Man of the House: A Dark Bad Boy Romance(9)

“You don’t strike me as the jazz type,” I said.

He laughed. “Jazz is pretentious as f*ck. But it helps me think.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I come in here when I have some work to get done but can’t concentrate anywhere else.”

“So am I interrupting your work?”

“Not anymore,” he said. “I finished up a little bit ago.” He handed me a glass. I took it from him and sipped it, surprised. It was delicious, fresh and sweet.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A secret recipe,” he said. “It’s mostly gin, though.”

I laughed and took another sip. He came around the bar and leaned against a stool as I looked around the room, idly leafing through the records. He had thousands of records in there from all different artists, from Snoop Dogg to Bruce Springsteen. It was actually pretty impressive and amazing.

“When did you start collecting all these?” I asked him.

“A long time ago,” he said. “I have way too many now.”

“It’s amazing. I mean, I never got into the whole vinyl thing, but this is cool.”

“Thanks. It’s an impractical hobby, but I love it anyway.”

“I never would have guessed you were the type of guy to collect records.”

He grinned at me. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. You have all these tattoos. You have a reputation.”

“What do tattoos and reputations have to do with music?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated, frustrated. I felt like I put my foot in my mouth as he laughed and sipped his drink.

“I get what you’re saying. But I’m just a person like everyone else. You’re into music?”

I shrugged. “No more than anyone else. I like whatever’s on the radio.”

“Here, take a listen to this.” He took the jazz record off the turntable, putting it back into its sleeve, and picked out another record. He put that one on and spun it.

“It’s an old Bowie record. Didn’t get a lot of love back in the day.”

“What’s it called?”

“Hours,” he said. “He made it as a video game soundtrack in the nineties.”

I laughed. “Nineties Bowie is the worst.”

“No way. That’s the best Bowie.”

As I looked through the records, Carter came up behind me. I pulled one out and flipped it over, looking at it.

“That’s a good choice,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Bernard Fevre. It’s an old electronic disco album.”

“Is it good?”

“Not really,” he said, laughing. “Let’s put it on.”

We spent the next half hour picking through records, listening to a song or two, and then putting a new record on. I quickly forgot that I disliked this guy Carter, and that he was my stepfather, and instead just enjoyed myself. He was funny and charming, and he seemed to know a lot about the records we were listening to.

Finally, we ended up on a small couch against one wall near the fireplace listening to Lorde’s most recent album.

“You know,” I said, “it’s a little ironic that you have this album. This song is all about how normal people will never be rich and famous like the royals.”

“What’s so ironic about that?”

“You’re rich and famous,” I pointed out.

“I wasn’t always.” He shrugged. “I don’t discriminate.”

“Neither do I, which is why I’m hanging out with mister rich and spoiled.”

He laughed. “Okay, fine, fair enough.”

“This house is incredible, you know.”

“I’m glad you think so.” He leaned toward me and I felt my heart starting to beat faster.

“It’s more like a resort than a house,” I said quickly, looking away from him. I couldn’t get any ideas, even though I was already imagining what it would be like to kiss his attractive mouth, to let his hands roam my body.

“We have a lot of guests. This place is rarely empty.”

“Don’t like to be alone?”

“No,” he said, coming closer. “I like to be alone. Except when the company is worth being around.”

I looked into his intense gaze for a second and shook my head. “Carter,” I said.

“What?”

“I thought we had a truce.”

He grinned huge. “I guess I broke it already.”

I could see what he wanted clearly in his eyes. He was looking at my body like a starving man, hungry for my skin. Truthfully, I didn’t mind it one bit, and wanted him to come closer. I wanted to feel his lips against me, his hands on my hips, on my ass. I wanted him to take me the way I knew that he could.

Except he was my stepfather, and that was so messed up.

As he came nearer, his phone suddenly started ringing. Frowning at it for a second, he stood up quickly and walked away, answering.

I couldn’t hear what he said, but his expression quickly got serious. He said something and nodded a few times before hanging up. He turned to me, an apologetic smile on his face. “I have to go,” he said.

“Okay.” I stood up. “Thanks for showing me this.”