Chapter 3 Dominic
Dominic
Now
There are three things you need to know about Sloane Kent.
One: She’s annoying as fuck. No, really. Everything about her is annoying. From the superior cadence of her voice to the way she scrunches up her nose when she’s trying to make a point to the way she insists on calling me Dominic even though no one who’s known me as long as she has does.
Two: She’s good at her job. I’ll never tell her that though, ’cause it’ll just go to her head, and the last thing I need is to hear Mal and Mama crying to me about her head inflating to three times the size of her body and carrying her away Harry Potter–style.
I mean, it wouldn’t bother me one bit to be rid of her, but they certainly would be lost without her.
And even though I’m an asshole, I don’t want to see the women I think of like my little sister and second mom suffer. Not after Eric.
Three: She likes fighting with me. More than once, she’s accused me of getting some sick satisfaction out of arguing with her—I’ll plead the fifth on that one—but it has always been evident to me that she enjoys the verbal sparring too.
Especially in moments like this, when she has actively sought me out to pick a fight.
Granted, I probably would have jumped at the opportunity to antagonize her had she not started with me first, but that doesn’t matter.
Not when she’s thrown the first punch, spitting my words from a lifetime ago back at me like they were fresh in her mind.
Did she remember everything I said to her in the brief moments I’d caught her alone over the years?
Maybe. The possibility of my words sticking to her, swirling around in her mind, does something to my chest.
You really are a sick bastard, Dom, the voice in my head quips, and I can’t argue with it.
Only a sick bastard would get a kick out of insulting his best friend’s widow and take note of all the warning signs of her blazing anger with anticipation swelling in his chest. I know all of Sloane’s by heart: the darkening of her hazel eyes, the curling of her tiny hands into useless fists, the crease between her brow getting deeper, and her cheeks growing red with unleashed heat.
I could push her further if I wanted to, get her so worked up she storms away from this table and leaves me free to breathe air that isn’t filled with her scent, but right now I’ll have to settle for a heated exchange I can’t put my full heart into, since Sloane promised Mal we’d have fun tonight and the two of us getting into it in the middle of a nightclub would only be fun for me.
Placing my phone on the table, I turn toward her, noting the hard glint in her eyes and the stubborn tilt of her chin that tells me she’s ready for my response.
I run a thumb over the rim of the tumbler in front of me.
The dark liquid inside swirls around, and Sloane tracks my movement with her eyes.
That surprises me. Usually, she can’t be bothered to notice anything I do unless I’m insulting her.
“I guess your thoughts of me went a little further than plotting my murder. Sounds like you took a nice little trip down memory lane too.”
Her gaze snags on mine. My pulse jumps with something that can only be described as anticipation. She takes another sip of the water she hasn’t thanked me for ordering. Her mouth is pursed in contemplation when she sits it back down.
“Maybe I was just reviewing my list.”
I arch a brow, intrigued. “Your list?”
“Yeah, the one I started to keep track of the many reasons I have for wanting to kill you.” She shrugs as if discussing my murder in a nightclub is a natural thing to do. Considering our history, it isn’t that far-fetched. “I figured it would be helpful…”
“In proving it was premeditated,” I cut in, finishing her statement for her. My interruption wins me an annoyed scowl. I want to laugh, but I can’t trust her not to throw a drink in my face, and I like the shirt I’m wearing.
“Or proving I was driven to the point of insanity by years of verbal abuse and…” She pauses, searching for the right word to describe our toxic banter, which she happily participates in. “Bullying.”
A dark laugh rips free from my chest. I take a sip of my drink to shut it down. “Bullying? That would be your defense?”
I want to say more. To tell her she’s far too intelligent to have to stand trial for murder. Especially when she works on several construction sites where she could easily hide a body, even if it’s mine.
She blinks. No doubt surprised by how tame this conversation is by our standards. I sure as fuck am. “It worked for Betty Broderick, why not me?”
“Hmm. I could think of a few reasons why that wouldn’t work for you. First, I’m not your husband. Second, I’m pretty sure the correct word to describe what her husband did is gaslighting. Third, she didn’t get away with it.”
