Page 10 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

Bryce

Music loud enough to split skulls booms in the dimly lit VIP room at Z. Top-shelf bottles of liquor litter the bar, and women gyrate around in outfits that could get them arrested for indecent exposure. Strippers, strippers and more strippers.

This isn’t my kind of scene, but I need an outlet.

I’ve been too restless since seeing Fiona a few weeks ago.

Nightmares with Mom trying to kidnap us keep reoccurring, and they always end with Fiona calling my name.

Recently, though, the finale to the dream has morphed into her not only calling my name but kissing me senseless.

Waking up with tingling lips and morning wood isn’t a good way to start the day, especially when they’re caused by a devious, duplicitous ex.

I still can’t forget the way she looked in my bed with Jude, long hair disheveled and lips swollen.

Or the cruel, taunting words she said, each one a bag of acid that exploded on impact.

The weird texts about her—and photos—that started in the last two weeks haven’t helped either. They constantly disrupt the calm I’m trying to achieve. I keep blocking them, but whoever’s behind the harassment continues to get new numbers.

If I find out who’s behind it, I might just feed them into a wood chipper.

–Unknown: Don’t you owe her one? So do the right thing.

Why should I? The taunting question begs to be texted, but I hold back. I’m not taking the bait. The longer I glare at the text, the more it seems like the culprit is Fiona. She has to re-engage if she hopes to get my money. Well, dream on, baby . I’m not playing the game.

After all, it’s a tired cliché. She texted me before leaving for Wisconsin, too, claiming she wanted to explain “what really happened” with Jude. I refused. There’s only one kind of bullshit excuse, the same kind Mom used when she got caught after almost killing Ares.

I did it for you. I did it out of love. You’re a good boy—I thought you’d understand how much I wanted us to be together.

Words mean nothing. Only actions matter. My experience over the years has taught me that love can be used to justify anything, no matter how vile.

“Hey, man!” Barry, an associate at the firm who planned this gathering and provided the strippers, wraps his beefy arm around my neck and shoulder.

I roll my eyes with a small, friendly smile, but don’t bother to pull away, since there’s no escaping him.

A former football player for the University of Georgia, he’s one of the most physically imposing lawyers at Huxley & Webber, thick muscle all over his broad, solid frame.

He tries to tone it down with bleached yellow hair, too much tan and a Georgian drawl that he lays on thick, “lahk frostin’ on a cake.

” He even sports a vaguely stupid grin. Most clients are disappointed to learn he’s their lawyer, until they discover he’s one of Jeremiah’s favorites.

He’s one of the meanest, smartest and hardest-working associates. And he never misses an opportunity to party. Ares’s wedding ceremony tomorrow has provided him a perfect excuse.

“Where’s Ares?” he says, letting me go now that he’s sufficiently happy he’s done a proper man-greeting. I’d bet the year’s bonus he has no idea if he’s talking to me or Josh.

“Home,” I say.

Barry’s eyes widen. “What? Why? I told him about this bachelor party last week!”

I snort. I know my older brother too well. “He didn’t say he’d attend, did he? ”

“I reminded him yesterday. And this morning!”

I shrug. “He’s glued to his wife.” Probably tasting whatever she wants to eat because she has a justifiable hangup about food.

“You know that he isn’t technically a bachelor, right?

” Ares wants to have a big ceremony to make up for the hasty Vegas wedding.

He treats her like a queen and has apparently gotten over his revulsion at being touched.

True love does indeed conquer all—for some people.

“Ah,” Barry says, raising a sausage-sized finger. “But he doesn’t remember the wedding! So he’s sort of like a bachelor.”

“Mm. Well, you two will just have to agree to disagree. He said to tell you to spend more time with your wife.”

“Hey, she never complains. I’m a great husband.”

My eyes slide to the strippers around us. “If you say so.”

“I only look. Never touch.” Barry raises his hands, palms out, all innocent.

“Eye-fucking is eye-cheating.”

His jaw drops. “What century are you from?”

“The twenty-first.” I clasp his shoulder, then scan the area for Josh. He generally enjoys Barry’s parties and would definitely come to make up for missing Barry’s own bachelor party in Vegas. He was pretty sad about it, but work comes before play.

