane to jerk off Declan under the table. Or whatever it was they were about to do.
Then I go to the sink to wash my hands. Even though I didn’t pee, clean hands are always a good idea.
When I turn the water off and reach for a paper towel, I happen to glance into the mirror above the sinks. I freeze in horror.
A man is directly behind me.
He’s huge.
Frighteningly tall and broad, he stands with his legs spread open and his massive hands hanging by his sides. He’s all in black, including a heavy wool overcoat with the collar turned up against his tattooed neck.