reason isn’t me, Elias Briggs,” I say slowly, carefully, watching every shift in his expression. “Because I despise you and the rest of your so-called friends. You’re monsters, every last one of you.”
He doesn’t even bother to deny it. “Maybe.” He holds his cigarette casually between two fingers. “But maybe that’s why we’re so fucking obsessed with you.”
I don’t bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, I shove his jacket off of my shoulders, push past his muscular body, and storm back into the restaurant. It doesn’t appear as if the other four men have even blinked since I left, all engaged in a fierce stare off.
Well, all of them except for Cassian, who has cut a hole into a breadstick and is using a second one to fuck the first. When he sees me looking, he smirks dangerously and brings the bread to his mouth, running his tongue over the top before swallowing it whole.
I quickly look away, focusing instead on my date for the evening.
“How about we skip dinner and head straight for the party?” I suggest, keeping my back to the Devils.
“And maybe get dessert after?” Emmett questions with a glint in his eyes that speaks louder than words. There’s no missing the sexual innuendo.
Instead of answering him, I merely take his hand in mine—allowing my fingers to trail over his before grasping firmly—and pull him out of the restaurant, leaving behind the infuriated Devils.
Chapter 26
Jessica Simmon’s house is nearly as large as Mariabella’s, a huge, faux-Italian villa with a circular driveway displaying a marble fountain, wrought iron gates, multiple balconies, and potted plants dotting the walkway.
We’re forced to park on the street in front of the house, Emmett’s tiny car barely able to squeeze between two trucks.
As we begin to climb up the steep driveway, the lawns on either side already crowded with cars and drunk teenagers, Emmett reaches coyly towards me and interlocks his fingers with mine.
I turn to him in surprise, cheeks flaming, but allow him to take my hand and pull me the rest of the way to the house.
My mind keeps circling back to the Devils. Why did they show up? What did they want? Obviously, this is part of their grand plan or whatever, but I have no fucking idea what that plan is. I’m going to drive myself crazy in my quest for answers, I just fucking know it.
Still, I try to focus only on Emmett’s hand in mine as we enter Jessica’s house.
If I thought the exterior was massive, the inside puts it to shame. Flood lights hang from the ceiling, each one with a different colored piece of paper taped overhead. The combination is a rainbow of light illuminating the makeshift dance floor, which is nothing more than a bunch of couches pushed to the edges of the room.
The kitchen is to the right of the entrance, and it’s there Emmett leads me first, his hand leaving mine and drifting to the small of my back. He leans closer until his hot breath wafts across my earlobe.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the music. At my nod, he gives my hip a squeeze before detangling himself and moving towards the keg manned by one of his football teammates.
I take the moment to lean against the far wall, in direct view of both the kitchen and dance floor, and survey the party in extensive detail.
Have you ever seen a party on television? Where twenty-something-year-old actors pretend to be high schoolers, and they dance and drink and get wasted? Well, this party is a much tamer version of that. People are drinking and dancing, all right, but there are no couples having sex in the corner of the rooms. No illicit affairs in direct view of their classmates. Honestly, I believe a lot of script writers are perverted fifty-year-old men who have no idea what being a teenager is really like.
“A drink for the pretty lady.” Emmett returns only a few minutes later, offering me an unopened beer that must’ve been sitting beside the keg. I take it gratefully as he unscrews the lid on his own and takes a long swallow, his throat bobbing.
“Thanks, Em.” The condensation makes my hands sticky as I absently move the bottle from hand to hand, almost as if I’m playing my own version of solo hot potato.
“Do you wanna maybe dance?” He inclines his head towards the dance floor where dozens