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“I have clothes.”
“Something new. And you’d better behave,” I say. “Just remember, I’m watching…”
TWELVE
scarlett
“I’m watching.”
The next day, I mutter those words under my breath as I pick through the racks of dresses at a small boutique in the West Village. I furrow my brow as I slide the hangers past me. I’d never consider looking at dresses like this. I figured my friend Lacey could help me find something. I look up from the rack and stare at the front door, silently willing her to appear because I need to see a familiar face right now.
Malone’s words loop through my mind.
I’m watching…
What does that even mean?
Is it a threat? Or a promise? I’m sure he’s got someone following me, kind of like a bodyguard. Just like I figure he’s got someone on everyone else in my family, too.
After all, it’s what my body is paying for, right? Isn’t that why I agreed to this fake relationship, this fake engagement, in the first place?
I ignore the small dark thrill that runs through me at the thought. The evil little fantasy that popped into being somewhere between last night and the alley. The one that whispers if he keeps me, I can enjoy—secretly—everything he does to me.
But it’s a fallacy.
As of now, he’s only delivered physical pleasure, a cruel meting out of orgasms. But there’s also that lingering threat of giving me to others. And then the way he took my ass like he did, so viciously, so brutally erotic.
I grip one of the hangers tight and grit my teeth.
I don’t even know if he came home last night, and I’m having weird-ass fantasies about him? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Girl, what the hell are you doing here?”
Lacey bounces into view. She’s curves and energy and no fucks given. She’s everything I’d love to be, the one who looks like she’s all fun and games, but she’s got a steel trap business mind beneath her bright-pink hair.
I hug her tight. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’d prefer a bar like the one on the other side of Greenwich Street,” she says, nodding at the window. “So… why are we here in Old Lady Central?”
I look around with a gasp, then nudge Lacey. “Shh,” I hiss. “This place isn’t for old ladies.”
She rolls her eyes and nabs a cream dress. “I beg to differ, Scar. Why don’t we blow out of this place, buy some pastries and cakes, and eat our way through your competition over some drinks?”
“Opening a bakery’s hard work.”
“It’s your dream,” she says.
I take the cream dress back and put it on the rack. When the assistant starts to move toward us, cornering us like rats so close to a trap, Lacey stops the woman dead in her tracks with her fierce Lacey look.
I let out a deep sigh. “Right now, I’ve got more pressing issues than scarfing sweets made by my competition.”
“Like what?”
“Like finding a dress.”
She frowns. “You have dresses.”
“Something new. Classy but…” I’m not saying sexy, I’m not telling her what’s going on. “Sexy.”
