The Lineup(23)

She folds her arms over her chest as she leans back in her chair, a look of disapproval on her face. “Explain to me how being an asshole is saving you from me calling security?”

“Threats are like assholes; they’re pointless.” Huh, is that what I wanted to say?

“That makes no sense at all, and I don’t know about you, but my asshole is impeccably clean.”

I motion for her to stand with my fingers and whistle as my fingers twist, indicating her to turn around as well. “I’ll be the judge of that. Whip them off, Domico.”

Her eyes narrow, her face contorting to one of pure hatred.

Yikes.

Looks like my teasing approach is a no-go.

“We’re not friends, so don’t talk to me like one. If I ever ‘whipped’ my skirt off, it wouldn’t be for you. And, security is here.”

“What?” I turn around in my chair to see two large men, dressed in all black making a beeline for me. They both grab one of my arms and lift me out of my chair. “Unhand me at once,” I say, struggling to get out of their grasps. I’m a large, strong man who’s spent many hours in the weight room, but I’m no match for the two men dragging me out of Dottie Domico’s office, my heels dragging in her plush rug.

“Thanks for the burger.” She waves and then turns back to her computer.

“You eat like a savage,” I call out. “And you have a piece of pepper in your teeth.” Her office door slams as I mutter, “Ungrateful wench.”

In the elevator, I find out the names of her security guards—Edgar and Harry—and that they’ve been working with Miss Domico for two years now, and I’m the first one to be dragged out of her office. By the time we reached the lobby, we’re good friends. I signed a few autographs for them, took a picture for my IG—it’s always about the gram—told them I would tag them, and then I took off.

To say I’m confused is an understatement.

What the hell just happened?





“I knew telling you about the empty space across from my apartment was a bad idea,” Knox groans while I file into his living room wearing nothing but a pair of my favorite silk pajama pants, midnight black. They feel so smooth on my ass and balls that I love wearing them around the house, only to slip into my bed completely naked. It’s like a pre-game of relaxation for my most private areas.

I take a seat on his couch and set down a plate of freshly baked brownies. I’m a sucker for a deliciously rich brownie, especially if they have walnuts and marshmallows in them. Kisses fingers Perfection.

“Don’t yell at him, he brought goodies,” Emory says. Wrapped up in a robe, she sits next to me and takes two brownies off the plate. “Oh, they’re still warm. Hey Knox, grab us some milk.” Emory takes a giant bite and moans before taking one more.

“Double fisting. Nice,” I say to her as she reaches for one more. “Hey, they’re not going anywhere.” I laugh as she whips her head toward me and stares venomously.

Jesus.

What’s with women today?

“I can take as many as I want,” she hisses.

I put my hands up, one clutching a brownie. “I’m not going to stop you, so by all means, eat the whole plate.”

Knox brings over three glasses of milk and says, “She’s been temperamental all day. She threw an empty can of peanuts at me this morning because she was mad they were all gone.”

“Who puts the empty can back in the pantry? Get rid of it, don’t trick a hungry person looking for peanuts into thinking there are still peanuts left,” she says, her voice growing angrier. “There were NO PEANUTS left, Knox. No goddamn peanuts!”

Ehhh . . .

I scoot a few inches away, feeling the boiling heat popping off Emory, afraid she might lash out on me over the lack of peanuts.

“Um, I have some peanuts over at my place, if you want some.”

“You do, do you? Aren’t you super helpful? Especially since I wanted them at six this morning. How do you think your peanuts are going to help me now? Huh, Jason? How the hell are they supposed to HELP ME NOW?” She rips into a brownie and chomps at me, snapping her teeth like a motherfucking lobster coming at me with its claws. Brownie seeps into the cracks of her teeth as she snarls and I swear to Christ himself, if I lose my face skin over peanuts, I’m going to be super pissed.

Just when she leans in closer, teeth bared and brownies held tightly in her clutches, the doorbell rings.

Knox hops to his feet. “That would be the test.”

“The test?” I ask, scooting farther away.

Knox answers the door, thanks the concierge, and then shuts the door. He thrusts a brown bag at Emory and points down the hall. “Go. Now.”

She stands tall, brownies still in one hand. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

“I’ll talk to you however I please, woman. Now go to the bathroom and tell me if there is a demon growing inside you or not.”

Demon? Inside her?

“If there is, it’s yours, which means this is all your fault. All of this.” She motions up and down her body. “If anything is sadistic in this house”—she pats Knox’s junk, causing him to buckle over—“it’s your sperm.”

Ahhh . . . She’s pregnant. I don’t need to see the results of that test to know. Emory is the coolest, sweetest girl I know, but right now, she looks like she’s two seconds away from morphing in an ogre and shitting on everyone’s dinner with a giant green plop.