Worth the Risk

by K. Bromberg

  “He doesn’t move that fast. He has anger issues,” Grant says with a wink. “You’re on.”

  “I am not sleeping with her tonight. Not ever.”

  “Yes, you are.” Grady sits back in his seat.

  “If you aren’t sleeping with her, then what’s it hurt to head over there and talk to her. You haven’t said a word to her all night, but you sure as hell have been staring at her.” Grant shrugs.

  It’s true, but who says I want to go talk to her? It’s so much easier to be mad at her than to admit she’s played me well. If I keep my distance, then I can’t get myself in trouble . . .. But, goddamn, how good trouble sounds right now.

  “Fuck it.” I reach across the table and steal Grady’s shot sitting there. I don’t back down from his stare as I down it, welcome the burn, and know that it won’t be the only thing that burns tonight.

  When I slam the empty glass back down, he finally protests as I grab his hundred-dollar bill and shove it into my pocket. I wave him off and then make my way across the bar.

  I’ve already spoken to almost everyone, shaken their hands, had a laugh with them over how ludicrous it is that we are celebrating a guy being decent when it should be the norm. I’ve explained how this whole situation was blown out of proportion and that there was no weapon, but no one seems to listen. I’ve played down the damn contest, which everyone but me seems to care about me winning.

  A few people stop me, say hi, ask about my parents, who opted to stay home and hang with Luke, but my eyes are on Sidney. And Vince—or rather, Vince’s hands and how they are continually touching a woman I have no claim on.

  A woman I want no claim on.

  Then why do I fucking care?

  But by the time I reach her, my blood boils with irrationality spurred on by too much alcohol.

  “Can I have a moment?” I ask as I walk up to her and grab her elbow, pushing her down the darkened hallway.

  “What is your problem?” She hisses as she fights me every step of the way.

  We get looks. I get looks. I don’t care because all I keep seeing is Vince’s hands on her arm. His eyes on her tits. His bullshit game I can spot a mile away.

  I find the closest door down the hallway leading to the bathrooms, and it opens. I push her through it, barely noticing that it’s an office of sorts before the door is shut, her back is up against it, and my mouth is covering hers.

  Take.

  Goddammit. That’s my only thought as I fit my lips to hers and take out my anger on her mouth with tongue and teeth and every fucking lick and nip in between.

  “What—”

  “I’m so pissed at you.”

  It’s all I say. It’s the only chance I give her to come up for air before my lips are back on hers. Before my tongue wars with hers. Before my body admits it would beg, borrow, and steal in order to taste every other part of her.

  Groan.

  I swallow the tiny sound she makes in our kiss as my hands hold her neck still and my lips wage an all-out assault. She hesitates—just a split second—before she reacts. Before her body bows into me, and her mouth argues back.

  Fist.

  Her hand in my shirt. Her other hand at the back of my neck as our bodies meet—pressed knee to chest. Her perfume in my nose. Her hair tickling my cheeks. The feel of her tits against my chest.

  Give.

  I can’t get enough.

  I’m mad at her.

  I want her.

  I don’t want to want her.

  Christ, do I want her.

  “Gray.” A murmured protest.

  I tear my lips from hers, shove off the door I have her pressed against, and stride to the other side of the room.

  “You are . . . you just . . .” It’s as if I can barely breathe. Christ, I’m mad at you.”

  She stands there, lips parted, chest heaving, and golden brown curls messed from my hands, but her eyes look hurt. A hurt I don’t want to see but can’t deny.

  “Why?”

  “You did this,” I accuse as I try to manage the anger that’s waging a war against my desire.

  “Did what?” Her eyes narrow. Her hand goes to press against her chest.

  “Made me want you.”

  It’s her laugh that incites me now. That, and the taste of her kiss and the feel of her skin and the sound she made in the back of her throat and the goddamn ownership in her touch. Things I didn’t want from anyone. Things she makes me want from her.

  Over and over.

  He’s a caged tiger.

  That’s all I can think when I look at him and his broad shoulders, clenched fists, and anger. Waves of anger are rolling off him.

  I stare at him with so much to say in my mind, but every part of my body is stunned by the kisses he just numbed me with.

  “Are you happy, Sidney? Isn’t this what you wanted?” His voice thunders in the small space but is drowned out by the buzz of the bar on the other side of the door. “Manipulate me? Paint me into a corner so I have to say yes or risk looking like a goddamn fool? So, I’ll say yes. Yes. I have no other choice. You win. You fucking took the cake. You made me want you when I didn’t want to want you. Bet you didn’t count on that with your little game, huh?” He takes a step toward me, his lips back on mine without preamble. He tastes of beer and anger, and just as quickly as my body reacts to him, he breaks from the kiss. “What are you going to do about that now?”

  He leans back, one hand possessive on the nape of my neck as his eyes bore into mine. Searching. Asking. Wanting. Not wanting to admit.

  Then, as soon as I see the fear that glances through his eyes, his hands are off me. He yanks the door open, shunting me forward, and he slams it closed behind him, leaving me in the dimly lit office.

