Sinner (Shelter Harbor #1)(208)

Yeah, that part of me responds, just for a half-second.

But no, fuck no.

“Maybe some other time, Sam.” I smile thinly at her and turn at the sound of applause just in time to see Reagan coming off the stage, and then I’m even more pissed that Samantha’s kept me from hearing the rest of her speech.

“But boooo, I thought you’d be more fun.” Samantha wines, tugging on my arm and pressing her tits up against me even more.

‘Boo’? Is this girl fucking serious? I turn around again to yank my arm out of my grasp and give her a withering look, and when I turn back to the stage again, my eyes narrow and I growl.

Reagan is talking and laughing with some douchey looking prep-school poster-boy, her hand on his arm as she laughs uproariously at something that’s just come out of his pompous-looking mouth. Erika, Reagan’s obnoxious ‘brand manager’ is there too along with Donald, and the two of them are beaming like a couple of assholes at Reagan talking with this chump. The confusing surge of jealousy only intensifies when they turn and nod at me before they all start to walk over to where I’m standing on the side of the stage with Samantha still hanging off of me.

“Hudson!” Donald says to me, as if we’re old pals. His face is all red and puffy from smooching this guy’s ass. “I wanted to introduce you to Congressman Kennedy.”

Oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

The douchebag chuckles and puts his hand on Reagan’s shoulder for whatever reason he’s deemed that to be appropriate as he laughs, as if Donald’s just made the joke of the fucking century.

I want to hit him.

“Oh, no, not those Kennedy’s, I wish!” He chuckles again and Reagan is laughing right along with him, loudly.

“Chet Kennedy,” he says, sticking his hand out like he’s about to sell me a used car. Holy shit, this is Chet the ex boyfriend? If I wanted to hit him before, I want to knock him the fuck out now.

“Nice to meet you,” I say as formally as possible, my voice frosty and leaden as I stick my hand out.

“New York Legislature, Westchester County, of course.” He says, as if I should know what even means.

His eyes drop to the ink peeking out from my cuff and I see this smirking, judging look pass across his face. I squeeze his hand extra hard, enjoying seeing him wince. Reagan’s eyes are boring in on me, with a look on her face that I can’t quite read.

“Hiii! I’m Sam!” Fuck, she’s still fucking here and she’s still hanging off my arm. I glance at Reagan and see her eyes narrowing at Samantha before she slips her arm through Chet’s. My blood pressure immediately spikes through the ceiling.

Donald and Erika are all over the two of them, gushing over every dip-shit comment that comes out of his mouth and making sure every damn photographer in the room gets a picture of him and Reagan with their arms linked. Samantha is still tied around my arm, and the whole thing is just like watching a slow-motion car-wreck in action as I stand there with my throat feeling tight and my rage bubbling just below the surface. I want a cigarette. Hell, I kind of want a drink.

Chet’s people come over and tear him away for something, and I can’t manage more than a barely perceivable nod as he tells me again how great it was to meet me. Donald’s shoots me a dirty look and taps the daily schedule printout in his hand against his watch, as if it’s my fucking fault that Chet has us running off schedule.

I finally manage to shake the bimbo off my arm as he and Erika split, and then we’re alone on the side of the stage.

“What?”

Reagan’s shooting me this thin little smirk, her eyes flashing at me. “So, Sam-”

I roll my eyes. “Not what you think.”

“Oh and what would I be thinking, Hudson, and why would I possibly think that?” Her sarcastic smile is exaggeratedly fake.

“Relax, Princess, she’s not my type.”

Reagan bristles at the word. “And what type would that be that, Hudson? The kind that has something besides air between their ears?” She snorts, “she sure had me fooled.”

For some reason, I grin. Getting a weirdly smug sense of satisfaction from the fact that Reagan is clearly jealous. “Well what about you and Chet back there? You guys pick out color-schemes yet for the Lincoln bedroom?”

Reagan rolls her eyes, “Oh give me a break-” Her eyes land on me and she grins. “What, are you jealous?”

I tense up inside, but I keep my voice cool. “What, of Chet and his collection of polo shirts and boat shoes?” I snort. “Uh, no, Reagan, I’m not.”

“Oh, and what, is little miss Tits McGee back there supposed to make me jealous?”