Parker
I sat across from Shooter, still mad, still pissed, but my hunger was louder than my pride. The food smelled too good, and my stomach had already betrayed me once. I wasn’t about to let it happen again. So, I snatched the plate, piled some food on it, grabbed a fork, and started eating, all while keeping my eyes locked on him.
Shooter was leaning back in his chair, relaxed as hell, watching me like he knew he’d won this round. Like he had all the patience in the world to wait me out. It made my skin itch.
I cut into my steak, chewing slowly before speaking. “You got rules for me,”
I said, my tone sharp. “I got rules for you, too.”
Shooter lifted a brow, smirking. “That right?”
“Damn right,”
I said, setting my fork down. “If you’re gonna be disappearing for days, I at least deserve to know where the hell you are.”
His smirk didn’t waver. “That’s not how this works, baby.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m your wife, remember?”
I shot back, throwing his words from earlier in his face. “Or does that only count when it benefits you?”
Shooter chuckled, low and deep, shaking his head as he cut into his own food. “You really think I’m bouta give you a play-by-play of my whereabouts?”
I glared at him. “Yes.”
He chewed, swallowed, then wiped his mouth with a napkin, taking his time. “Nah.”
I huffed, reaching for my orange juice. “Of course not.”
“But,”
he said, tapping his fork against the plate, “I will make sure you’re informed if I plan to be gone for more than a couple days. That fair enough for you?”
I studied him, trying to see if he was just bullshitting me. “Fine,”
I muttered. “But if I call, pick up the damn phone.”
He nodded once. “Long as you don’t call me with no bullshit.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Whatever.”
Shooter leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp. “And since we’re setting rules,”
he said, voice dropping an octave, “I got one more for you.”
I tensed. “What?”
“You pull that shit again—sneakin’ out, lyin’ to my people, tryna make me look stupid?”
His gaze darkened, something dangerous flickering in those blue eyes. “There will be consequences, .”
A chill ran down my spine, but I lifted my chin, refusing to back down. “You don’t scare me.”
His lips twitched, like he was amused but also done with my mouth. “You’ve been warned,”
he said simply, going back to his food like the conversation was over.
I clenched my jaw, gripping my fork, but I didn’t push it. For now. We ate in silence for a little while, the tension still thick, still charged.
I could feel it between us, stretching, pulling. Then, my eyes landed on the half-smoked blunt sitting beside him.
I reached for it, slow and deliberate, and Shooter’s gaze lifted, watching me. I picked it up, rolled it between my fingers, then brought it to my lips to light.
His jaw tightened. I inhaled deeply, the smoke burning in my lungs, and exhaled just as slowly, blowing it out, feeling my body relax almost instantly. Shooter licked his lips, his eyes darkening, heating.
I smirked. “What?”
“You tryna piss me off or turn me on?”
His voice was low, thick with something I felt in my gut.
I took another hit, holding his stare. “Well, since I can’t stand you, do the math.”
Shooter let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he dragged a hand over his jaw. I passed the blunt back, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he kept looking at me like he was deciding something. Plotting. Then he sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I need you by my side tomorrow night.”
I frowned. “For what?”
“A meeting,”
he said simply.
I stared at him, waiting for more. “A business meeting?”
Shooter nodded. “Your kind of business?”
His lips curled at the edges. “Our kind of business, Mrs. Mosley.”
A shiver ran down my spine, but I played it off. “And what exactly do you need me there for?”
Shooter leaned back again, tapping a finger against the table. “It’s about optics,”
he said smoothly. “Niggas in my lane? We don’t just build power. We maintain it. And a man who has everything—money, respect, fear—also has a wife at his side. A woman who shows that everything in his world is under control.”
I arched a brow. “So I’m just a prop?”
Shooter chuckled. “Nah, baby,”
he said, his voice like silk laced with poison. “You’re my queen. And tomorrow night, you gon' act like it.”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “You really think you can just parade me around like—”
“Like my wife,”
he cut me off, his tone firm, unwavering. “Exactly like that.”
I sat back, crossing my arms. “And if I say no?”
Shooter smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Then I’ll make you come.”
Heat flared through me, unwanted, uninvited. I hated how my body reacted to him, how he got under my skin so easily. I exhaled sharply. “Fine,”
I muttered. “Whatever.”
Shooter nodded like he already knew I would. But then he grinned, slow and smug. I grabbed a piece of toast and threw it at his head. He caught it midair, laughing. I hated him. I really fucking did.
After finishing my food, I leaned back in my chair, satisfied and full, watching Shooter as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, like he wasn’t the most aggravating man on the planet. Then, casually as hell, he stretched his arms over his head and said, “I’m bouta take a nap. When I wake up, we goin' shoppin’.”
I blinked. “We?”
Shooter stood, rubbing his chin, his blue eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Yeah, we,”
he said, like I was slow. “You need shit, don’t you? Them clothes from your old life ain’t sittin’ in my crib.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I could just go by myself.”
His smirk was taunting. “Nah. I wanna be there.”
