Play Rough

by Eva Ashwood

  A shiver runs down my spine. Fuck. A stray bullet could’ve hit someone who isn’t even involved in this mess. Someone could have gotten trampled in the crowd when they all started rushing for the door. Anything could have happened, and it would’ve been because of the rising tensions between these two gangs.

  Other members of the Black Roses were talking about it when I went to the warehouse with the guys that one time. Levi has talked about it too, and now it’s more plain to see than ever. The Jackals are done with the truce, and they’re clearly trying to start some shit.

  I glance at Sloan once more, and he seems tired under all that anger.

  He can probably see the storm on the horizon better than anyone.

  20

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place,” Sloan says, and even though he’s trying to keep his voice down, anger and frustration make it loud enough that I can hear it from where I’m sitting in the living room.

  I have headphones on, but nothing playing in them, and my eyes are trained on the textbook in my lap, even though I’m paying attention to the conversation Sloan and Levi are having in the kitchen with much more focus than I’ve given my school work over the last few weeks.

  “I know that, but we can’t be sure—” Levi says, cutting off in the middle of his sentence. He makes an inarticulate noise. “It was supposed to be neutral.”

  “Nothing is ever neutral with those fuckers. They know what they did.”

  “They’re saying he shot first.”

  “They’re fucking lying!” Sloan snaps. “Damon swears he didn’t. No one from our side would go to that fight looking to start shit. They’ve been baiting us for the last few weeks, and it’s getting out of control.”

  “I know, Sloan. Rory talked to some of the others who were right there when it happened. They’re all pretty sure the Jackals lashed out first, but pretty sure isn’t good enough. No one saw anything until it was already happening. It was too crowded in there.”

  There’s a loud noise, like someone slamming their hand into the counter, and I jump at the suddenness of it. “They planned this whole goddamn thing,” Sloan ground out. “I know they did.”

  The last couple of days have been chaotic, to say the least. The guys have been in and out of the house at all hours, disappearing with expressions of grave intent on their faces and then reappearing looking worn down and cranky. From what I can tell, a lot has been happening since the scene at the fight.

  The shit has well and truly hit the fan, and that was the tipping point into whatever’s happening now.

  I’ve been taking the opportunity to eavesdrop on the three of them whenever I can, and it hasn’t been hard considering Sloan’s like a fucking thundercloud these days, and the other two are trying to provide voices of reason to him whenever they can.

  It’s clear they’re upset too, but Sloan seems ready to fly off the handle, which can’t be a good idea.

  There’s no clear answer to who started the drama at the fight, and Levi seems to be trying to get Sloan to realize they can’t retaliate.

  “If we push back too hard, it’ll make it look like we’re the ones starting shit. They’ll come at us full force, and we’re not ready for that.”

  “The hell we’re not,” Sloan shoots back. “We can’t keep letting them—”

  “I know. Fuck, I know.”

  Levi sounds tired. Like they’ve been over this more than once already. It’s got to chafe at their pride to hold out and do nothing when things are escalating the way they are, but I don’t think any of them want an all-out gang war, even if it seems like that’s what they’re heading toward.

  It’s all a giant fucking mess, and tensions are clearly boiling over. I can feel some of that tension in myself as well, because I know I need to act soon if I’m going to be able to capitalize on the confusion to use it for my plan.

  Luckily, I don’t have long to wait for an opportunity.

  The three of them are rarely gone at the same time. They leave alone or in pairs, so at least one of them is almost always home with me. But whatever’s happening has clearly spilled over enough that it’s all hands on deck, and on Saturday, I open the door to my bedroom to find a silent house.

  “Rory?” I call out tentatively. “Levi? Sloan?”

  Nothing.

  I do a quick sweep of the upstairs and downstairs, and my heart races when I realize I’m completely alone since the last time I went snooping—only this time, I know more than I did before. I know what to look for.

  I have no idea how long they’ll be gone for, so I hurry up, padding down the hall to Sloan’s room and easing the door open.

  It’s the same minimalist’s dream it was when I was in there last time, though a little bit messier since he hasn’t had much downtime lately.

  There are clothes thrown here and there on the floor, and the bed isn’t made. His desk chair is pulled away from the desk, like he got up in a hurry and didn’t push it back in. And of course, on the desk is his laptop.

  The one I now know the password to.

  I hold my breath a little when I lift the lid and wait for the screen to wake up, rubbing my thumb against my index finger nervously. The prompt for the password pops up, and I type it in from memory, waiting for it to be accepted.

  It seems to take longer than it should, and for a second, I worry that Sloan’s changed his password in the last week or so because he’s paranoid or whatever, but then the screen changes, and I’m in.

  I go for the contacts app immediately and type in the name of the accountant—Alex. I don’t have a last name, so I hope this will be enough.

  The little searching wheel spins for a few seconds but returns no results.

  Frowning, I try Alexander. Nothing.

  Alex-accountant. Nothing.

  No combination of accountant and the guy’s name brings up anything, and I huff with frustration. In a way, it makes sense, I guess. It’s not like Sloan to just leave important information in a place where it would be easy to find, and clearly the contacts app is the first place someone who was snooping would look.

