Parker
B y t h e t i m e we made it back to the penthouse, I was exhausted and starving. Shopping had drained me—not because I didn’t enjoy spending his money because I definitely did but because keeping up my attitude while fighting off the way my body reacted to Shooter was damn near a full-time job.
I kicked off my heels the moment I stepped inside, flexing my sore toes against the cool marble floor. “I’m starving,”
I groaned, heading straight for the kitchen. I yanked open the fridge, hoping to find something, but it was practically empty. “Shooter, why is there nothing to eat in this damn house ? I’m sick of takeout.”
He strolled in behind me, pulling out a bag of weed and breaking it down on the counter like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Shoulda said somethin' while we were out,”
he muttered, rolling the bud between his fingers before dumping it into a grinder. “I don’t cook.”
I shot him a glare over my shoulder. “Obviously,”
I grumbled under my breath as I pulled out my phone and opened the Instacart app. If this was gonna be my life, I needed food in this house. Eating takeout every day was not it.
While I placed an order for groceries, Shooter finished rolling his blunt. He sparked it up, inhaling deeply before exhaling a slow cloud of smoke into the air. “Didn’t take you for a smoker,”
he mused, watching me as I hit place order.
I shrugged, still tapping through my phone. “I had to hide it from my father, so I never made it a habit. But here and there… yeah.”
An hour later, the groceries were delivered, and I was in the kitchen, fully in my zone. I had an R&B playlist going, the smooth vocals of Summer Walker filling the space as I moved through the immaculate kitchen Shooter clearly didn’t use.
Fried catfish sizzled golden brown in the pan, the garlic mashed potatoes were whipped to perfection, and the asparagus was roasting in the oven with a drizzle of lemon butter. The scent filled the penthouse, warm and mouthwatering.
Shooter leaned against the counter, watching me with his arms crossed, his silver chains catching the light. “You can really cook, huh?”
Didn’t take you for the domestic type.”
I flipped a piece of catfish and glanced at him. “You don’t know shit about me, Shooter.”
He smirked. “I know you fine as hell, got a smart-ass mouth, and can cook…”
He pushed off the counter and stepped closer, his voice dropping. “And that you keep looking at me like you want me to bend you over this counter.”
I sucked my teeth, turning back to the food. “Never that.”
I focused on plating the food, pretending like the heat creeping up my neck wasn’t from his presence behind me. The way he looked at me? Like I was something he was going to have, whether I fought it or not? It was dangerous. And the worst part? I liked it.
By the time the food was done, my stomach growled in anticipation. I slid the plates onto the kitchen island, and the scent of fried catfish, mashed potatoes, and roasted asparagus filled the air. Shooter took a seat at the island, his eyes roaming over the food as if he was about to devour me instead of dinner.
“You did your thing,”
he said, his voice low, like he was actually impressed.
I slid into the chair across from him, setting my glass of Hennessy down before I served us both. “Don’t act surprised,”
I shot back, then smirked. “I’ve got layers, you just don’t know how deep they go yet.”
Shooter raised an eyebrow as he poured the drink into his glass, swirling it around before taking a sip. “Guess we’ll see about that.”
I didn’t know why, but the way he said it made my pulse quicken, like he was waiting for me to slip, to show him something he could use against me. But tonight, I wasn’t playing his game. I reached for the catfish, biting into the crispy, golden skin, the flavor of the seasoning mixing perfectly with the flaky fish.
We ate in silence for a minute, only the clinking of silverware on plates and the soft music filling the room. The tension between us was palpable, but neither of us was ready to break it yet. I sipped my lemonade slowly, letting it burn down my throat. My mind kept drifting back to what Shooter said earlier—about me looking at him like I wanted him. And I did. That realization gnawed at me.
“You’re quiet,”
he said suddenly, his voice rough, as though he was watching me closely. “What’s on your mind?”
I shifted in my chair, leaning back, trying to act like I wasn’t analyzing everything he had just told me. But I couldn’t lie—I was processing it all, trying to make sense of the man in front of me. “I don’t know,”
I said softly. “A lot, I guess. You act like you don’t care about anyone, but I can tell there’s more going on behind your eyes. Like… maybe you’ve been hurt before.”
Shooter’s gaze softened just a fraction, but it was enough for me to notice. “Everyone’s been hurt, .”
His voice was quieter now, almost reflective. “That’s just part of the game.”
I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say next. I was treading water, not sure if I should keep digging or leave it be. But I couldn’t deny the pull. Something was compelling about him, something that kept drawing me in despite how much I told myself I hated him.
“Why you fightin’ me every step of the way?”
Shooter asked, his tone suddenly sharp again, breaking my thoughts.
I met his gaze, unwilling to back down. “I’m not fighting you,”
I said, my voice steady. “I’m adjusting to this shit and trying to figure you out. This… situation ain’t easy.”