I frowned. “Why?”
Shooter didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed back from the table, his tall frame moving with ease, and sauntered toward the hallway that led to the bedroom. I tried not to watch him. I really did. But damn it, he was too fine. Tall, built, moving like he knew he was the baddest man in the room. His tattoos peeking out, his chains glinting, and my traitorous eyes followed the way his slacks sat on his waist like he was sculpted from stone.
God, I hated him. Shooter stopped at the entrance of the hallway, like he felt my stare. He turned his head slightly, smirking without even looking at me. “Try not to miss me too much while I sleep, Mrs. Mosley,”
he said before disappearing into the bedroom.
I rolled my eyes so hard my head almost fell off. But I was fed, satisfied, and my mood was better. Now I knew what that stack of money was all about and I planned to blow it all and then some.
Hours later, the late afternoon sun streamed through the massive penthouse windows as I stood in front of the mirror, putting the final touches on my look.
Shooter hadn’t told me where we were shopping, but I was going to make sure I was seen while doing it. I slipped on a fitted nude jumpsuit, one that hugged my body like it was painted on. The fabric clung to every curve, the neckline dipping just enough to tease, but not enough to give it all away.
I paired it with an oversized cropped denim jacket, my wrists and fingers adorned with gold jewelry. My hair was styled in big curls, framing my face perfectly, and my makeup was soft but sultry—neutral tones, glossy lips, and lashes that could cause a small breeze when I blinked.
Shooter was already in the living room when I stepped out, dressed in all black yet again, his usual ice around his neck and wrists. I knew the second he saw me. His eyes dragged over my body slowly, taking in every inch, every curve, like he was committing it to memory. He didn’t say shit. Didn’t even nod in approval.
I lifted a brow, smirking. “We leaving or what?”
Shooter’s jaw flexed. “Let’s go.”
When we stepped off the elevator, he decided on the car he wanted to push for the day. The ride was smooth, the engine of the black Lamborghini purring beneath us as we sped through the city streets. The interior was luxurious as hell, and I made sure to get comfortable, leaning back against the plush seat, my long nails tapping against my phone screen as I browsed online for what I planned to cop.
Shooter glanced at me before refocusing on the road. “So,”
he said, resting one hand on the wheel, “what’s your favorite color?”
I frowned at the randomness. “What?”
“Your favorite color,”
he repeated. “What is it?”
I studied him, but he looked unbothered, waiting for an answer. “Green.”
Shooter nodded. “Favorite movie?”
“Step Brothers.”
He smirked a little. “Figures.”
I squinted at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You look like you enjoy corny ass movies,”
he teased, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
I gasped. “Corny?! That movie is a classic.
Shooter laughed under his breath. “I hear you.”
I crossed my arms and shook my head, muttering under my breath, but secretly, I kind of liked that he was asking me shit. “Okay, my turn,”
I said, turning to face him. “What’s your favorite color?”
Shooter took a moment before answering. “Black.”
I smirked. “Obviously.”
He cut me a warning look, making me laugh. I rested my elbow on the car door. “Alright, what’s your favorite movie?”
He glanced at me, then back at the road. “Casino.”
I blinked. “That mafia movie?”
He nodded. I tilted my head. “Makes sense. You are a criminal, after all.”
Shooter smirked. “A very successful one.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t deny there was something about his confidence, the way he owned his world, that was…intoxicating. Even if he was annoying as hell.
We rode in silence for a moment, the hum of the car filling the space between us. Then, Shooter glanced over at me again. “You was hella excited to marry Silas, huh?”
His question caught me off guard. I scoffed, “Hell no. Marrying someone off should be illegal. I didn’t ask for any of this.”
Shooter didn’t press, but I could feel his eyes on me. After a beat, he smirked. “You ready to drop a bag on my dime, wifey?”
I turned to him, grinning. “Oh, absolutely.”
Shooter chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course you are.”
I crossed my legs, my diamond anklet catching the light. “Gotta make up for all the bullshit I’m going through. Speaking of, who was the bitch?”
I asked, keeping my tone light, but the heat in my words was undeniable.
Shooter smirked, like he’d been waiting for me to ask. “Not important.”
I scoffed. “Not important? You came home with her suck marks on your fucking neck, Sebastian.”
He chuckled, gripping the wheel tighter as he switched lanes smoothly. “That what’s been eatin’ your ass up?”
I rolled my eyes. “Nigga, please.”
Shooter glanced over at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. “, if you want the dick, all you gotta do is act right. I’ll get you right.”
My whole body tensed. I turned and glared at him, but the way his voice had dipped, low and full of heat, sent a slow, infuriating shiver down my spine. “You’re disgusting,”
I muttered, looking back out the window.
I clenched my jaw, battling my thoughts.
I refused to be turned on by him.
Absolutely refused.
But my body had other plans, and that realization made me even madder.
The rest of the ride, I fumed in silence, staring out the window, arms crossed, trying not to think about anything he said.
Shooter just smirked, turned up the trap music, and let the heavy bass shake the car as we sped through the city.