  I close out of that tab and go for the notes app, scrolling through the saved notes for any mention of the guy’s name or anything having to do with accountants. I find something from a year ago, but it’s clearly about something completely different.

  I don’t know how long it’s been since I started looking, but I know I’m running out of time. It won’t be long before they come back, and if I don’t find what I need now, I probably won’t have another chance for a while.

  In a last ditch effort, I navigate to the main folder for Sloan’s files and type in Alexander into the search bar. It takes a lot longer to index all the files and search through them, but finally, I get a hit.

  It’s a notepad document of all things, and I click on it quickly. Part of me is sure it’s going to be about something unrelated, even while another part of me is breathless with hope that I’ve finally found what I’m looking for.

  It’s an address, all right. Labeled with the name Alex-$$. That’s good enough for me.

  I pull out my phone to copy the address into my text chain with Paul, and then nearly drop it when I hear a noise downstairs like someone coming through the door from the garage.

  Fuck. Someone’s home.

  My hands shake with urgency, and I give up on typing out the address after about two seconds of making typos and just take a picture of the whole screen. I attach it to a message and send it to Paul, letting out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding as I press the button on my screen.

  That’s it.

  It’s done.

  I’ve gotten what they want, and I’ve given it to my contact. Now it’s time for them to make good on it.

  If I can just make it back to my room before—

  The sound of footsteps are heavy in the hall, already past my door and heading this way. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Someone’s coming, and I don’t have time to get out.
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br />   I fumble to close the lid to the laptop, hoping the screen will lock itself and prompt for password again if Sloan opens it soon. It’s too late to get out without being seen, and there’s nowhere to really hide. Frantically, I try to think of a reason to be here, anything that will throw whoever it is off the scent of what I was really doing. I’ve never been invited into Sloan’s room, of course. Why would I be? He barely talks to me when we’re in the common areas.

  Thinking about that gives me an idea, and I whip my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor. I have just enough time to lean against the desk and put on a nonchalant face before Sloan walks in.

  He frowns at his open door, pausing in the act of running a hand through his hair. His posture is tense, like it always is, but there’s a little slump to his shoulders that speaks to how tired he must be.

  In another sign of how out of it he is, it takes him another few seconds to even notice I’m here. He turns his head from the door—probably wondering if he left it open in his hurry to leave earlier—and then sees me standing on the other side of the room, leaning against his desk with no shirt on.

  Sloan freezes, gaping at me for a second. The furrow in his brow smooths out as the surprise of seeing me fades, and he trails his eyes up and down my body slowly, taking in every inch of me.

  I feel it like a physical thing, like his gaze has weight and is brushing up and down my body, and it makes me shiver.

  Confusion turns to heat in Sloan’s gray eyes, and it seems to take him a good few seconds to remember I’m not supposed to be in here.

  He clears his throat and finds that displeased look again, even though he doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I’m trying my hardest to play it cool, but my heart is in my throat. Even though I’m nervous as hell and totally on edge, I can’t let him see that. If I can keep control of this situation, then maybe I can get out of here without him figuring anything out. Maybe I can pull this off.

  I raise my chin and hold his gaze, swallowing hard before I start talking. “I’m here because I can’t take this anymore, Sloan,” I say, hoping the rasp in my voice sounds more like desire and less like my throat closing up from fear. “Whatever this thing is between us, I’m fucking sick of pretending it doesn’t exist. I’m sick of denying what we both clearly want.”

  The words come out easily, actually. Too easily, and I know it’s because they’re laced with truth. There is something between us, and I am sick of denying it, and I know he probably is too.

  The only question is whether or not he’s going to go for this ploy. There’s a heart-stopping second where he just stares at me, and I’m so, so sure he’s going to call me out and see through my bullshit. The silence seems to stretch on forever, and my mind supplies me with countless images of him figuring out what I did and killing me for it, right here and now.

  I keep staring at him, and I know I’m breathing harder, my chest rising and falling, my cheeks flushed.

  Please, I beg silently. Please let him think it’s arousal. Let him think I just want him so bad. Please don’t let him—

  Before I can finish the thought, he’s moving across the room, covering the space in three long strides. He reaches out and grabs my arm, yanking me toward him so that my body slams against his. My breath catches at the suddenness and force of it, but I don’t resist.

  White-hot flames lick through my veins as he crushes his mouth to mine.

  It’s like that time in the locker room at that Black Roses warehouse they took me to, except ratcheted up a hundred degrees. His arms are tight around me, and he leans down, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss. It’s hungry and demanding, like he’s finally letting himself loose after so long spent holding back, and I find myself kissing him back the same way.

  I bite down on his lower lip hard, drawing a groan from his mouth, and he grips me tighter for a second before letting his hands slide down over my bare sides to my hips.

  His touch lights a fire in me, blazing a trail down my spine to my core, and I shiver against him, leaning up to chase the nipping kisses he gives me in return with deep, searching ones of my own.

  My head is spinning.

  All I can taste is Sloan.

  All I can feel and smell and hear is Sloan.

