Stealing His Thunder (Masters of Adrenaline) (24 page)

She snorted but felt flattered at the same time. “So you’re saying the ring is just another way to trap me?”

“It’s better than chaining you in my dungeon.”

She wasn’t so sure about that.

“We don’t need to be fancy or conventional.” He wasn’t the only one who’d never thought he’d end up married. To her, marriage had always been just another way to be trapped. To end a future full of freedom and opportunity.

“I know, but I want it to be official. I want a tacky wedding with our family there and crappy catering, and my uncle drunk dancing on the table. I want everyone to know we’re permanent.”

Her grin was so big her cheeks were starting to hurt. “That sounds . . . pretty fucking perfect.”

Fox reached down and pulled her to sit on the hood of the car. Then he kissed her and she felt every ounce of his love poured into it.

She’d always thought marriage would result in a boring, dead-end life, but with Fox, even marriage felt like an adventure. Their relationship was a high she could see herself riding forever.

And she never wanted the buzz to end.

And now for the part of the book no one reads, but stay tuned because there’ll be a cute clip of us getting into a bar fight at the end of this segment . . .

First, we’d like to thank our agent, Nicole Resciniti from The Seymour Agency, for helping us steer our career, always having our backs, and for answering our incessant questions . . . and for making us seem classy and professional when you meet with editors on our behalf. Without you we never would have had any hope of working with Kristine or taking over the Tristate area.

Also, we’d like to thank the best editor ever, Kristine Swartz from Penguin InterMix, for her patience and insightful feedback. You always find ways to help us improve our manuscripts, and yet give us that information without making us cry and gnash our teeth. You’ll always be welcome in our super-secret writing lair—just let us know when you’re coming so we can lock the killer robots in the garage.

Thanks to our copyeditor for her stoic willingness to look up any number of slang terms, swears, and vulgar words to make sure we’re spelling them right and that they’re grammatically correct. We’re really sorry you have to leave us notes like—“I think you meant ass here, not pussy.” When we conquer the Tristate area, we’ll make sure we skip your house and we’ll try to keep the noise down.

We never would have done so well without the Penguin InterMix publicity team. Thanks so much to Ryanne Probst who isn’t afraid to promote our books, even in places where people are discussing much fancier ones.

Thanks to Danielle Mazzella Di Bosco, our cover art director, for understanding exactly what we were hoping to convey with our covers, and nailing it.

As always, thanks to our street team, Sparrow’s Circus, and to our friends in the Badass Brats street team, and the Angelic Book Club. We appreciate all of your help in getting the word out about our books, and we treasure your friendship. Feel free to ride the killer robots anytime, but make sure you knock before entering the super-secret writing cave. We all remember what happened last time. There’s extra brain bleach in the medicine cabinet, so help yourself.

Thanks to our husbands and families, who will (hopefully) never read this. You remind us about wild things like real life, outside, and the need for food and sleep. We shall conquer the Tristate area in your honor.

Finally, thanks to the strange urge that convinced Justice that striking up a conversation with a stranger on the internet was a good idea. Who’d have guessed we’d end up being writing partners, and go on to vanquish our enemies together? Shit—who’s vanquishing today and who’s revising? *checks schedule*

The shot pans back, back, until the entire Tristate area is visible, then zooms in on a random bar on a random street in the middle of a random part of the city. Sorcha comes stumbling back to the table from the bar.

“They cut me off again,” she sighs wearily. “What kind of dessert bar cuts a woman off?”

Justice rises from the table. Melodramatically, she breaks her wooden chair into bits, hefting one of its legs like a club. “Oh, we’ll get more cheesecake.” Justice hits the secret button that summons the killer robots, knowing they’ll bust up the place, but resigned to paying for the renovations later. It would all be worth it for another slice of the chocolate decadence . . .

Look for the next Masters of Adrenaline novel,
FUELING HIS FIRE,

available October 2016 from InterMix.

“You’re wearing that?” Chloe crinkled her nose as she looked Ophelia over. “You can’t keep dressing like you’re going to a funeral, O.”

