Mother texted me a few minutes ago that she’s arrived and I stride through the lobby of my apartment building, making my way outside where I spot the town car sitting at the curb with its engine running. I open the door and climb inside, my mother’s surprised gaze meeting mine once I’ve closed the door.
“Oh, Perry.” The disappointment in her voice is clear and I slump into my seat across from her. “What in the world are you wearing?”
I glance down at myself. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You look like a young…” She waves her hand, for once at a loss for words. “Mafia don about to meet his subjects. Do you expect them to kneel before you and kiss your rings?”
Damn, that sounds dope as hell. Though I can tell by the look on her face, she doesn’t approve.
I hold my hands out, splaying my fingers. “Too many rings?”
“Far too many.” She tries to grab for one of my fingers and I pull back just in time. “And please, button up your shirt. You’re so—exposed. I can see your tattoos.”
She really, really hates the tattoos, which I think makes me love them even more.
But I keep that to myself. She’s aggravated enough.
I slip off a couple of heavy silver rings from each hand and stuff them into my pants pocket before I reach for the front of my white shirt, slowly doing up a couple of buttons but not all of them. I was going for a certain something tonight and she’s killing my vibe. “This is the new look now, Ma. I’m just trying to stay on trend.”
“By looking like a hooligan.” She makes a harumphing noise but I see the sparkle in her gaze.
I think she liked it that I called her ma. I’m the only one of her children who would ever dare say it.
“That’s the trend I’m going for. Hooligan hotness.” I shake my hair out of my eyes, which catches her attention.
“You need a haircut before your photo session,” she says.
“What photo session?” I frown, pushing my hair away from my face with irritation. I should probably cut it but…
I don’t want to. Again, I’m going for a look. One I like, that makes me stand out. Everyone else in this family is clean cut and proper—at least on the outside. I may not be rebellious in my actions, but I can be with my looks.
“Your engagement photos,” she says with the faintest bit of irritation. “You’re taking them in Central Park Wednesday afternoon.”
I start laughing. It’s either that or scream while I’m punching something, and my mother wouldn’t appreciate that. “Unbelievable. I don’t even know this chick.”
“She’s a lovely girl,” she says.
“You know her?” I raise a brow.
“No, but I’ve been told she’s quite lovely. Easy to talk to. Beautiful. All things you can work with.”
Now it’s my turn to be irritated. What is she implying, that I should be grateful for the opportunity to marry some rich snot who’s probably never seen a dick before in her life?
I’m still standing by my angry virgin comment.
“Doesn’t really matter to you, since you’re not the one who has to marry her,” I say grumpily.
“It most certainly does matter to me, since I’ll be dealing with this girl for the rest of my life. She’s to become your wife, Perry, which is a very important role. To carry on the Constantine name. She’s the only one with proper lineage to do so,” Mother sniffs.
“Come on, you like Ash.”
“I tolerate her.”
“And Iris.” My brother Keaton’s fiancée. “She’s cool.”
“Her father is a teacher.” She shivers, as if she’s completely disgusted by the thought. “So common.”
“Not like we’re royalty.”