8. Hendrix #3
Saint doesn’t seem to give a flying rat’s pooper when he says, “It is when you’re wasting all of it on him.”
My mouth open and closes, wanting to ask what the fuck he’s talking about, but I don’t get the chance because he releases me abruptly, taking off to exit the dance floor.
I whirl around, finding Saint pass Stevenson without even a glance as he waves at me, holding a bouquet of red roses, of course.
The days following the engagement announcement, I took it upon myself to cut things off with Stevenson, not wanting to risk him getting caught up in the crossfires again.
It was agreed we’d just be friends, but it seems he’s having a harder time letting go of the ways of the past.
So, we remain friends, and I take his kindness in stride, always making sure to be clear on my intentions. Expectations. Which no longer include kissing or sex.
Seems like Letterman’s been too busy between legs to realize such things, and I see no reason to go out of my way to correct him.
He’s not my father. Or brother.
Despite what the law says.
I throw my head back, fighting the urge to ugly cry and ruin my makeup.
Insert fuck-my-life emoji.
“You are such a vision.” Stevenson smiles when I approach him, then plants a kiss on my cheek before handing me the flowers.
“Thank you so much.” I hold up the bouquet and smell it, ashamed to admit I hate roses.
It’s the thought that counts, though.
“Eh, it’s nothing. I just grabbed them on the way here. That’s why I’m a bit late.”
I humor him, pretending I don’t know the real reason he wanted to stroll in after everyone else. He’s here, though. For me. Which says a lot about his loyalty.
The truth in this makes me smile, but it dies quickly with the sound of a familiar nauseating mousy voice.
“Party’s here, bitches!” Annalie’s heels click against the marble floor as she makes her way over. “And XXL bitches.” Her lip curls at me when she passes.
Who doesn’t love two scuffles in one night?
Annalie doesn’t make it four steps past me before I hurl the bouquet at the back of her head.
She freezes and gasps, still appearing surprised every time I clap back at one of her fat girl digs.
My fingers tingle with excitement to punch things when she turns to face me.
“Did you just throw your supermarket flowers at me?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Damn fuckin’ right I did.”
My bad Stevenson.
Saint’s face is an unreadable mask as he, along with the rest of our friends—minus Bex—who’s already hightailing over to us, watches from the bar.
“Fat bitches stay ratchet, even at their momma’s wedding.”
I’m pulling my hoop earrings out one at a time as I say, “You know what else we stay doing?” Heels go next. “Eating basic bitches like you for breakfast.”
Annalie rolls her eyes as Stevenson holds me back from maiming her, then she turns to sashay like the hoe she is to Saint’s feet. She doesn’t get far before Bex shoulder checks her, making the fat shamer stumble to the side.
“Fuck you too, Rebecca ,” Annalie sneers.
“No thanks.” Bex breezes behind her. “Save your nasty twat for Saint.”
My gaze connects with the man in question, his unreadable mask gone and in its place is irrefutable triumph.
He thinks he’s won.
As if reading my thoughts his eyes slice to Stevenson, then back to me, telling me without words that this is what I get for challenging him at his own game.
Bex stops at my side with a huff. “If you didn’t already kick her ass before, I’d tell you to right now.”
“You can just tell me to kick her ass squared.”
She chuckles, and so do I, then I turn my attention to Stevenson. “I’m sorry about the roses.”
He shakes his head, impressed as always by my ability to put the bitch in her place. “Shit. Don’t be. If anything I would’ve suggested throwing one of those pointy heels.”
The three of us share a laugh at Annalie’s expense, and when we make our way over to the bar I notice Saint already taking off with his shrew.
Probably to exchange STD’s.
“So what’re we celebrating love with, mofos?!” Riggs pushes a hand into his pocket, revealing a tiny bag filled with powder. “How about a little tequila and some sweet stuff?”
I don’t know what it is about drugs and rich kids, but you’ll rarely find one without the other.
Especially Riggs.
“I’m sticking with alcohol.” I reach over the bar top and call the bartender I paid off for favors, asking for six shots of his best tequila.
Yes. I may be one of those rich kids I mentioned earlier, but I don’t mistake cocaine for candy like the rest of them.
Partake, sometimes maybe. Overdo it, nay- be.
After our round of shots someone over the mic announces for everyone to take their seats, which sucks because I haven’t even gotten buzzed yet.
“God I hope we aren’t sitting close to them,” Archer whispers through the corner of his mouth as we begin the migration to the tables.
Rebecca wraps her hand around Archer’s. “Don’t hold your breath, Arch. I already checked the table cards, we’re right next to theirs.”
