“You got me there,” I say, rolling my eyes. Sure, I had designer bags and clothes, but that was because my father bought them for me as gifts. I’ve never bought something so expensive for myself, and I don’t feel comfortable spending anyone else’s money. It sucks as it is that I can’t work, that I need to stay hidden. My father got into some serious shit, and now I’m the one sacrificing for it.
“Must be nice to have everything handed to you on a silver platter,” he says, glancing down at his phone.
I grit my teeth and try to stop myself from replying, but the words just leave my mouth. “You must be a pretty hypocritical biker to judge my life when you live yours in a certain way.” I pause. “Crime, women, drugs, and who knows what else, but sure, let’s concentrate on the fact that I grew up with money. Apparently that’s the only thing you can use against me.”
Vinnie raises a brow at me, looking extremely unimpressed. “You learn all that about bikers by watching Talon? I sure as fuck don’t do drugs.”
I notice he doesn’t address the other issues I mentioned, so the women and the illegal stuff must be true.
I know that Talon and the Wild Men aren’t innocent at all, because Talon is always tangled up in something or the other.
“Really? Must suck to be stereotyped like that, then,” I sneer, flashing him a fake smile.
The bastard suddenly looks amused, his lips twitching and his brown eyes filling with mirth. “You’re rich, spoiled, and you have a mouth on you. I was told about all this before I even stepped into this door, so don’t act like it’s completely wrong. It’s not just me coming to this conclusion. It’s basically fact.”
“Well, if everyone thinks it, it must be true,” I say in a sarcastic tone. “Everyone being Talon, since he’s the only person we both know.”
Talon always tells me I’m a brat, but in a fond way. I’m his baby cousin, of course I’m a pain in his ass, it’s part of the job description.
Vinnie shrugs and infuriatingly says, “I’m a good judge of character.”
The only thing he’s good at is being an ass.
“So I’m assuming you don’t come from money, then?” I ask, not rudely, but all of this has to be coming from somewhere. “What do your parents do?”
“I don’t have any parents,” he says in a flat tone, looking back down at his phone.
“Everyone has parents.”
I mean everyone came from somewhere. I was adopted as a baby, and I don’t know anything about my birth parents, except their names. Maybe one day I’ll travel back to Vietnam to find answers, but for now, my parents are the ones who loved and wanted me, not the ones who birthed me.
“Not me,” he says, sounding like he’d rather be talking about anything else right now. “I grew up in foster care.”
He still had biological parents, just like I did back in Vietnam, but I don’t point that out.
“My dad and mom adopted me from an orphanage in Vietnam,” I tell him, wanting him to know he’s not alone, my biological parents didn’t want me either.
“Yeah, well, no one adopted me,” he says, standing up. “I’m going to go outside and check the perimeter. I need to have a chat with the night guard too.”
He leaves, and I’m left feeling . . . something.
He didn’t get adopted.
What would my life have been like if I hadn’t been? Maybe that’s why I don’t complain about the predicament I’m in right now.
Because my life could have been a hell of a lot worse.
FOUR
HE comes back two hours later and ignores me, so I do the same, pretending we never shared something so personal with each other. I’m reading a romance novel when he sits down opposite me again and says, “It’s late.”
I raise my gaze to him. “And?”
“And aren’t you tired?”
“Aren’t you?” I fire back, wondering what he is getting at here.
“If we’re going shopping early, you better get your ass up. How long does it take you to get ready? An hour? Two?”
He’s really laying this bullshit on thick.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” I say, narrowing my eyes on him. “I’ll be up and ready before you are, don’t you worry about that.”
“I really fuckin’ doubt that,” he scoffs, putting his bare feet up on the red couch. “Be ready to leave after breakfast, say, ten?”
I roll my eyes. I wake up at six every morning to do yoga, so being ready by that time isn’t a big deal for me.
“I’m sure I can manage that,” I say, glancing back down at my book. When Vinnie makes a sound of amusement, I lift my head again and send a threatening look in his direction. “What now?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs, still grinning.
I look into his brown eyes, lighter than my dark ones, and demand, “Tell me.”
He scrubs a hand down the stubble on his cheek, then points to my book. “I know the author, is all. It still amazes me how popular her books are.” He pauses. “And that she writes them.”
I take a deep breath and try to curb down my inner fangirl. “Are you trying to tell me that you personally know Zada Ryan? No bullshit?”
I want a signed book.
No, I need a signed book.
No. I need all her books signed for my signed bookshelf.