His eyes shift, landing on Ava.
“And who’s this?” he asks, suddenly all warm smiles and piqued interest.
She gives him a polite smile, clearly caught off guard by his attention, while I slide an arm around her waist and decide to let both of them in on the joke.
“This is Ava,” I reply casually. “Her mom’s a prostitute.”
She stiffens beneath my hold, eyes snapping up to me in shock. Her mouth drops open, cheeks flaming, but Ava’s reaction is nothing compared to my old man’s.
The color drains from his face, then floods red so fast it’s as if someone flipped a switch. Senator Ford looks like he’s ready to blow a gasket, which is the exact reaction I hoped to provoke.
He turns on me, voice tight with fury. “Christian.”
One word. Controlled. A threat and a warning.
I grin and reach for my fresh glass of whiskey, tipping it toward him in a mock-toast. “What’s the matter?” I ask, feigning innocence. “Doesn’t gel with your image?”
His jaw clenches so tight I swear I hear the grind of his teeth. The weight of what he wants to say– what hecan’tsay here– is almost enough to make me laugh.
“Let’s take a walk,” he growls, leaning in. His hand shoots out to grab onto my arm, gripping tight enough to hurt if I actually felt pain like normal people.
I don’t even flinch, meeting his eyes with a lazy smile and effortlessly twisting my arm free. Leaning into Ava, I grab for her hand, lacing her fingers with mine and kissing the back of it like I’m the perfect fucking gentleman.
“I’m good right here,” I say, tone sugary and insincere, meant to push him right to the edge without giving him the excuse he needs to shove me off. “Don’t worry, we’ll behave.”
Flashing my dad one last grin, I start pulling Ava toward the dance floor, knowing Senator Ford won’t follow. He wouldn’t risk a scene here, not in front of donors and colleagues and snobbish elites.
Ava still hasn’t said a word. She’s silent as I drag her through the sea of diamonds and tuxedos, fingers twisting tighter in mine. If she initially thought this gala would be a fun night out, she’s probably rethinking everything right about now.
She’ll get over it. None of these people matter– she won’t likely ever see them again, and she’s fucking lucky for it.
She’s mad, though. I can feel her fury vibrating off her, and I’m drinking it in like oxygen. She’s so damn sexy when she’s angry. It gets my dick hard.
I knock back the rest of my whiskey as we pass a table and ditch the empty glass without stopping, glancing at the untouched champagne flute still in Ava’s other hand.
“You might want to finish that,” I remark. “Helps with the nerves.”
She glares back at me, knuckles whitening on the stem.
Yep, definitely mad.
She’s not fighting me, though, because like my dad, she clearly doesn’t want to make a scene. I take full advantage, relieving her of the champagne flute before pulling her out onto the dance floor.
Bodies sway around us as I pivot to face Ava, one hand still locked in hers, the other sliding to the small of her back. She gasps softly when I pull her chest flush against mine, eyes snapping up, lips parting ever so slightly.
I start to move, guiding us through the motions, slow and deliberate. A swirl of soft piano and polite jazz rises around us,but I only hear the whisper of her breath, feel the tension in her spine.
More than one pair of eyes in the room is on us. I can feel them watching, judging, whispering behind manicured hands and polished teeth.
Good.
The whole point of coming here was to be seen, and we’re making them look.
I lean down, my lips brushing just beneath her ear. “Smile, Ava,” I whisper tauntingly. “It’s all part of the show.”
Her body stays stiff against mine for a beat too long, the music swelling.If you can call this shitmusic. It’s the kind of song played at overpriced weddings and political fundraisers, bland and boring as fuck. I move us around the dance floor with practiced ease, but Ava’s still avoiding my eyes.
“You think that was funny?” she finally grits out, voice low but razor sharp.
