Entitled: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boys For Life Book 1) by Danielle Slater, Roxy Sinclaire Page B
Authors: Danielle Slater, Roxy Sinclaire
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feel like a second home. The one event that meant the most continues on in her legacy—Gladys’s Glad Gala. The benefits are given to nonprofit organizations that provide low or no-cost professional counseling or psychological support.
I leave my car with the valet and stand in wait for my date. I had sent a car to pick her up and it would be here soon. I could wait inside the windowed building, but I know these people. They ask many questions on a normal basis, nosy motherfuckers, but they ask even more questions after a noticeable absence.
I straighten the lapels of my black Armani tux and look up the extended drive. Having Ayron by my side will serve as a shield of some sorts. Decorum demands that deep questioning not occur around the unconfirmed, those not established as a part of this community. Ayron is new to this world.
A white limousine ends it trek at the curved driveway before me.
The well-dressed driver hops out of the front seat with a whistle, as though his job is of great importance, and opens the door for my lady in waiting.
Her perfect, unassuming face lifts in a smile as she tilts her head and gives a simple curtsy while thanking the driver.
“Thank you for the pleasant ride.”
I let loose a hearty chuckle.
Ayron had only slightly started with her glamour process when I left Baraide’s. Her look, now complete, rivals the star-lit sky.
I blink a few times before allowing my eyes to drink in the sight of the sassy, shapely woman.
Her curled copper hair rests against her bare shoulders as she moves her gold-clad body in my direction.
I meet her half way, acting on a sudden need to be near her.
“Were you laughing at me?” Ayron asks, stepping between my arms.
Embracing her longer than normal, I reveal that her actions caused my smile.
“You don’t have to curtsy to the driver, princess,” I tease.
“I was just saying thank you,” she declares, playfully jabbing my shoulder with her matching clutch purse.
“You look good,” I say, exploring the contours of her perfect face and shimmering lips.
Ayron empties my arms to model her look for me, and I humor her.
“Just good?” she questions. “You paid enough for me to look awesome, stunning, or breathtaking, Devlin. If I’m looking like the ugly stepsister to you, then we need to head back to the shop and get your money back.” She grins and twirls like a model on a catwalk.
I shake my head, transfixed by her fascinating form.
“I’d tear that dress off your body right now,” I growl.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” She nods. “My best friend’s philosophy on the pain of beauty—If he don’t want it. then it wasn’t worth it.”
“You crack me up.” I laugh.
I leave an arm around her waist as we stroll into the building.
On our way through the corridor to the ballroom, a gangly teenage employee nearly walks into a post, gawking at the picture-worthy woman attached to my arm.
A few other scattered bystanders notice her as well. I catch a few scattered whispers, wondering about her identity.
The trip to Baraide’s was worth every penny. The last time I attended this function, I slunk away a heartbroken mess.
Her walk is one of pure, self-assured confidence, something she will definitely need when we enter the room of entitled elitists.
“Is that her?” Ayron asks, swiveling her head between the glossy picture of my mother and my glistening eyes when we arrive at the ballroom.
A large poster of my mother with the words “Gladys’s Glad Gala” sits atop an easel. I had put her pictures away the same time that my father and family had. Although I remember her in smells, sights, and songs, I had left the beauty of her image locked in a box under my closet floor.
“Yes. That is my mother,” I tell her.
Her eyes light with approval.
“She was beautiful.”
“Are you ready?” I ask her, eyeing the nut-brown polished floor that gleams beneath the white-washed walls.
“Always,” she sasses,
I leave my car with the valet and stand in wait for my date. I had sent a car to pick her up and it would be here soon. I could wait inside the windowed building, but I know these people. They ask many questions on a normal basis, nosy motherfuckers, but they ask even more questions after a noticeable absence.
I straighten the lapels of my black Armani tux and look up the extended drive. Having Ayron by my side will serve as a shield of some sorts. Decorum demands that deep questioning not occur around the unconfirmed, those not established as a part of this community. Ayron is new to this world.
A white limousine ends it trek at the curved driveway before me.
The well-dressed driver hops out of the front seat with a whistle, as though his job is of great importance, and opens the door for my lady in waiting.
Her perfect, unassuming face lifts in a smile as she tilts her head and gives a simple curtsy while thanking the driver.
“Thank you for the pleasant ride.”
I let loose a hearty chuckle.
Ayron had only slightly started with her glamour process when I left Baraide’s. Her look, now complete, rivals the star-lit sky.
I blink a few times before allowing my eyes to drink in the sight of the sassy, shapely woman.
Her curled copper hair rests against her bare shoulders as she moves her gold-clad body in my direction.
I meet her half way, acting on a sudden need to be near her.
“Were you laughing at me?” Ayron asks, stepping between my arms.
Embracing her longer than normal, I reveal that her actions caused my smile.
“You don’t have to curtsy to the driver, princess,” I tease.
“I was just saying thank you,” she declares, playfully jabbing my shoulder with her matching clutch purse.
“You look good,” I say, exploring the contours of her perfect face and shimmering lips.
Ayron empties my arms to model her look for me, and I humor her.
“Just good?” she questions. “You paid enough for me to look awesome, stunning, or breathtaking, Devlin. If I’m looking like the ugly stepsister to you, then we need to head back to the shop and get your money back.” She grins and twirls like a model on a catwalk.
I shake my head, transfixed by her fascinating form.
“I’d tear that dress off your body right now,” I growl.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” She nods. “My best friend’s philosophy on the pain of beauty—If he don’t want it. then it wasn’t worth it.”
“You crack me up.” I laugh.
I leave an arm around her waist as we stroll into the building.
On our way through the corridor to the ballroom, a gangly teenage employee nearly walks into a post, gawking at the picture-worthy woman attached to my arm.
A few other scattered bystanders notice her as well. I catch a few scattered whispers, wondering about her identity.
The trip to Baraide’s was worth every penny. The last time I attended this function, I slunk away a heartbroken mess.
Her walk is one of pure, self-assured confidence, something she will definitely need when we enter the room of entitled elitists.
“Is that her?” Ayron asks, swiveling her head between the glossy picture of my mother and my glistening eyes when we arrive at the ballroom.
A large poster of my mother with the words “Gladys’s Glad Gala” sits atop an easel. I had put her pictures away the same time that my father and family had. Although I remember her in smells, sights, and songs, I had left the beauty of her image locked in a box under my closet floor.
“Yes. That is my mother,” I tell her.
Her eyes light with approval.
“She was beautiful.”
“Are you ready?” I ask her, eyeing the nut-brown polished floor that gleams beneath the white-washed walls.
“Always,” she sasses,
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