I Bet You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  My heart drops at the voice. I mutter a curse as I flip around and squint into the darkness. Using my phone, I turn on the flashlight mode and shine it into the person’s face. “Who’s there?”

  It’s a man. He puts a hand up to shield himself from the brightness, squinting at the glare. “Whoa there. No need to put a spotlight on me. It’s Archer.”

  “Oh, hey.” I lower the light, keeping it on his chest, not quite at ease with him. My heart is still pounding as I run my eyes over him, taking in the vivid tattoos up his arms, most of them skulls and roses intertwined.

  Doesn’t make him a bad person, I remind myself. I adore tattoos but have never had the balls to get one.

  “You’ve got a flat. You need some help?”

  “Uh, no. I’ve got it. Thank you.” I’m tense as I survey the parking lot, wondering where his car is. My eyes lands on a lone Range Rover, parked several spots away. I nod my head at it, playing it cool when inside I’m shaking. “That yours?”

  He nods and sticks his hands in his pockets as he comes closer. “C’est tout, that’s it. Parked it and went to a bar with friends after Sugar’s.”

  His accent is thicker tonight, and I know why when the scent of whiskey wafts from him to me.

  My danger radar climbs to high alert.

  I take a step backward, and he holds his hands up in a placating manner, probably reading my face. “Cher, now, now, I’m just a good ol’ boy. Don’t fret.”

  Fear trickles through me, and I suck in air, feeling lightheaded. I don’t like being alone with a drunk guy in a dark parking lot.

  He sends me an oily grin and takes a step closer.

  I hold my hands up, my voice high and thin. “Don’t come any closer, please.”

  He gives me a haughty glare. “You think I’m going to eat you up like a cocodril?”

  I lick my lips. He means crocodile or alligator—I think.

  The imagery in my head encourages the hair on my arms to rise. I’m picturing him knocking me over the head, stuffing me in the back of his vehicle, taking me out to the swamp, and murdering me. I still have my phone in my hand, and I clench it tight, cursing myself for not calling someone right away. My hand that isn’t holding the phone shifts my keys and pushes them between my fingers in case I have to use them as a weapon. I lick my lips. “I already called someone.”

  “You did?” He takes another step closer.

  “Ryker’s coming to help me.” I don’t know why I say his name, but the change in Archer’s face is instantaneous.

  His expression hardens. “I thought you was with Connor.”

  “I can call who I want,” I snap.

  He takes another step until we’re close enough that I can count the eyelashes around his eyes. His breath is sharp and pungent as he peers down at me. “You’re a pretty thing. I like how you talk back,” he says, his gaze on my mouth.

  Terror jumps inside me, adrenaline fueling me as I shove at his chest. He stumbles back but hardly loses his balance. “I said stay back.”

  He looks pissed at first but then switches gears and laughs. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he glances down the empty street. “You sure you called him? If you was mine, I’d be here by now.”

  Look him straight in the eye. I nod. “He’s probably worried right now that I haven’t called him back because he told me to call him once I checked my trunk for a spare, and I already did that.” I hold up my phone and wave it at him to show him I have it out and could have called him. “He worries about me and we’re friends—good friends.”

  Archer’s lips curl up, a smile without teeth, yet I feel the sharpness of it. His head lowers, his eyes at half-mast. “Ah, he’s not your friend and you shouldn’t trust him. You know why?”

  “Why?” I don’t like the know-it-all sneer on his face, and my hands tighten.

  He thinks about his answer and points a finger at me, waving it all over the place. “See, cher, I’m itching to tell you, but if I do, it won’t be fair.”

  My nerves are stretched too thin to piece together his drunken words. He walks forward and puts heavily muscled forearms on either side of my car, caging me in.

  Shit. My hand clutches my keys. Just stab him in the eyeball. Do it.

  But my arms feel like lead. I’m too scared to move.

  His words are slurred. “You don’t need him. I’ll show you a real man.”

  A loud voice from behind him startles us both. “Dude! Archer? What’s going on?”

