The End Zoneby(27)
“I’m sorry, I don’t take orders from people who aren’t my boss,” I say coolly, dropping my funky, colorful bag at the door and erasing the distance between us in wide, confident steps. He is standing in front of me, his Armani suit impeccable, his raven hair slicked back, his icicle blue eyes devouring me in ways that make being eaten alive worth it. He scans the length of me, a slight sneer on his face. I’m still me, even so many years later. The tips of my light brown hair are still cherry-blossom pink. The soles of my shoes are yellow, for Christ’s sake.
“That could be arranged, if you continue your sass.”
“How is that going to work, Vicious? Are you going to re-employ me against my will?” For the past eighteen years, I’ve been managing my own gallery in L.A. A gallery he bought for me shortly before our engagement. I have a career, an income of my own. Truth is, he gave me a push, but the entire journey to where I am today was made by me, and only me, and he knows it.
He cups my cheek, yanks me by the hem of my funky powder blue blouse with little suns into his body and leans down for a kiss. Our lips brush briefly, promising scattered clothes and ragged breaths, just as the door swings open and our son walks in. He slams the door behind him, his eyes still intently glued to his phone.
Vaughn is a spitting image of his dad. So much so, that sometimes it scares me.
At sixteen, he has the walk, talk, and air of Vicious when the latter was a senior in high school. Rangy, strong body, thick-fringed blue eyes, skin so fair he looks like he defies the sun, and cheekbones you could use as a sharp weapon. More than anything, he has that uniquely-pissed facial expression that tells you that he just doesn’t care.
Not about your problems.
Not about your feelings.
And certainly not about what you think about him.
“Are you actively trying to be gross?” Vaughn mutters under his breath, throwing his phone on the silk ottoman by the entrance and kicking his shoes off at the same time. His black, holed shirt strains around the muscles of his back as he tears the gray beanie off his head and shoves it into his holed back pocket. His black skinny jeans are ripped not only at the knees, but also below the ass, hanging loosely by a belt made of tied-up shoelaces. Yes. My son is a millionaire who dressed like he should be begging for his next meal.
Because he simply. Doesn’t. Care.
Vaughn ambles past us, toward the kitchen, his eyes hooded with an impending storm.
“Are you actively trying to get your ass grounded and your credit card sent back to where all Black American Express cards go to die?” Vicious raises a sardonic eyebrow, smoothing his suit with his palm and taking a sidestep so my body fully covers his erection. I bite down a giggle. Vaughn throws the fridge door open, takes out leftover roasted sprouts and steak, and gets right to business. He places enough food to choke an elephant on a fork and shoves it into his mouth while the food is still cold, leaning one hip against the dark green granite counter.
Vaughn’s eyes are hard on the food as he says, “You’re supposed to hate each other or get a divorce like most of the other parents at my school. Get the memo, guys.”
“Well, we did that in high school. We did everything backwards. Now is our honeymoon phase.” I offer him a breezy smile, hoping I can melt his inhibitions and anger as I do with his dad.
Vaughn swallows the steak without even chewing. “Still. Nothing like a parental PDA to kill a guy’s appetite. Get a room.”
“We have a room.” I knot my arms around my husband’s neck and plant a tender kiss on his cheek. Secretly, I enjoy seeing my son like this. Defiant, strong, outspoken. Everything Vaughn says is in block letters. Important and not to be ignored. His voice is low and looming, only a few tons lighter than his dad’s.
“We have fifteen of them, to be exact, and a snotty-ass son who is more than welcome to migrate out of our house in favor of military school.” Vicious is clearly joking, but there is a serious edge to his tone. “Apologize to your mother.”
Vaughn carries the empty plastic container, now devoid of food, to the stainless steel trash bin and kicks it open with his foot. He dumps it inside and shuts the door with his hip. He turns around, and I realize that his dark expression makes me wince, and I’m his mom. I dread to think how other people feel about him at school.
“So terribly sorry, Mother.” He does a little bow, his movements drip sarcasm and disdain.
“Would you like to share what got your panties in such a twist, they now need to be surgically removed from your ass?” Vicious flicks his cold eyes from my breasts to his son, finally stepping from behind me. He is no longer suffering from a steel-hard erection. Despite the unfortunate current situation, my husband and my son are close. In fact, they can sit in the media room for hours, talking, playing God of War, and drinking root beer. They share not only blood and family, but also several interests and a weird, tongue-in-cheek sense of humor only they understand. They also share the same scorn toward life and people. They both love the Raiders, and pissing people off, and me.
Vaughn swivels on his heel, stalking toward the stairs. Vicious clasps his arm on instinct, pulling him toward us. Their gazes lock and something clicks in the air. Whatever passes between them makes goosebumps chase each other up my arms. I’ve seen Vaughn’s expression on Vicious’ face before. He gave it to Dean, one of his best friends, shortly before we started dating as teenagers.