Page 185 of Hate to Love You

“Caesar!” Roman shouts, clicking his fingers.

With a whine, the obedient pup runs to his bed, and lays down, staring at me with his beautiful eyes wide.

Roman motions silently to the large open living room.

Pouting, I step into the room and sit my ass down on the couch with a thump.

The three of us sit in silence, waiting for Pasha, and the guy called Wesley to return. When they finally emerge, they approach sheepishly, with a limping Wesley stopping slightly behind Pasha, looking incredibly pale.

“Explain yourselves.”

“Well, erm… you see—” Wesley stammers, rubbing his arm, looking tentatively at Pasha.

“We, I mean… I hired some girls from Jewel Rose,” Pasha interjects. “It’s that top tier escort service.”

“They’re like the best of the best!” Wesley pipes in, before immediately biting his lip.

“Yeah, it wasn’t cheap,” Pasha nods, hiccupping again. “But that’s like, the point, you know?”

“Never heard of them,” Roman snaps irritably. “But I’ve never had to pay for sex before.”

Well, that’s a relief.

“Well, like,” Pasha says quickly. “Neither have I. But Tate said—”

“Fucking Tatum,” Roman growls, clenching his fist. “I’m going to strangle that fucker the next time I see him.”

Pasha gulps, and licks his lip before continuing, his voice shaking slightly.

“Yeah, well, erm, he recommended them. He said they were the best, and like super discreet. And because you told us to stay off the streets, we were trying to be discreet and—”

“Wayyyyy discreet!” A visibly drunk Wesley chimes in, only to get elbowed by Pasha once again.

“Yeah, I’d fucking say so,” Roman hisses, his jaw flexing. “So discreet that they managed to lock you two drunken idiots in the bathroom and leave.”

Neither of the men say a word, their eyes lowered to the floor.

“How much did you have to drink?” Roman demands.

“Oh just a few,” Pasha snorts, waving his hand.

“Glasses?”

“No! Bottles!” Wesley interjects. “We found a bunch of them in your wine cellar.”

Even from where I’m standing, I can hear Roman growl.

“Hey…Pasha,” Wesley suddenly asks inquisitively. “Wasn’t there a painting there?”

And that was when all hell breaks loose.

Roman is screaming.

Pasha is screaming.

And Wesley is creeping as far away from the pair of them as he can, while Caesar barks at the scene in front of us.

“Come here, boy,” I call to the dog, who whips his head around and follows me jovially to the kitchen, likely to escape the noise.