  Sweet baby Jesus. I’m saved. Relief washes over me and I crane my neck to see who it is.

  Archer pushes off from my car and whips around.

  Blaze is in his truck, idling by the road. He pulls to the side, turns the ignition off, and gets out then run-walks over to us. I recall tutoring him last year and how after each of our sessions in the library, he’d insist on walking me to my car.

  “You okay?” Blaze asks me as I lean against my car, palms flat on the cool metal. My legs are noodles.

  “I am now.” I put my hand to my chest. “Just need my heart to slow down.”

  “Was he bothering you?” Blaze sends a narrowed, angry glance over at Archer, who’s taken a few steps away from me.

  “He’s drunk,” I tell him. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along.”

  “I didn’t do nothing but ask her if she wanted some help,” Archer calls out belligerently.

  Blaze looks back at me, grimacing. “Did he touch you?”

  “She shoved me,” Archer shouts, but we both ignore him.

  I shake my head. “He was leaning over me…” I shake my head. “He said stuff about Ryker I didn’t get.”

  Blaze lets out a string of curse words and sends a menacing look at Archer. “You’re an asshole, Archer. Why did you scare her?”

  His jaw juts out. “I was just kidding.”

  Blaze’s gaze comes back to me. “Do you want me to call the cops?”

  I consider it, but in reality nothing happened. Yes, he showed up in the dark and said some odd things and came close to assaulting me…but he never technically laid a hand on me. My jaw clenches. Plus, he’s a football player. I knew exactly what would happen if I called the cops. Nothing. He’s too important of a player. Magnolia lives and breathes Waylon football.

  “I didn’t do anything!” Archer says.

  “Just get him out of here,” I say.

  Archer kicks at a pebble on the concrete as he makes his way to his Range Rover. “Everyone believes the worst about me. Bunch of assholes.” He pushes his hand out at us, as if he’s done with us. “Fuck y’all.”

  He gets in his car, cranks it up, and peels out of the parking lot. As soon as he’s gone, I let out a sigh of relief.

  I send up a prayer that he doesn’t hurt himself or anyone else.

  “I told him I called Ryker, but I didn’t,” I tell Blaze as we watch Archer’s taillights disappear.

  “He would have helped you.” He rubs his brow, looking at me contemplatively as if he’s not sure what to say. He frowns, seeming to be mulling something over.

  “What?”

  Blaze looks at me. “I don’t think we should tell Ryker about Archer being here. It will only make things worse with them.”

  I frown. “There’s tension between them?”

  “They have a history.” He looks as if he might say more—as if he knows something I don’t—but then he settles for walking over to my tire and studying it. His gaze is rueful when our eyes meet. “I guess you need some help with this?”

  Penelope

  The Duke of Waylon enters my dressing room at the church, and I flip around to face him.

  My eyes take in the thickness of his thighs in his beige breeches, the white linen shirt that’s wet from the storm that rages outside. He stands with his feet apart. “You’re not marrying him.”

  “Go to hell,” I say.

  He pops off his shirt with a swift movement and I gasp. He’s built like a Greek god, rip
pling with power, an alpha male to the core. Droplets of water run in small rivulets across his muscles, tracing over his pecs and soft curls, dancing across his abdomen then disappearing inside his tight pants.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re looking at me like you want me, Lady Penelope.”

  “The sentiment seems to be returned, my lord.” I flick my eyes to the bulging tent in his crotch.

  With two steps he’s at my side and his hand tangles in my auburn tresses, tilting my chin back until our gazes are locked. He trails a finger down the curve of my face, and a flood of heat washes over me.

  “Of course it is. You’re mine and no one else’s.” He kisses me deeply, his lips like wine, dark and intoxicating.

  My arms curl around his neck.

  “Beautiful,” he murmurs as he shoves my bodice down, freeing my heavy breasts.

  “We can’t do this,” I breathe. But there’s no truth in my words.

  His glittering gaze spears me. “Indeed, my lady, we can. I’m going to fuck you until you forget all about your fiancé, Viscount Connor.”