He smirked, the arrogance in his eyes returning. “I don’t make shit easy for anyone.”
I felt a flicker of something in my chest, something I didn’t want to acknowledge. Something that told me I was getting too close to him for comfort. But before I could say anything else, Shooter grabbed the blunt from the ashtray, lighting it up again, exhaling the smoke into the air between us.
I grabbed my lemonade, taking another sip to calm my nerves. The silence between us was thick, but this time, it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as it had before.
“Tomorrow night’s the meeting,”
Shooter said suddenly, his voice low. “Just play your part and everything will be good.”
I looked at him, eyebrow raised. “And if I don’t, it’ll go bad?”
“It can’t go bad, so do what you want with that information.”
I frowned but didn’t say anything. It was clear to me now. Shooter’s world was complicated, and whether I liked it or not, I was a part of it. We sat in silence again, the weight of his words hanging between us. But this time, I didn’t mind the silence. I could tell that we were both starting to understand each other. Just a little bit.
T h e n i g h t w a s slowly winding down, and the effects of the weed and shots after dinner settled in. I felt buzzed but relaxed, the kind of high where everything felt smoother, and the world seemed a little more… manageable. The tension between Shooter and me was still thick, but for once, it didn’t feel like I was walking on eggshells. I was full, I was lit, and I was ready for some peace.
“I’m going to take a shower,”
I said, standing up from the island where we’d been sitting, chilling.
“You want a back rub first? You’ve earned it after all that cooking.”
I rolled my eyes, the corner of my mouth lifting in a slight smile despite myself. “Sure, and while you’re at it, kiss my ass,”
I shot back sarcastically.
He chuckled, but I wasn’t interested in his teasing. I needed a moment alone, some time to unwind. So, I made my way down the hallway to the guest bedroom, my mind drifting.
The silence of the penthouse wrapped around me as I entered the massive bathroom, the soft glow of the lights in the mirrors giving the room a calm, almost spa-like vibe. I turned on the water, hot enough to steam up the glass, and stood there for a moment, letting the sound of the rushing water fill the space, shutting out everything else.
As the steam enveloped me, I stepped under the shower, the water hitting my skin like a warm blanket, washing away the day’s tension. My mind drifted, and for the first time all night, I let myself think about him.
The way he’d looked at me like he was just waiting for me to slip, waiting for me to give him a reason to make me bend over. I hated the way it made me feel, but I couldn’t ignore it. My body responded to him in ways I couldn’t control, no matter how much I tried to bury it.
I turned the hot water higher, the heat making me flush as I tried to focus on the feeling of the water running over my skin, trying to drown out the thoughts of his blue eyes and that body of his that looked like it was chiseled from stone.
My mind kept spiraling back to that moment when he’d leaned in, close enough for me to feel his breath on my neck. His touch had been just a whisper, but it had sent shivers straight through me. The pull of him was undeniable, even if I hated myself for admitting it.
No, I scolded myself, slapping my hand against the wall of the shower. You’re not gonna let him get to you. But the more I told myself that, the harder it was to ignore the heat between my legs.
I took my time, finishing my shower, scrubbing away the last of the guilt and trying to force the tension from my muscles. When I stepped out, the steam lingered in the room, and I could smell the light scent of lavender from the soap on my skin. I felt refreshed, but still… unsettled.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I walked over to the closet. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to look at the clothes I had bought today. Instead, I grabbed a simple two-piece silk short set. It was smooth, cool to the touch, and soft against my skin.
After slipping into it, I gazed at myself in the mirror, admiring the way it clung to my curves. My reflection stared back, but there was no peace there. I was still wound up from the night. Still trying to shake off the electricity that seemed to spark every time I thought about Shooter.
The silence of the house stood out now. It was… too quiet. I wandered into his bedroom and realized he wasn’t there. I frowned, walking into the living room. The space was empty, aside from the dim light from the city filtering through the windows. There was no sign of him anywhere.
Where the hell did he go? I cursed aloud, irritated. Not only had he left without saying a word, but I also had no idea where he could’ve gone. My heart rate picked up just slightly. Was he going to see her again? The thought made my chest tighten, but I shoved it down.
I stormed back into his bedroom and over to his dresser, glancing at his things, trying to figure out if I could find any clue about where he might’ve gone. But of course, nothing gave me an answer. I pulled out my phone, dialing his number, but it went straight to voicemail.
“Where the fuck are you, Shooter?”
I muttered, my fingers tapping nervously on the glass screen. It was pissing me off more than I realized.
I tossed my phone back onto the bed and made my way back to the living room, then to the kitchen. He couldn’t just vanish like that. Not after everything today. As I walked back to the large windows, staring out at the city lights, I caught myself pacing back and forth, irritation building. Where the hell had he gone?