Parker
It had been a full week since I became Mrs. Mosley, and I had done nothing but lay around, watching TV and writing in my journal like some caged bird waiting for its chance to escape. The penthouse was luxurious, filled with the finest furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and a kitchen that probably cost more than some people’s entire homes. But it wasn’t home. It was a fucking prison.
Shooter had been busy, handling business. After what I witnessed at the barbershop, I had done everything in my power to avoid going anywhere with him. The next time he told me to get dressed, I faked a headache. The time after that, I claimed my cramps were too bad. He didn’t argue or force me but I saw the way he looked at me, like he was giving me space but wouldn’t allow it for much longer. But tonight… tonight, I needed a fucking break.
I was curled up on the couch, flipping through channels with my phone in my lap when it started ringing. I glanced down. Mecca. I sighed before answering. “What?”
“Bitch, don’t ‘what’ me. It’s Saturday. And not just any Saturday—it’s Kalea’s birthday, and you already know what that means.”
Her voice was filled with excitement, and in the background, I could hear the music bumping.
I groaned. “I don’t know, girl…”
“Nope. Don’t even finish that weak-ass excuse you were about to give me,”
she snapped. “You been MIA all damn week, acting like a housewife all of a sudden. We haven’t seen your ass. You owe me and the girls a night out.”
I sighed, glancing at my reflection in the mirror across the room. My hair was up in a messy bun, my oversized tee swallowing my frame. I looked like a woman who had given up. Sasha must have sensed my hesitation because she went in for the kill.
“, listen to me. I get it. You married the big, bad wolf or whatever, but bitch, you need to breathe. One drink, a little dancing, and some fun ain’t gonna kill you.”
Shooter’s voice flashed in my head. “Keep all that ratchet shit to a minimum.”
But he wasn’t here. He was off somewhere handling business, probably doing something bloody and illegal. And I was supposed to just sit here like a damn Stepford wife, waiting for him to come back? Fuck that.
“What time y’all heading out?”
Mecca squealed. “That’s my girl! We’re leaving in an hour. You got time to get fine as fuck, but don’t play around, okay?”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be ready.”
The moment I hung up, I felt that old familiar rush of adrenaline—the one I used to get before a night out. It had been too long since I had dolled myself up, slipped into a sexy dress, and reminded the world exactly who the fuck I was. I tossed my phone onto the bed and headed straight to the bathroom. If I was going out, I was going out looking right.
After a hot shower, I stood in front of my mirror, naked, studying myself. My body was still toned, my curves still lethal. I wasn’t about to let this marriage dull my shine. I styled my hair into soft curls that framed my face perfectly. My makeup? Flawless. A smoky eye, long lashes, and a glossy nude lip that made my pout look downright sinful.
I slipped into a black bodycon dress that hugged every curve like it was made just for me. The hem stopped just below my ass, and the neckline dipped low enough to be dangerous. Diamonds glinted against my brown skin, and when I stepped into my red-bottom heels, I knew one thing for certain—I looked good as fuck.
Shooter might’ve thought he had me on lock, but tonight, I was free. The real challenge was getting out of the penthouse. He had goons stationed everywhere, but I had already studied them like a damn science project. And right now, my best bet was Marcus, the youngest and most easily distracted of his security team.
I found him near the elevator, standing post with a serious expression. I smiled sweetly. “Hey, Marcus.”
He turned, eyes widening slightly as he took me in. “Uh, Mrs. Mosley.”
I almost rolled my eyes at the name. Instead, I tilted my head, playing innocent. “So, listen… I just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for a little bit. To the movies.”
Marcus frowned. “Uh… does, uh… does Shooter know?”
I placed a delicate hand on his arm, letting my fingers trail lightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Of course. I wouldn’t just leave without telling my husband, now would I?”
My voice was soft, sweet, dangerously convincing.
Marcus hesitated, then looked me over again. I knew what he saw. A bad bitch in a tight dress, looking like trouble. “You just going to the movies, right?”
I smiled, touching his chest lightly. “Mhmm. Just a simple girls’ night. Nothing crazy.”
He exhaled, nodding. “Alright, alright. Be careful out there, Mrs. Mosley.”
I bit back my smirk as he swiped his keycard and let me pass. That shit was too easy. I stepped into the elevator, and as the doors closed, my smirk stretched into a grin. Freedom. When I climbed into the awaiting black SUV, my girls screamed.
“Bitch, look at you!”
Retia grinned, reaching over to grab my wrist and shake it. “I knew you weren’t about to sit up in that penthouse and rot.”
Kalea, the birthday girl, clapped her hands. “You came! I was not about to celebrate without you, bitch.”
I laughed, my earlier tension slipping away as I settled into the seat. “Of course I came. Y’all know I can’t resist a turn-up.”
Mecca, the quietest of the group, side-eyed me. “Your crazy husband ain’t gonna pop up at the club and snatch your ass up, is he?”
I waved a dismissive hand. “Shooter is busy. He ain’t worried about me right now.”
That was partly true. But I already knew when he found out, it was going to be hell to pay. But tonight? Tonight, I was outside.