  I slam my notebook shut, my chest heaving just like the heroine’s. Why do I keep writing these ridiculous fantasies about him?

  I flip on the TV where I find Twilight on Netflix and hit play. If I can’t write fiction without Ryker as the hero, then I’ll just veg out. I send a glare at my notebook. “You will not be opened again tonight,” I announce.

  “Shit!” Vampire Bill squawks.

  I head to the kitchen, blaming my lapse in writing judgment on the fact that the handsome quarterback has been in my dreams at night more times than I care to count.

  The doorbell rings as I’m popping popcorn in the kitchen. With a brief look at my clock—it’s after ten—I clutch my around-the-house cardigan at the neck and grab my pepper spray. I will not be taken unaware again like last night with Archer.

  I walk into the den and approach the door. “Who is it?” I call out.

  “Ryker.”

  “Ryker?” I say back.

  “Ryker!” Vampire Bill squawks, and I turn around to hush him.

  “Yes,” replies the deep male voice.

  I stare at the door.

  “You gonna let me in, Red?”

  I frown at the door. “It’s late. And stop calling me that. My hair is auburn.”

  I hear him laugh. “Late? It’s the weekend, plus your lights were on when I drove past. And Auburn doesn’t make a good nickname.”

  I cock my hip, already feeling rebellious. I’m not afraid to open my door—because Ryker—but I do want to mess with him. “Is this a booty call? It’s past seven.”

  “No.”

  “Why are you driving past my house?”

  I detect a long exhale through the door, and I picture him pushing his hand through his hair or just shaking his head at me. “Okay, that’s fine. If you don’t want my help in figuring out how to actually play pool before your date with Connor—”

  “Wait!” I call out. “Don’t leave! Give me a minute.”

  I need Ryker to help me.

  I scan the room—it’s a disaster—and like a Tasmanian devil, I tear through the den, straightening pillows and wiping crumbs off the end tables. I pause Twilight and warn Vampire Bill to watch his language. Perched inside his cage, he glares and gives me an Are you kidding? look.

  He does and says what he wants.

  “Are you going to let me in any time tonight?” comes Ryker’s amused reply. “I don’t care if you don’t have any lipstick on…” His voice trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s deeper. Huskier. “You are dressed, right?”

  Dressed! Crap. I look down at my skimpy booty shorts and tank top under my sweater. Well, I am clothed, just not decent. I button the cardigan up from top to bottom, but when I look down, it looks as if all I’m wearing is the sweater.

  “Okay, later then.” I hear him scuffling on the porch and his voice is more distant, as if he’s moving away.

  Forget changing clothes. I fling the door open. “Wait! I’m here.”

  He turns back around and his eyes flare as they take me in, his electric blue gaze lingering on my legs before flying back to my face. He seems to get caught up on my hair and I touch it, knowing it’s a mess, the curls everywhere.

  “I take it you aren’t going out?”

  I shake my head. “Where would I go?”

  He leans against my doorjamb and gives me a cocky grin. “I thought you might be headed to the Tau party. We won our game tonight.”

  “I heard.”

  He tosses an eyebrow up. “You weren’t there?”

  “Charisma told me before she left. She went to the party.”

  “Ah,” he says, his eyes steady on my face. “So you’re alone? No hot date?”

  Only with my notebook.

  “Nope. Just doing some writing. How was the game?”

  A boyish grin crosses his face, a brightness in his eyes that makes me take in a sharp breath. He’s so hot I can’t breathe. “We beat Ole Miss 23 to 3. Twelve of those points were passes I threw straight to Blaze in the end zone.”

  “Nice.”

  He shakes his head at me. “We beat one of the best teams in the conference and you say nice.”

  I shrug.

  “You probably prefer playing pool?” He smirks.

  I roll my eyes. “Why on earth did I lie to him? It was like my mouth was saying stuff, and I couldn’t stop it.”

  He straightens up from his nonchalant pose and shrugs. “You wanted to impress him—because you like him.”

  There’s a brisk quality to his voice.

  “Yeah.”

