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“Do you want to go to a party?”
Chapter Seven
Magnus
The last thing I expected was an invite out. But I take it.
We take the train to Manhattan and honestly, I can’t remember the last time I was on public transport. But it’s good, because I can now say how easy it is to get from my new enterprise to the city.
So far, my plan’s going perfectly.
Little Zoey Smith’s aching to ask me about poor gran. I’ve dropped small hints that there’s more going on than an old lady who’s had some kind of fall.
The one thing I didn’t expect was her reinforced backbone made of titanium. That’s Zoey’s, not my imaginary gran.
“So where are we going in the East Village?”
This is a place I’m dragged to by Ryder, otherwise I have no interest in this part of Manhattan.
“Avenue A and St. Mark’s. My friend Suzanne loves swank and hip parties and I don’t.”
I stop and look at her. “Not enough cookies?”
Her eyes narrow. “You have something against cookies?”
“They’re pointless snacks.”
She gasps. “Only a monster would say that.”
“Or a man who cares about his health. I drink, so I guess I’m only part monster.”
In my head I’m flipping through swank places around here where people might know me, along with anyone by the name Suzanne, but I come up blank.
Besides, any small risk is worth it to spend time with Zoey outside her natural habitat. It allows me to morph the relationship, to mold it into the direction I want it to go, to make her easy to pluck and strip down. Metaphorically. To get her building.
The streets are filled with people and we weave through them until we reach an apartment building perched above the buzzing stores on the corner of Avenue A and St. Marks. It’s not much outside, but someone’s renovated—cheaply inside. We take the elevator up to the penthouse and it opens on a by the book place that’s meant to be classy, but is just overpriced.
A blonde with big tits in a shimmery black dress that’s like a second skin swoops down. She falters when she sees me and then flutters her eyelashes. “And who are you?”
Her gaze barely touches on Zoey, which for some reason pisses me the hell off. I don’t know why. It’s not like I care.
“This is Suzanne,” Zoey says.
“I’m Suzanne and you’re gorgeous.”
I wince. “I’m here with Zoey.”
The woman blinks hard, and her head jerks back a little. Just when I’m about to pin a label on her, she flicks it away with a big grin as she looks at her friend. “Good for you, Zo.”
Zoey groans. “Don’t—”
“Do.” I say, instantly interested. I tell myself I’m mining for soft spots and vulnerabilities in the sweet smelling thorn in my side, and I shift closer to Zoey. She’s warm and I already know she’s soft skinned and with the kind of subtle curves that make a man reconsider his tastes.
Not that I need to. I’m not my brother, but my type is more personality than build.
“Tell me everything.”
“Zoey needs to meet a good man.”