  The way his body presses against mine, the way his hands grope at my hips and then move lower to grab my ass, pawing at me through the fabric of my jeans. He smells the way he always does, the distinctive scent of his cologne invading my nostrils, and the scent of arousal cuts through it, swirling in the air around us.

  His breathing is ragged when we part for breath for a second, and he looks down at me, taking me in, before attacking my mouth once again, pushing his tongue past the barrier of my lips and conquering me with his mouth.

  It’s gone past the ruse now. He’s stolen my sanity like he always does, and it’s just my body responding to his, echoing every moan, every grunt of desire. His hands grope at me, and I let mine do the same, sliding under his shirt and raking my nails down his back.

  “Fuck,” he swears, exhaling the word into our kiss. He pushes me back against the edge of the desk a bit more, making it dig into the flesh of my upper thighs. I don’t even care. All I can focus on is the way he’s pressed hot and hard to my front, the way I can feel that heat pouring off him, and the way his skin feels under my hands.

  He works his mouth down my neck, alternating between biting kisses and the hot drag of his tongue. When he hits the spot where my pulse flutters wildly, I shudder against him, grinding forward like I’m trying to find some friction.

  Sloan yanks my bra strap out of the way and bites down on my shoulder, making me gasp sharply with the explosion of pain and pleasure mingled together.

  We’re both panting for breath, rutting against each other while our hands wander. With a jerk, Sloan pulls me forward away from the desk and walks me toward his bed. His strong fingers find the clasp of my bra and undo it, sending the piece of lingerie to the floor and leaving my chest bare for him.

  His eyes devour the sight of me, and once again his gaze is so heavy that I swear I can feel it tracing over every inch of my chest.

  “Fuck,” he says again, and then he’s on me, hands cupping my tits, pushing them together before he leans down and sucks a nipple into his mouth.

  “Sloan, god,” I moan, arching against him.

  He doesn’t respond, instead turning his teeth to the soft mounds of my breasts, biting and sucking at them in turn. His hands don’t stop their squeezing, and it’s all going to my head so fast, making me shiver and close my eyes.

  “You’re so fucking—”

  Whatever he’s going to say gets lost as he groans again, rubbing both thumbs over my nipples. I open my eyes just in time to see him come to some decision, and he pushes me down onto the bed before I can say or do anything, following me down a second later.

  He rises up on his knees and pulls the gun he had tucked into his waistband out, setting it off to the side on the bed.

  My legs are spread wide, leaving very little to the imagination, and he kneels between them, hovering over me. I can tell he’s hard through his jeans, the bulge pressing against the front and showing off just how much he wants me.

  In spite of everything that’s going on and how conflicted I feel, I’m still wet. Arousal is soaking into my panties and jeans, and my clit pulses with a hungry, aching want.

  Sloan grabs on to me again, and we roll over, putting him on his back and me on top, straddling him. I look down at him, and fuck, it’s a sight. His cheeks are flushed, and his steel-gray eyes are dark. His pupils are blown wide with lust, the blackness of his irises flooding into everything else. His lips are parted, and he licks them while I watch, reminding me of the time in the locker room again, when he put that mouth to good use and made me nearly scream for him.

  Reaching up, he drags me down into another kiss, and I don’t fight it. His lips are demanding and hot, and I sink
into it easily, licking into his mouth again. It’s like I can’t get enough, like I need the taste of him to flood my senses in order to keep going. To keep existing.

  I close my eyes again, caught up in the feelings cascading through me. It’s all so much. Too fucking much.

  The guilt, the anger, the lust.

  They pile on top of each other, each one roaring through me on the heels of the other until it’s impossible to untangle them. Nothing with this man has ever been easy, and I don’t think it ever will be. Hating him should be the simplest thing in the world, but my head keeps getting fucked up.

  Sloan starts kissing and biting at my neck again, and I lose the thread of my thoughts, everything going fuzzy and hazy as I burn for him like a piece of tinder under a match.

  I moan his name again and again. He bites down hard on my neck once more, and I squirm against him, sucking in a breath and turning my head to give him better access.

  As I do, my gaze lands on the laptop on the desk.

  It’s still partially open.

  Fuck.

  In my hurry, I must not’ve closed the top all the way, trying to get my shirt off and act natural before Sloan walked into the room.

  My heart starts pounding double-time in my chest, and this time it’s definitely not because of what Sloan’s doing with his mouth. I stare at the laptop like I’m trying to will it closed with my mind, and I must look at it for a second too long, because Sloan notices. Turning his head, he follows the direction of my gaze.

  In a heartbeat, he stiffens under me, brows pulling tight together as he puts two and two together.

  My heart lurches in my chest, cold fear flooding my veins like ice. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  He knows.

  21

  Sloan and I stare at each other for a second, neither one of us moving or saying anything.

  It’s like the moment is frozen, and I almost forget to breathe. But I’ve always prided myself on doing well under pressure and never letting someone catch me off guard when I have a chance to get the upper hand. So I lunge to the side quickly, grabbing up his gun from the mattress next to us and gripping it tightly in both hands while I straddle him, trying to hold him down.