  “Well, shit.” I laugh; its nervous sound echoes in the empty office as I bring my fingertips to my lips and try to figure out what in the world just happened.

  My hands tremble, and I stand there in shocked indecision. Did he really just do that? Did he really just blame me for making him want me and then kiss me senseless?

  My first thought is to be pissed at him. No man gets to take without asking. No man gets to kiss me and put the blame on me.

  My second thought is . . . the man can have anything he wants if he kisses like that.

  Get a grip, Sid.

  What the hell am I supposed to do now? This? This, I did not see coming. I may have gone along with Rissa’s plan to manipulate him into a corner, I may have just gotten him to participate, but apparently, I’d gotten a whole hell of a lot more from Grayson Malone than a few pictures and a short bio.

  With my back against the door, I try to figure out how I should feel and what I should do.

  I should be mad at him, shouldn’t I? But then I shift my feet and feel the ache between my thighs. For a girl always sure of herself, he just threw me into water that was way over my head and told me I needed to figure out how to swim.

  Sure, he just gave me what I wanted—secured my job by saying he’ll be an active participant in the contest—but at what cost?

  I should walk out into the bar, say goodbye to Rissa, and head home. Walk away from the moment, calm down, and figure it out later when I’m by myself and can process it all without everything about him clouding my senses.

  I take a deep breath and yank the door open with every intention of doing just that.

  But when I exit the hallway into the main bar area, he’s across the way, arm slung over another woman’s shoulder, his head thrown back in laughter, and one of the tails of his shirt untucked from where my hands ripped it from his waistband. He may look calm as can be, but I can sense the edge beneath. I still taste it on my tongue.

  Go home, Sidney.

  I’ve had too much to drink, and I don’t want to do anything stupid. I need to walk my pretty little heels out that door and shake this all off.

  It’s then that he looks up and meets my stare. It’s the subtle lift of his chin. The arrogance in his slight
smirk.

  And my temper lights.

  I stalk over to him, the sound of my heels punctuating every step I take. My pulse pounds in my ears. My anger spins an eddy of discord.

  The bar takes notice as people part to make room for me without asking.

  With each step closer, his smirk grows smugger.

  Bastard.

  When I reach him, he unloops his arm from around the woman’s neck and takes a step toward me. The cocksure look on his face slowly falls.

  Without a word, I step into him and grab the back of his neck, pulling his face down toward mine.

  And then I kiss him.

  A no-holds-barred, greedy, take-what-I-want kind of kiss that both dizzies me and lights every part of me with the desire he stoked moments ago.

  He’s stunned at first. At least, I think he is, because I’m so busy giving him the revenge kiss to rival all revenge kisses that I don’t even pay attention.

  Then his lips are moving.

  His tongue is reacting.

  His body goes from tense to pliant.

  When the outside world seeps through my anger, when the hoots and the hollers break through my thoughts and yank my attention from the devastation of his kiss, I jolt back a step.

  A thousand comments race through my mind as I stare at him.

  I didn’t manipulate you.

  I want you, too.

  You don’t get to walk away without a fight.

  I say none of them. I stand there with my chest heaving and the crowd staring and begin to feel like a complete idiot.

  “Gotta admire a woman who’ll go to extremes to get what she wants.” His voice is a quiet rumble against the noise of the bar, and yet, I hear every single word.

  “That kiss had nothing to do with the contest.”

  “What did it have to do with, then?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t have a choice. You always have a choice,” I finally say through gritted teeth as heat flushes my cheeks. “And don’t ever do that to me again.”

  He takes a step forward. My breath hitches. My eyes close. My body anticipates his touch.

  “Then don’t choose me,” he murmurs, but his words hold so much weight that I swear he’s talking about more than the damn contest.

  I open my mouth to speak and then close it. The people around us are watching, and I don’t want to fuel the rumor mill that I just unthinkingly kicked into high gear. So, without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out of Hooligan’s.

  Last night is a haze.

  A goddamn haze in which I’m pretty sure I kissed Sidney. Then she kissed me back. And somewhere along the line, I agreed to be a willing participant in her whole contest.

  “Then don’t choose me.”

  “Christ.” I run a hand through my hair and sigh.

  “You really shouldn’t say that.” I startle at his voice but shouldn’t expect any less. Luke and his habit of standing at the side of the bed and staring until I wake up. “You told me I wasn’t allowed to say that word, so I don’t think it’s fair if you do.”

  I prop myself up on one elbow and look his way as I scrub a hand through my hair.

  Shit, it’s bright in here.

  Can’t say that aloud, either, or the bad-word police is going to get on me again.

  “Can I say it?”

  “No.” My voice sounds like I drank a fifth of Jack and smoked a pack of cigarettes. The drinking part was possible . . . I don’t quite remember.

  “Give me one sec, buddy.” I shove up from the bed—slowly, just in case my stomach wants to retaliate—and then make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a piss. When I come back out, Luke has moved into my space on the bed, his black Star Wars pajamas stark against the white sheets.

  “Are you stealing my spot?” I ask as I lie beside him. His belly laugh is instant, and he tries to squirm away from my fingers that tickle his sides and poke at his tummy.

