“Get out of here, Sylas,” she says through the window. “Go live your life and leave me alone.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” I yell, my anger fueling me.
“Go!” she yells and her chin wrinkles and her lip quivers.
“You haven’t spoken to me in months and the first damn thing you have to say is go away?”
“Would you like me to say something else? Just go.”
“Oh I’m going all right,” I growl. “It’s impressive how well you can avoid me in such a small town! The only thing more impressive is how little you care about us!” I yell. “It’s almost like I didn’t mean shit to you.”
“Believe what you want Sylas.”
“You know what? Fuck you Raegan Potter!” I scream looking up at her with pools of water collecting in my eyes.
“Enough,” my dad says through his open truck window as he comes to a stop in front of the house. “Sy, time to go home,” he says in a stern tone giving me no chance of arguing with him and anyway I don’t exactly feel like fighting him. I just want to go home and pretend that I am not going off to boot camp with a broken heart. I take one more look at Rae but she’s already gone, her curtains hiding her from me.
“Raaaaaaae!” I boom from the driveway, spinning my keys around my index finger. “Get your ass out here. Gotta move or we’re gonna be late to my event!”
“Goddammit Sy, I’m comin’,” she yells from inside the cabin like a banshee. Hearing her accent makes a smile tilt my lips up. I hear the clicking of heels inside my cabin then she kicks the screen door open, shuffling herself out the door while tugging the main door closed behind her with the same hand that is holding a tiny purse. She turns to face me, huffing. “It’s too damned hot and humid in this state,” she growls, fanning her done up face. My eyes trace over her from head to toe then back again. On instinct, I press my palm to my chest and my breathing halts in my throat.
“Well?” she huffs and spins in a circle on my front porch. Jesus, she’s gorgeous. “It’s the best I could do with Bethany having to pick something from my closet on my behalf, with little warning no less. That, and I’m fairly certain someone at FedEx opened the package. There’s no way a chiffon Prada cocktail dress wads itself up like that,” she rambles on, frowning as she smooths the midnight blue fabric over her incredible form.
“You tryin’ to make me miss my event?” I growl.
“Listen,” her nostrils flare and she holds up her manicured finger. “I pulled off a small miracle getting this together.” She waves at her own body. “So I don’t wanna hear it, Sy. We won’t be late and even if we are, its fine. Ever heard of fashionably late?”
“Ain’t talkin’ about how long you took to get done up, Snow,” I say tracing my fingers over her neck. “Just mean that you looking like this… I can’t think of a better way to spend my evening than between your legs with your pretty dress pushed up to your throat,” I say against her ear before gently biting it. I pull away from her to see her red painted lips parted, her gorgeous azure eyes dilated and her chest heaving, as she works to catch her breath.
“That sounds good,” she whispers. “But as tempting as that sounds, it won’t help BCF, so what do you say you hold the hot sex until we get home from helping folks lighten their wallets a touch for a good cause?” Getting to her tiptoes to press her lips to mine, she doesn’t give me room to reply. Remarkably and likely because of voodoo, her perfectly applied lipstick doesn’t budge. She’s full of mysteries, my Snow.
Chapter 23
Raegan
It’s becoming increasingly rare that I surprise myself, but tonight I am genuinely surprised that I—with tremendous help from Bethany who has been working around the clock remotely—took Sy’s modest event and turned it into a front-page worthy who’s who of the south. We managed to more than double the guest list by expanding the venue with the help of the giant tent Bethany arranged. We both slapped together a silent auction worthy of Manhattan’s Socialite circle. Artwork, sculptures, exclusive getaways, spa treatments, autographed memorabilia, antiques and collectibles… you name it, Bethany, Sylas and I have called in a favor for it. So many people contributed to the auction and I have high hopes for the final tally once the dust settles and Yoder breaks out the calculator. Sylas will—hopefully—be handwriting thank you cards for the next few weeks.
We worked at stepping up the glamour of the fundraiser to appeal to the hoity-toity upper class folks from old money whose wives wouldn’t dare be seen attending otherwise. Those types may be unsavory company and generally of the asshole tribe, but they’re also the type to drop several thousand dollars at a time if they considered it an image investment. The middle class folks are here as well to gawk at the rich. Long story short, let the rich come out and play while pretending to be doing something charitable when truthfully they’re phonies, nearly the entire lot of them. And let the regular crowd watch the blowhards strut. I don’t care. I work and live my life amongst fakers and scoundrels. I feel right at home tonight and I plan to wring every hot red cent I can out of them all. For Sy. For BCF.
I’m standing off to the side, admiring the massive makeshift ballroom, the setting sun outside making the space seem lit in shades of pink and orange. A sea of twinkle lights are hung from the edges of the tent, making the place seem like a flute full of bubbly champagne. It’s beautiful.
Though we planted a story in the media to garner more attention for tonight, I’m careful to keep myself inconspicuous. Because I don’t want Sylas to be seen being too cozy with me, I have to rely on someone else to run the event. We hired an event planner from New Orleans to help make the night run smoothly. Sylas was against the extra expense but I twisted his arm and my ink pen when I wrote a personal check covering her fee. Sy doesn’t know that I am purposely distancing myself in an effort to avoid giving the piranhas any more reason at all to attack him or BCF. I am counting on him being busy enough with guests tonight to not miss me.
I catch the attention of the hired event coordinator and nod, letting her know to get Sylas to the microphone for his opening speech before the auction and dancing begins. Food larger than the tiny skewers with bite size snacks will come shortly but for now I let the drinks flow. Alcohol lubricates the brain that is normally stiff with inhibitions. Let the moneybags get tipsy as they begin their bidding and subliminal pissing matches. I should feel guilty but I don’t.
I watch the event coordinator stand to the side until she can gain Sy’s attention. She leans in and whispers something to him. Immediately his eyes peer up and scan the crowd until he finds me. I smile softly and nod my encouragement. He grins and fishes a notecard from his breast pocket. When he winks, then turns toward the stage, I slip away, choosing to make myself scarce should Sy want to make some public declaration to thank Bethany and I. I’m walking down the covered path leading from the event.
“Raegan Potter,” a voice purrs as though he’s the cat that caught the mouse. Well, I’m no fucking mouse and even if I were, I’d be a genetically mutated one the size of Godzilla.