“No.” Priya clucked her tongue. “She looks like she’s
homeless
and going to a funeral.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes and leaned on the edge of the vanity, watching her friends primp in the mirror. Two months ago, she would have agreed with them. Wearing black skinny jeans and a plain black tank top to one of the biggest parties of the year would probably get her onto some “Worst Dressed” list on a celebrity gossip website. She’d tried to make her outfit more chic by adding her Jimmy Choos and a diamond necklace but apparently it wasn’t enough.

Funny how everything could change in just a day. A moment even. A phone call.

Two months ago she cared about fashion. Two months ago, she would’ve been worried about whether her lipstick shade complimented her complexion or not. But lately, she was having trouble giving two flying fucks about clothes or makeup.

“This is the biggest party of the year,” Priya said, then turned to the mirror to apply her fake lashes. Like Chloe, she could contour like a professional makeup artist. Not that she needed it. Her complexion was perfect. The two of them didn’t just dress trendy either—they created trends.

Chloe’s red hair hung in loose curls down her back, accented with a jeweled clip on one side. Both wore tight dresses designed to draw attention. Today, Ophelia looked like their uncultured cousin tagging along as their charity project.

“Jason will be there for sure,” Priya said with a smirk.

Chloe purred, “Mmm. Do you think he’s got a sock down there or do you think it’s the real deal?”

“Chloe!” Ophelia yelled, trying to be offended for his sake.

“What?” Her friend shrugged. “I know you’ve seen the bulge. How could you not?”

Priya laughed. “Too bad he’s only got eyes for O.”

Ophelia didn’t want his eyes. Or his bulge. Or his boring conversation, either. They’d been on one date and he’d droned on and on about himself and his budding music career, barely taking a breath between sentences.

Her friends called her a “chronic first-dater.” She never went on second dates. Ever. Her mother was starting to ask if she was secretly into girls. The guys in her social circle called her a frigid bitch. Neither were true. Even before her father passed away, she’d found most guys boring. But now . . . Now she couldn’t even imagine starting a relationship. Not when her heart still felt so raw from his death. He was the one person in the world she felt actually loved her. When she was a child she’d known the nannies only showed up every day for the money. Her own mother had skipped out on visitation half the time after her parents had divorced.

Since he’d died two months ago, her heart had been aching and empty. Ophelia hadn’t been a picnic to be around. She wondered if guys were coming onto her because they liked the challenge, not because they were actually interested.

She seriously needed to start re-evaluating her social circle.

But God forbid she missed the banquets and multi-million dollar house parties. Her mother would have her head. Nothing was more annoying than Lorna Davis on a rant about preserving the family’s reputation. Sometimes being an only child sucked. The role of golden child or disappointment fell on her alone.

Her phone beeped. She looked down, wondering who’d bothered to text her. Other than Chloe and Priya, who she’d grown up with, everyone else had faded away after her father had died and she’d shut down.

The name
Jason
popped up on the screen. She scrunched her nose.

Can’t wait to see you tonight.

That made one of them. In fact, she was going to do everything in her power to avoid him. She felt bad the second she thought it. He was a nice guy—just completely clueless about how to talk to women. And yeah, maybe a little self-absorbed. If she were in a better place, maybe she’d give him some pointers. But right now, she couldn’t stomach the idea of flirting. Or happiness. Or feeling anything at all.

She shoved her phone in her purse then looked at her friends. “Let’s get this over with. I’m in desperate need of a buzz.”

“And a man to screw,” Chloe added.

Ignoring her, Ophelia made for the door. “I’ll drive.”

Priya shuffled behind her, muttering, “Why bother? We know you won’t be playing DD.”

There was a vague sense of guilt, but she pushed it away. She’d been a little freer with her alcohol consumption lately but it wasn’t as if she was out of control. That was just what people did at parties. Besides, nobody could blame her for wanting to feel numb once in a while.

“Shh,” Chloe scolded Priya. “I’ll drive us home. I’m on a body cleanse anyway.”

They piled into Ophelia’s SUV—Priya in the back and Chloe in the passenger seat. Her two friends prattled on about the latest gossip but Ophelia’s mind hazed over. She let herself get caught in the familiar blank space between feeling incredibly lost and just not caring.

It was a place she was finding herself in more and more lately.

The party was in full swing by the time they arrived. Music pulsed, vibrating the floor beneath her feet. The inside of the mansion had been transformed into a club. Servers poured drinks as lights flashed to the rhythm of the rave music.