Her plump lips roll inward. “Right. I guess I could always dispose of the body and avoid a trial altogether.”
Smart girl, I think, but in reality, I say, “And how would you go about doing that?”
Sloane crosses her legs, drawing my attention to the smooth skin of her thighs, which are on full display thanks to the short leather skirt she’s wearing. I swallow then force my eyes to look anywhere else. I’m not about to be labeled a pervert on top of being an asshole.
She leans forward. The sudden movement jostling her breasts inside the flimsy lace of her top. It’s clear she isn’t wearing a bra. Not that I’m looking. The hand resting on my leg balls into a fist as I will my gaze to stay on her face.
“Do you think I’m dumb enough to tell you, a potential victim, where I’d hide your body?”
“A potential victim?” I lean forward too, liking the spark in her gaze as she processes my proximity. “Are you planning more than one murder, Sloane?”
Her lips part, the tiny crease in between her brows growing deeper.
Music pulses in the air. Drunken patrons dance less than six feet away from us.
But it feels like we’re the only people in the room.
Arguing with her, even in the mildest sense of the word, seems to take up all the space in my mind, making everyone else disappear from my focus.
“Maybe.” She sits back in her seat, crossing her arms underneath her breasts. “James is high on my list after the stunt he pulled yesterday.”
There’s a new heat to her words. The playful teasing from a second ago is a thing of the past. Absently, I wonder if she did this on purpose. Lured me into a seemingly playful conversation, just to bring it all back to James fucking Robinson and his overpriced hotel.
I should have more polite thoughts for my new client who’s paying through the nose for me to bring a team in at the last minute to complete the last two floors of his hotel renovation, but two things are stopping me from doing that.
First, there’s the issue with the contractor.
Yesterday, I suggested him quitting with only ten weeks left in the project was somehow Sloane’s fault, but that was just me trying to piss her off.
It was evident to me from the moment I met Robinson that he’s the cause of the issues plaguing his hotel venture, and speaking to Issac, the former contractor, only solidified that fact for me.
The guy is rich, demanding, and unrealistic when it comes to timelines.
And then there’s the issue of the way he looked at Sloane when she came strutting into his office yesterday. His hungry eyes devoured her from head to toe in a split second. Like he knew what she looked like naked.
My vision went red. Burning rage creeping up my throat that I had to push back just so I could form a coherent sentence. Anger seeping beneath my skin as a question I had no right to ask bounced around my brain: What the fuck is going on with them?
The real question, the voice in my head reminded me, is why the hell do you care?
And I didn’t have an answer for that question, or at least not one I could admit to myself, so I pushed the entire thing out of my mind.
Now, she’s forcing me to think about it again.
His name falling from her lips hits me in my gut, coaxing the anger I fucked into Kristen last night right back to the surface.
“Plotting on your boyfriend? Now that you might get away with.” I toss the rest of my drink back, returning the heat of her question with my own fire.
Sloane’s brows dip inward and then she rolls her eyes dramatically. “James isn’t my boyfriend, Dominic. Maybe you two can work something out when you’re sharing a grave though. You know, since he’s your best friend and all.”
She tosses her head to the side and arches a brow at me. I want to laugh in her pretty face. James Robinson will never be a friend of mine. Especially if he keeps saying her name like she’s a goddess whose altar he worships at every night.
Why do you care how he says her name? She doesn’t belong to you.
I exhale roughly. Thinking about her and Robinson is making my fucking chest tight, but the nagging voice in my head is right again.
Sloane Kent does not belong to me, and I shouldn’t give a damn about who she is or isn’t fucking.
Technically, she’s a single woman, and we aren’t friends.
Hell, with Eric gone, we aren’t even sort-of family.
Then let it go, Nic.
“Is it going to be like this for the next two and a half months?”
She glowers at me. “It doesn’t have to be. You could call James tomorrow and tell him you’re no longer interested in the project.”
Something that looks a lot like hope edges into her eyes. Too bad for her, I’m about to stomp all over it. Lifting my hand, I wave the waitress over and place an order for another round of drinks. When we’re alone again, I turn to her.
“Not happening.”