Trapped (Caged 2)

“It certainly is not!”

As Michael, Tria and I argued, Carter flitted around and measured me from every angle. It was surreal and reminded me very much of comparable positions I had been in as a kid. I couldn’t even count the number of times similar people had measured, primped, and preened me for various social gatherings.

Their simple logic and general “gang up on Liam” tactics eventually wore me down.

“Fine!” I grumbled. “But I’m telling you right now, it’s going to suck!”

I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes at the both of them while Carter got down on his knees and measured my inseam.

Fucking hell.

Two hours later, Carter was still talking to Tria about dress designs, and I had stepped out for a smoke. Michael followed me.

“I’m glad you decided to attend,” he said.

“Decided?” I snorted. “I was coerced.”

“However it occurred, I’m still glad you will be there.”

“I’m not talking to him, Michael,” I said.

“Liam…”

“No!” I growled. “I’ll go there because I said I would, but I didn’t say anything about talking to him!”

“Your mother—”

“Or her, either!”

Michael sighed and reached up to fiddle with the silver hoops in his ear.

“You still wear them,” he remarked, nodding toward the matching set of jewelry in my own ear.

“I don’t want the holes to close up. Getting the piercings hurt like a bitch.”

“You could have bought different ones.”

“With all the extra cash I have?” I smirked. “Yeah, food and rent are a little more at the top of my list.”

Michael took a slight step back, eyed my left ear for a moment, and then gave me a half smile.

“Are you making excuses to me or yourself?”

Fucker.

I was never one to agree with Michael, but the idea of removing the earrings was abhorrent.

Chapter 12—Run the Gauntlet

“Tria, the car is here.”

I climbed back into the window and stepped over my growing pile of laundry. Tria was shoving shit into her purse—a bottle of hand lotion, an umbrella, an empty water bottle, and a cookbook, for fuck’s sake.

“What the hell do you need all that for?” I asked, then immediately thought better of it. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. The car is out there and probably already drawing a lot of attention. We should hustle.”

“I’m ready,” she said as she tossed the bag over her arm. “Let’s go.”

The Rolls was deep black, sleek, and totally out of place, parked out in front of our dilapidated building. Tria’s eyes went wide as the dark-haired man in a suit and customary chauffeur’s hat opened the back door for us, and she slid into the seat.