I cut her off. “—are mine.”
She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue. In fact, she had that glint in her eyes that told me she loved this.
I walked back with Emery's panties in my pocket, grass stains on my knees, the taste of her on my lips, and an erection the size of a skyscraper.
This was the type of shit that spiraled, and next thing I knew, it’d be plastered all over tabloids that I fucked the twenty-two-year-old daughter of the face of embezzlement.
This was definitely not okay.
But it fucking felt great.
The general IQ of the fine people of Eastridge, North Carolina sat somewhere between Americans who can’t locate America on a map and people who believe the Earth is flat. At least, it felt like that as I overheard four different conversations about the necessity of muslin washcloths.
Between the mundane chatter, gossip of me ran rampant, occasionally brushing over the pending black eye I sported.
“He’s so damaged. Ugh, and he always looks so tortured. Why does that make him hotter?”
I don’t know, Stepford #1. Perhaps you should seek therapy for that. (For the record, I am tortured by this brunch, which isn’t even a word.)
“My neighbor told me he gave her the best sex she’s ever had at last week’s gender reveal party.”
My blue balls can attest that I haven’t fucked your neighbor, and I’d sooner show up to a swingers’ night at a retirement community than a fucking gender reveal party.
“I told my wife he's a thug. Look at his eye. Once a poor kid, always a poor kid.”
Cool story, bro. It’d mean more if you hadn’t passed me your business card as soon as I entered the restaurant.
Our group sat at a table in the center, which Virginia informed us was the best seat in the house.
“I’m looking into becoming a Sir.” Balthazar lifted his chin as if what he said should have impressed us. “You’ll all have to call me Sir once it happens.”
It could have been a joke, but he seemed like the type to expect it.
“A Sir,” Emery repeated, drawing the word out like she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the concept. She sat directly beside me, our bodies so close they stuck together.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Virginia squeezed Sir Balty’s hand.
I swear if he leered at Emery one more time, I’d ruin his life, then rearrange his face for sport. Douche was gonna be her step-father, and he stared at her like she was a piece of meat he wanted to dig in to.
“Congratulations, Sir Balthazar,” Small Dick said, grabbing a menu off the table. This tool looked like every Disney villain rolled into one idiotic, blue-blooded asshole.
I didn't touch a menu as everyone sifted through the options. Virginia darted her eyes away from me. She'd spent the morning caught somewhere between the sneer she used to give me and the brown-nosed chatter because I was suddenly the most powerful man in the room.
One of the white-suited waiters approached.
“Order anything, Nash.” Virginia glanced at him before saying, “It’s on our country club tab.”
“Perfect,” Emery cut in, flipped the menu open, then preceded to order two of everything that didn’t suck.
“Two of everything?” The waiter gnashed his lips together. Poor guy wanted to flee.
“Of everything.” She offered the closed menu to him. “Treat yourself to a two-hundred percent tip, too.”
Virginia’s fingers turned white around the stem of her mimosa glass. She pursed her lips until the waiter left. “The temper tantrum isn’t cute.”
“Perhaps not.” A sly smile brightened Emery’s face. “You know what is cute? A spare tire, so I can’t wait to dig into the food.”
“This. This behavior is exactly why I didn’t make you maid of honor.”
“You’re getting married?” Emery finished off her second cocktail of the afternoon.
“Yes. Soon. I invited you here today to announce it.”
“You didn't invite me, Virginia. You demanded it, which happens when your own daughter cannot stand the sight of you.”
Virginia ignored her. “We have put it off long enough, waiting for you to find your senses and return to Eastridge. No use in waiting now. I’ll be a Van Doren soon, and Cordelia will be my maid of honor. You remember Cordelia, right? Able’s sister. Lovely girl.” She stared at Small Dick like he was her pride and joy. “Balthazar has agreed to make Able his best man. You’ll be my bridesmaid and accompany Able as his date.”
“The hell she will,” I gritted out. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”
“Pardon me?”
“It would explain the misshaped head, obsession with injecting chemicals into your face, and overall deranged behavior.”
For the record, I had no issue with plastic surgery. Virginia consistently prioritizing it above Emery, on the other hand, rubbed me the wrong way.
“You act as if my daughter hates me, Mr. Prescott.”
Emery dug her fingernails in my thigh, the message clear—she didn’t need me fighting her battles. She thanked the waiter for topping up her drink and sipped it.
“I don’t hate you, Virginia. You shaped me, so to hate you is to hate myself… which, if I think about it, might be what you’ve wanted all along. I am the younger, shinier version of you, and it’s always bothered you. Hasn’t it?”
“This is exactly why I chose Cordelia. I would have made you my maid of honor, Emery, but you’re entirely too untrustworthy for such a gift.”
Another gulp of her drink. “Thanks for sparing me, Virginia.”
“I expect you at the rehearsal dinner or you can say goodbye to your trust fund.”
“Sounds fun.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “Nash and I would love to go.” She waved at her soon-to-be step-father and Able. “See you there, Sir Balty and Small Dick.”
We spent the rest of the evening at the bar, Emery chugging down amaretto sours until I’d asked the waiter to switch them to water.
As soon as we entered the car, Emery shimmied into her oversized sweats, ordering me not to look. She flipped the dress over her head and replaced it with a white t-shirt that read, Easy, Tiger.
Settling into the seat, she stroked the trim. “What type of car is this?”
I pulled into the gas station and handed an attendant my card with orders to fill up the tank. “A Lamborghini Aventador S Roadster.”
“Hmm… doesn’t seem like something you’d drive.”
That’s because I'd taken an Uber to the nearest car dealership and picked the first car on the lot after my Honda broke down. It happened to be a luxury car dealership. Eastridge, North Carolina for you.
“You know what I noticed about Virginia?” she asked once we’d driven for an hour, the only car on the road now.
“What?”
“She never looks happy. I want to be happy when I grow up.”
“You’re not happy right now?”
“Hmm… I think I am. Maybe. Just a different type of happy. I want to be balter type of happy.” Another made-up word, no doubt. She didn’t give me a chance to ask what it meant. “Are you ever sick of the lies?”