“Oh, c’mon bestie.” Riggs slings an arm over Archer's shoulder. “Don’t you want some quality time together?”
This time when Archer shoves him, Leviathan doesn’t bother trying to stop it.
In my defense, I had zero intentions of doing what I’m about to do. Well, who .
“What’s your name again?” I ask through a string of messy kisses, the alcohol playing its part to fog my memory.
Doesn’t help I spent five minutes on the dancefloor with the guy before going back to his castle suite .
A.K.A. one of the many outrageously sized and priced rooms all wedding guests will be staying in.
“Lance.” He bites my bottom lip. “Lance Bates.”
The absence of light has us stumbling into the bedroom, barely managing to shut the door before falling onto the bed. He settles over me, hand riding up the high slit of my dress, leaving me to wrap my leg around his waist to bring him closer.
His dick is hard and ready as it nudges my pussy.
The fact that I can feel the length of him through his slacks and my underwear tells me all I need to know about what Lance Bates here is working with.
Not only is the guy packing, he’s super fucking hot, in college, and apparently some distant relative of the Lavells. A nobody to the family. Which is exactly what I need to take my mind off this prison sentence.
“Where do you go to school?” Lance sparks up chit chat while trailing his lips down my neck.
I am more than hot and bothered. In fact, I’m lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree when he tugs the strap of my dress down my shoulder, sucking the cleavage of my breast into his mouth.
“Fuck,” I hiss. “Some bullshit school in Chelsea. Who cares.”
Lance chuckles, then takes the hint and shuts his mouth.
At least until it returns to mine.
Our teeth clash and tongues mingle, both working together to find a rhythm. He tastes delicious, like mint and smoke.
“You’re so fucking hot.” He journeys his way down, nipping and sucking on my jaw, neck, and collar. I cry out when he snakes a hand between us, cupping me through my underwear.
“Fuck, you’re soaked.” He pinches the sensitive area, pulling a desperate moan out of me.
“Can I taste your pussy?”
Aw, a gentleman.
“Uhm. Yes.” I nod with all my might.
Lance stands and reaches over, touching the lamp on the side of the bed to turn it on, producing a subtle yellow hue.
With a hungry grin plastered on his face, he drops to his knees, parting my legs.
I tense a bit when he takes in my shapewear panties but relax once I notice his crazed eyes as he slides them down.
“Here.” I reach down to assist, but Lance shakes his head.
“Oh, no. I’m more than willing to do this.”
He gently pushes me back to lay on the bed.
I suck in a deep breath, allowing him, and myself, to bask in the moment.
“Want me to remove my heels?”
Lance snorts out a husky chuckle. “Absolutely not.”
Yeah…I guess that makes sense.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters when I’m relieved fully of my underwear. “You are…just fuck. So fucking beautiful.”
The sweetness in his words is definitely something most girls love to hear, but right now all this one wants to hear are the wet sounds of his mouth on my pussy.
In fact, I’m writhing on the bed just thinking about it.
Lance slides a finger down my center, lingering briefly on the sensitive area pulsing with need.
I arch my back and bite my lip when he presses on it. “Mhmmm…yes.”
There are hands, teeth, lips, and tongue exploring both thighs before Lance’s face hovers where I really want him.
Yes, yes, yes , I cry to myself as I await his assault. His warm breath kisses my skin when I switch to saying it out loud.
“Fuck, you smell like heaven,” Lance tosses out. “I may need to—”
The sound of pounding at the door makes me jump, seconds before a deep voice behind it barks out, “Open the fucking door before I break it.”
This motherfucker.
Of course Saint had no intentions of offering a real choice, because a second later he kicks it open.
His huge frame takes up the doorway. Hair messy, tie loosened around his neck, shirt halfway opened as if just being pulled from a similar situation.
Unlike Lance who’s on his feet, I’m so mortified it takes me a few blinks to do the same.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I scream, covering myself.
Saint’s eyes are murderous, but not on me.
He’s got his sights set fully on Lance.
“Saint, don’t—”
Before I get the chance to finish, the psycho is toe-to-toe with his nobody relative, spitting fire from his mouth as he says, “You wanna fucking die tonight. Is that it?”
Jesus Christ.
“Dude, chill the fuck—”
That’s all Lance manages before Saint drives his fist into his face, blood exploding from his mouth and nose. Lance staggers back, covering it, leaving enough distance for Saint to tackle him to the floor, raining down furious blows to his body.
Through frantic screams I demand him to stop, but it seems to only fuel the fire inside him.