Ophelia pushed her way through the dancing crowd, grabbing a drink from the bar on her way. She chugged it quickly. The faster she could get a buzz going, the better. She was having a hard time being able to tolerate this shit lately.

Chloe and Priya motioned they were headed to the dance floor. Ophelia nodded and waved them away. Instead of following like she might have done at one time, she made her way to the sliding door that led to the patio.

Outside, girls in tiny bikinis strutted by the pool. The music was muted at least and she was glad for the break in the assault to her ears.

Christmas lights hung on the patio railing and above on the canopies. Two guys and a girl were by the waterfall, laughing and drinking. Men lingered on the side of the pool, flirting with anyone who happened to have a chest above a B cup. Hers barely made the cut.

She sighed. Sometimes she felt like these were nothing more than upscale frat parties.

Most of the attendees were the offspring of celebrities and moguls. Spoiled rich kids who handled the pressure of the spotlight by doing dumb things that embarrassed their parents. At one point she’d fit in here among the designer clothes and expensive jewelry. But now, she didn’t know where she belonged.

Before committing to a lingering spot, she scanned the patio for Jason. He was exactly what a girl like her should want at this stage in her life. Tall, dark, and handsome was an understatement. He was beautiful. The kind of man gorgeous women wanted to make babies with. Dark skin, golden eyes, a wide toothy smile, and dimples. Fucking dimples! He had a stable financial situation, thanks to his wealthy movie director parents. Speaking of his parents . . . They were well-loved and respected in her social circle.

Really, what more could a girl ask for?

She didn’t know why but he just wasn’t doing it for her. It wasn’t only his lack of conversational skills. Even his suave appearance didn’t get her libido going. At this point, she wondered if she even
had
a libido. Was nothing working down there? Maybe her girly bits were broken. When everyone else’s tingled for Tom Hardy or Chris Hemsworth, hers just went
meh
.

Maybe she should see a doctor.

She almost laughed out loud. Of all the things she should see a doctor about, not getting turned on by hot guys was last on the priority list.

A server came by with a tray of mojitos. She grabbed one and sipped it hastily.

“There you are,” a voice boomed from behind her.

Dread crept into her gut, despite the alcohol. She swigged the last sip and turned to face Jason.

She gave him her best smile.

His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re in pain.”

Her face went slack. So much for trying to be nice. “I’m fine.” She grabbed another drink off a moving tray.

“Oookay.” He smiled then—one that should make her swoon. She was swooning all right, but it was more from the alcohol she was knocking back like her survival depended on it. Maybe it did.

“Did you hear the news?” he asked. “A record producer is interested in my demo.”

“Wow . . .” Was that her voice sounding so excited and impressed? Weird. “That’s awesome!”

Jason flinched back, his smile gone. “Are you okay?”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“You’re talking really loud.”

The world spun and she swayed a little.
Ah, here we go.
Now she could forget everything. Speaking of forgetting . . . What were they talking about?

Jason gripped her elbow. She looked down at his big hand, all manly and . . . big. Then she giggled.
Sooo not into him
. She pictured him moving that hand to her waistband then down to her panties.

A snorting laugh bubbled up.

Fuck. Was she losing her mind?

She smiled up at Jason and purred, “Buy me a drink?”

An hour later—or maybe it was more—her head started to throb. Jason was still lingering even as Chloe and Priya dragged her onto the dance floor. With enough alcohol, anything was possible. Soon, she was laughing and dancing, just like the old Ophelia, only poorly dressed.

“Fresh air,” she yelled above the music.

Her friends nodded and she stumbled out the front door. Her feet felt swollen in her shoes so she yanked them off and carried them as she headed down the driveway. Her head spun and she focused on inhaling deep breaths.

Where the fuck was her SUV?

She walked, barefoot, on the cooling asphalt for what felt like forever before she found hers in a line up at the end of the driveway. Even this drunk, she knew better than to drive. But it was so stuffy in that house, she suddenly felt like she’d die if she didn’t get out of there.

After fumbling with her keys, she managed to unlock the doors and fall into the back seat, closing the door behind her. She just needed a break. A few minutes to lay down. Just to cool off.

She shut her eyes, focusing on the music in the distance. Soon, the music faded away and she felt nothing.