The driver pulled off, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the car as the city lights blurred past us. For the first time in days, I felt like me again. Let’s see what the night brings.
G y p s y B a r & L o u n g e was packed, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume, liquor, and the bass of a trap song vibrating through the walls. The lights were low, casting everyone in a sultry glow, and the energy was just right.
I leaned against the bar, sipping on a strong margarita while my girls huddled around me, laughing and talking over the music. The tequila burned, but in the best way, loosening the last bit of tension in my shoulders.
“This is what I’m talkin' about!”
Mecca shouted, throwing an arm around me. “Girl, I was worried about you, but you came out and showed the fuck up.”
Retia smirked, her nails clicking against her glass. “Mmmhmm. But , real talk. you been lookin' stressed. What’s up with that?”
I exhaled and swirled the ice in my drink. “What do you think? I’m married to a Mosley. It ain’t exactly sunshine and roses.”
Kalea arched a brow. “Yeah, we peeped that. And Shooter?”
She whistled low. “That nigga ain’t normal.”
A bitter laugh slipped out. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Retia frowned, taking a sip of her drink before nudging me. “But real shit, though… is he, like, hurtin' you?”
I hesitated. Not yet. But he was definitely playing the long game, asserting control in ways that didn’t require his fists—just his presence, his demands, his goddamn blue eyes on me like a predator waiting for its prey to wear itself out. I forced a smirk. “Nah, he’s just… intense.”
Mecca snorted. “Intense? Girl, that nigga is fuckin' scary.”
I rolled my eyes, even though I knew she wasn’t lying. “Let’s not talk about him tonight. We’re supposed to be turning up.”
“Period,”
Kalea agreed, raising her glass. “To me, bitches!”
I clinked glasses with them, knocking back the last of my margarita. The liquor spread warmth through my veins, making me forget, for just a moment, who I belonged to now. We made our way to the dance floor, bodies swaying, hips rolling, the music taking over. I was mid-spin when I felt a presence behind me.
“Damn, ma. You always dance like this?”
A deep voice, smooth as honey but with a dangerous edge. I turned and tilted my head up, meeting the dark gaze of a man who looked like trouble in a tailored shirt. He was tall, caramel-skinned, with broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, and a smile that promised toxicity.
I smirked. “Depends on who’s watching.”
His lips curled into something wicked. “Lucky me, then.”
I raised a brow. “That so?”
He nodded, stepping closer but not touching. Just enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his body. “Yeah. Lucky you, too. ‘Cause I was just about to leave, but then I saw you.”
I shouldn’t have entertained him. But I was lit, tipsy, and reckless. “So what, you gonna stand there and admire, or you gonna dance?”
I challenged.
He grinned, stepping into my space, hands skimming my waist as he moved with me. He smelled good—like expensive cologne and bad decisions.
“What’s your name, ma?”
I smirked, letting him spin me, but before I could answer, I caught Retia’s expression shift from carefree to something worse. Then I felt it. A shift in the air. A slow, creeping chill that curled around my throat like an invisible hand. I turned my head to see Shooter at the entrance of the lounge, clad in all black, blue eyes locked on me with a look so lethal it made my breath hitch and my stomach drop. If looks could kill, I would’ve dropped dead on the spot.
Kalea grabbed my wrist. “,”
she whispered, voice urgent.
Mecca , standing beside her, wasn’t even trying to be discreet. “Oh shit, bitch. You fucked up.”
I swallowed hard. My pulse spiked, adrenaline roaring through me like a warning siren. My feet refused to move, even as the fine-ass man in front of me took one last glance at Shooter before stepping the fuck back. Smart.
Shooter’s steps were slow, deliberate, as he prowled through the lounge, the crowd instinctively parting for him like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea. His eyes never left me. Cold. Dark. Deadly. My breath caught when he stopped in front of me, so close I could feel the heat of his body, the restrained fury radiating from him like an open flame. For a long, thick moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared down at me, jaw locked, lips pressed into a hard line. Then, Shooter finally spoke with his voice deep and low.
“Let’s go.”
Two words. No argument. No negotiation. Just a command.
I hesitated—big fucking mistake—because the next thing I knew, his hand was wrapped around my wrist in an iron grip, and he was moving. Dragging me through the club, through the gawking crowd, past my stunned girls who knew better than to get involved.
The bouncer at the entrance barely stepped aside in time before we were outside, the night air hitting my skin like a slap. Shooter didn’t stop. Not until we reached his choice of car for the day, which was a black Maybach parked illegally at the curb like he wished someone would try him.
Then, without a word, he yanked open the passenger door and all but shoved me inside. The door slammed shut, and seconds later, the driver’s side opened, and Shooter slid in.
The car was silent, except for the sound of my rapid breathing. I forced myself to look at him, my mouth parting to speak— but one glance at his face had my words dying in my throat.
His jaw was clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack. His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, his tattooed fingers flexing, betraying the restraint it was taking not to snap.
I wasn’t sure which scared me more—the storm brewing in his icy blue eyes or the fact that he hadn’t said a single word since dragging me out of the club. But one thing was for damn sure. I had fucked up.