  He gives me a short nod, his gaze moving inside the house. “May I come in?”

  I open the door wider. “Please.”

  He eases past me, and I catch a whiff of freshly showered man, spicy and dark.

  “You gonna spray me with that?” His eyes are on my hand, and I follow them to the pepper spray.

  Oh! I forgot I was holding it.

  I set it on the foyer table. “Sorry. You can never be too sure these days.” I consider telling him about Archer, but I don’t want to cause trouble between Ryker and his teammate.

  “What were you writing?” he says nonchalantly as he stalks into my den, and while his back is to me, my eyes run over him, taking in the broad shoulders that taper to his trim waist. I picture the six-pack that is probably under that shirt. I briefly wonder if I’ll ever see his abs. Probably not unless I sneak into the locker room someday. Tonight he’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt and a pair of low-slung jeans that fit his ass like a glove. I smile to myself. I almost miss his button-down, but this isn’t a bad look on him.

  His well-toned athletic butt really is a thing of magnificence, the taut muscles shaped by good genes and working out constantly. I imagine him in shorts and a muscle tank, lifting weights in a gym, sweat dripping as he lifts, curling his bicep—

  “Penelope. Are you listening?”

  I start, realizing he’s facing me and asked a question.

  I blink rapidly.

  What did he ask me? Writing! “Uh, nothing. Just toying with some creative writing ideas.”

  His gaze is intense and I think I see a glimmer of…heat in his eyes as he considers me. He sees my notebook on the coffee table and picks it up, thumbs through it. I can’t tell if he’s actually reading the pages, but my life flashes before me.

  In an instant, I’m pressed against him, my hands tugging my journal out of his hands. I hug it to my chest like it’s the Holy Grail.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Personal?”

  I huff and show him the cover. “Did you not see where it plainly says DO NOT OPEN?”

  He looks at me.

  “What?” I snap.

  He shrugs. “I’m just wondering what kind of things you write about. Is there sexy stuff in there, Red?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You sure? Your face is flushed and you’re breathing pretty fast.
I might have to defibrillate you if you pass out.”

  I suck in a cleansing breath as I clutch my notebook. “You didn’t read anything, did you?”

  “I didn’t read anything tonight,” he says softly.

  I harrumph and tuck my notebook into the desk that sits next to the media cabinet.

  “So why aren’t you at the Tau party?” I ask, straightening up to face him, determined to change the subject. “You should be in the middle of a fan-girl sandwich by now, Ryker. You should at least be ‘doing laundry’ with someone.”

  He shrugs. “I was on my way home from getting dinner when I saw your lights on.”

  Technically, my house is not on the main drag. He’d have to purposely make a few turns to get here, and I’m about to comment on this point—

  “Shit! Ryker! Shit!” It’s Vampire Bill, and I send him a be quiet look, but he just blinks back at me, his yellow eyes bouncing from me to the football player.

  Ryker appears startled until he sees Vampire Bill, who is perched inside his cage on a narrow table in the den. Ryker glances back at me, a quizzical expression on his face. “I never took you for a bird girl. Maybe a cat or a small dog.”

  I huff out a laugh. “I inherited him when my neighbors moved.”

  “Oh?”

  I nod. “Yeah, on moving day, they were going to leave him and let him live in the wild, but he can barely fly, and when he does get off the ground, it’s just for short spurts.” My lips tighten, and I’m feeling indignant all over again remembering the renters next door, a pair of young college girls who graduated two years ago. I came outside when they were debating about which side of the street to leave him on. Of course, I was horrified. I immediately took him in and did my best to be a good bird owner. I even took a class at the humane shelter, which I figure had to be better than what they did for him. I walk over to his cage and give Vampire Bill’s head a little scratch, and he allows it for half a second—until he hops away and glares death daggers at me. “He’s an African Grey and supposedly has the intelligence of a four-year-old. Sadly, he has a personality disorder. He hates everyone.”

  “Jock! Shit! Ryker!” Vampire Bill squawks, and I stifle down my giggle.