I discover my twin in a corner, busy necking with some chick. Not a stripper. Her dress is tight, but not too revealing. He never lacks female companions, but then, he has a decent mug.

Since he’s about to get lucky, I head to the bar. My phone pings. Another unknown number, another photo.

The shot shows Fiona at some store, trying on a wedding dress. My hand clenches around the phone. W hat’s the point of this?

I should look away, but I can’t. The dress is classy, with a long train and intricate lace. Can she afford it? She’s two million in the hole.

Or is this some kind of taunt—she’s marrying money, so she doesn’t need me? But if she could’ve gotten a sugar daddy this easily, why didn’t she? Surely, it would’ve been less bruising to her ego, unless her groom-to-be is so foul that not even two million bucks can make up for it.

I tap my phone thoughtfully. Something about her behavior doesn’t add up .

She’s lost even more weight since she barged into my office.

Her fragility is more pronounced in the tight bodice, and the way it shows her bare shoulders and arms. The fact that I notice anything about her is irritating.

But the angle of her pose and the way her eyes are slightly lowered—her mouth set in a vulnerable line—remind me of her on a rainy night nine years ago when we were still in school.

She’d left a frat party without Jude, who was sprawled on a couch with three girls.

Her various attempts to catch his eye had failed, and she probably didn’t want to stick around anymore.

I shouldn’t care, but it was after one a.m. and raining hard.

My hatred and contempt for her kept reaching new heights since the night I’d caught her in bed with him.

She’d continued to debase herself for Jude’s attention—a total doormat for a guy who wasn’t worth it.

Just what the hell did she see in him? He was popular enough, his family was wealthy enough, but he was a snake and everyone knew it.

But she still simpered and hung on to him.

If she’d left me for a guy who was legitimately better, I’d at least have understood.

But she’d picked a complete bastard who treated her like dirt and openly cheated on her.

Karma . Still, bitter satisfaction wasn’t what burned in my gut. I didn’t want to think too much about it, since it would only piss me off.

I watched her unsteady steps from a window. Probably drunk. I looked away, reached for another beer, then stopped.

If anything happened to her… Shit. I’d always wonder if I could’ve prevented it. Even if the victim was somebody I loathed.

So I followed her out. She didn’t get into a car—Jude must have driven—and didn’t have an umbrella. She just ambled along the dark sidewalk, in and out of the few streetlights, letting the chilly early-spring rain soak her.

I glanced at my umbrella, then at her. Nah . That was more interaction than I wanted. Ever since her betrayal, I’d looked straight through her. Let her words glide off me without showing anything to her.

She was dead to me the moment she backstabbed me.

I maintained a few yards between us. She didn’t seem to notice anybody was following. Jesus . Shouldn’t a girl be more aware of her surroundings at night? She could get into trouble .

Stop sounding like you care.

Suddenly, the rain intensified, wind picking up.

A blinding bolt of lightning split the sky.

She stopped and looked up at the streetlight to her right.

Her lashes fluttered in the rain, and her mouth pressed tight, the corners turned downward.

Her shoulders heaved slowly. If she was crying, the drizzling water hid the tears.

An instinctive impulse to reach out surged, and I squelched it— hard . She didn’t deserve to be comforted, especially not by me. If she regretted choosing Jude over me… Well, too late for buyer’s remorse.

Still, that image of her in the rain has been etched to my subconscious. And the photo that just arrived reminds me of that night for some reason.

Did she know I was following her? Is she sending me these things because she thinks there might be some kernel of care for her still inside me? Something other than sheer loathing?

If she thinks she can leverage me against myself, she’s mistaken. I’m not going to bail her out of the trouble she’s in. What Josh said about her becoming a trophy wife or mistress pops into my head.

Let her marry some old geezer. I don’t care. I really don’t .

My belly burns like there’s a hole in my gut. I grab a glass of whiskey, then block the number and let out a sigh of frustration. I’m not finding an outlet for my restlessness here tonight. Maybe call one of the girls? But no one looks good as I thumb through my contact list.

My cousin Huxley Lasker would know some hot model.

On the other hand, he’s still in the honeymoon phase of his marriage and wouldn’t welcome an interruption late at night.

I’m not sure how long it’s supposed to last. For God’s sake, they have a baby, but they’re still lovey-dovey.

Sometimes they don’t even act married, more like teenagers being stupid in love.