  “Just keeping it warm,” he says through his laughter.

  He clings to me so I’ll stop tickling, and after a few more for good measure, I stop and hug him against me. When will he be too old to do this? When will he fight against hugs and tickling? When will he be too cool for his dad?

  I close my eyes and breathe him in. The scent of his shampoo. The way his hair tickles my face. The way he tucks his hands between our chests instead of hugging me back.

  And I know it’s going to kill me when that day comes.

  “Did you have fun last night?” he asks. “Nana said you were out with a bunch of friends celebrating. What did you do?”

  I nod as the fuzzy images clear some. “We, uh, just talked some with friends.”

  “We? Were you with a girl?”

  “A woman? No. Just friends.”

  “Were there girls there?”

  “Women,” I correct again. “There were a lot of women there, yes.”

  “Did you find me a mom?”

  I freeze. “No,” I say through a chuckle, “I didn’t find you a mom.”

  “But there were a lot of women there. Did you not like any of their vaginas?”

  If I had been drinking water, I would have accidentally just spit it all over the bed. “What?” I cough out the word as I push him away from me. No doubt I must have a crazy expression on my face as I try to control my laughter. “Did I what?” I finally manage.

  “Their vaginas.” He says it so very casually, and I know I’ve gone so very wrong somewhere in the equation. “Did you not like them?”

  I must open and close my mouth ten times as I follow his eight-year-old train of thought. “Where did you hear that?”

  “At school, Sam said that when men like a woman’s vagina, they marry them.” Stupid Sam Hamner and his parents who don’t filter anything from him.

  Jesus Christ. I didn’t have a dry mouth a minute ago, but it feels like I just swallowed a bag of cotton balls.

  “Do you know what a vagina is?” I finally utter the word. I must turn a thousand shades of red when I do.

  He tries to lean back so he can see me, but shit, I can’t look him in the eyes or he’s going to see right through me.

  I can tell a woman her pussy feels like heaven. I can dirty talk with the best of them (or so I’ve been told). But having to ask my son if he knows what a vagina is makes me feel like I’m sixteen and fumbling in the dark as I try to figure out what exactly to do with one.

  “I heard Sam at school saying women have vaginas and that’s why men marry them.”

  “He’s right, girls have vaginas. But a man marries a woman because he loves her and trusts her . . . not because she has a vagina.”

  “What does it do?”

  I blink several times and realize this is a serious detriment to raising a kid on your own. You think you have it handled and then, wham, you realize you neglected a serious part of it.

  “Well, just like boys have penises, girls have vaginas.” Let that be enough of a response that it ends this conversation.

  “How are they different? What do they do with them? What are they for?” He leans back and looks me dead in the eyes, innocence shrouded in curiosity.

  I clear my throat. And lie. “They are different because boys and girls have to have different parts for the different things they need them for later in life.”

  Brilliant explanation, Gray.

  I could win parent of the year with that comment.

  “Like what kind of different things?”

  “Just different things.”

  “Huh. Cool,” he says as if I made perfect sense. “Is there an innie or an outie?”

  Another sputtering cough from me. “What?”

  “Like belly buttons. Some kids have an innie and others have an outie. Do penises and vaginas have innies and outies?”

  “Yep. Sure do.”

  He angles his head and stares at me for a beat. I can see his mind turning this over, and I swear I’ve said the word vagina more times in this five-minute conversa
tion than I have in years. I should be good for another five.

  “Cool.” He shrugs and climbs off the bed.

  “Cool?”

  “Yep. To the Death Star!” he shouts and takes off down the hallway.

  That’s the best part about kids. Their curiosity goes just as quickly as it comes, and they are satisfied with half-truths all parents feel relieved getting away with.

  My phone alerts me to a text. It sounds off somewhere in the room, and it takes me a moment to find it on the floor in the back pocket of the pants I had on last night.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say as it sounds off again.

  And then I sigh.

  Sidney: Photo shoot is set up for Tuesday at 3 p.m. Let me know if that doesn’t work for you.

  “So, I’ll say yes. Yes. I have no other choice. You win. You fucking took the cake.”

  My words come back to me as I look at the address she sends me next.

  Of course, that doesn’t work for me. It’s three in the frickin’ afternoon, which is when school gets out. And Luke has baseball practice. Why would Sidney Thorton think of that? That maybe I had plans already that didn’t involve her.

  “Christ,” I groan, repeating what seems to be my word of the morning, run a hand through my hair, and drop my phone onto the bed.

  It’s hard to be pissed at someone and want them all at the same time. I keep seeing her last night, looking like the sexy librarian in every man’s fantasy. Pencil skirt, high heels, shirt unbuttoned some, and golden hair piled on top of her head, itching for me to take it down.

  I can pretend my dick flying at half-mast is simply morning wood, but I know damn well it’s because of the visual of Sidney. It’s because I know how her lips taste. It’s because I know what her body feels like against mine.

  This is not good. So not fucking good.

  I pick my phone back up, knowing I can get my mom or Dylan to watch Luke for me so I can get this torture over with and leave Sidney far fucking behind.