“You’re a bad boy. So let me guess and say that you probably have some sad, shit story.”
His chest expands, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“I bet that either your parents died or your dad was a jerk.”
His jaw flexes and his eyes grow wide, but he still doesn’t say anything.
Drawing my vision away from his angled jawline, I focus on his two voided eyes. “You’ve had a hard life, and whatever happened killed your faith in humanity, but not before it rotted out your soul, because all you are is black, and you have one of the darkest auras I’ve seen.”
He stops breathing, and what looks like horror and shock floods his gaze.
Puckering my mouth out to the side, I buckle a knee, still battling to shut out the ever-growing pain in my head. “What? Too close for you?”
The horror and shock ebbs away, and I see a calmness. “Close?” His voice is so dark it makes my legs clench together. He gives me another once over. This one’s different from earlier . . . it’s fever . . . it’s fire. It slowly incinerates my skin as his eyes comb me, following the patterns of my curves. “I’ll show you close.”
I blink, and he’s there. Right in front of me, two powerful arms caging my body on either side. My pulse slams against every part of me, the back of my knees included. He lowers his head, bringing his mouth inches from mine. My stomach flips.
“Damn.” He huffs out the word, and it spears into my core. “You cut deep when you want, kitten. Be careful with those claws, you might hurt someone someday.” I try to look away, but he hooks his finger under my chin, forcing our gazes to meet. “Thankfully, I like a little bit of pain, but not everyone is twisted like me.”
I’ve never been more aware of how loud my swallows are or how hot my nape grows, but I don’t acknowledge them. Instead, I force my eyes to narrow and create an edge in my voice. “Maybe I like hurting you.”
“Don’t.” The command is gruff—sounding like something he’d use in the bedroom. His hot breath washes over my cheeks with an exhale, and I get lost to the scent of whiskey and mint. “You’ll make yourself unforgettable, and you don’t want that.”
He’s right, I don’t want that. I know I don’t, but I can’t convince my heart of that while it jackhammers away at my stomach. Right now, loud thuds tell me it wants him to remember me, regardless of if it’s good or bad.
“Now.” He takes a long inhale, one that has him looking like he’s grasping for control. “I’m sorry about your mom’s sweater.”
“Blouse.”
His jaw clenches. “Whatever. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
I shake my head, aggravation licking at my composure. “Last time I checked, I didn’t ask for your attention. You’re the one bothering me.”
“No.” His teeth grind. “You’re the bother. In my damn head when you shouldn’t be.” The lids of his eyes hood over. “Go away.”
“You first.” I raise up to the tips of my toes. “I was here before you.”
“Shit.” The words are grunts, and he claps one hand to the brick wall. “Stop it. Stop being difficult.” He groans, and if I didn’t think my heart could thud any harder, I was wrong.
Shit. I muffle a whimper when he wraps one hand around my waist and tugs at the fabric of my shirt. I’m keeping myself from grinding against him as his minty breath trails into my mouth. That’s how close we are.
A growl leaves his throat. He tugs harder at my top. “I don’t have time for you.”
My pulse booms like a cannon, and I’m certain he hears it. Somehow, I keep my hands at my side and stand against him, half hot, half cold.
I hate him and despise his actions and brutish words. Yet, he does the unthinkable to me—dragging my imaginations and desires through the mud, making them dirty and unsavory. I want to be bad. I want to be wild, but only for him, and only when he’s near. Whatever disdain I plant inside of me for Brett shrivels when we’re together.
I can’t help but think he feels it too. He concretes the notion when his throat bobs and he sucks in air through his gritted teeth. His fingers bite into my waist that much more, and his gaze sinks to my mouth. “Fuck, Bianca. Just . . .”
I can’t hate it. Anticipation and lust mix together, pooling in between my legs. My eyes begin to shut as his head comes closer to mine, our lips promising to meet. We jump when the lounge door flies open and three giddy girls exit the building. Their loud shrills cut through the sky, demolishing our intense focus on each other.
“Shit.” Brett hisses the word out. He rips himself from the wall, from me, and strolls away without a look back. Like I mean nothing. And to him, I probably don’t.
Without him in front of me, the nip in the air works itself under my mesh. It makes me shudder and I hug myself, desperate to feel the heat of another person. His. But it doesn’t last long.
A sharp twang cracks through my head. “Ah.” I cover my eyes with my hand, and my face screws up. I gasp, losing my breath when white lightning shoots through my skull. My knees almost buckle. If I can just make it inside.
But I can’t. One step and I collapse. A bundle of pain wraps itself around me and I can’t shake it. I sit on my ass, tugging my knees to my chest. It will pass. It’s just stress. Brett’s shown me that tonight because he stresses me out.
“Bianca?” My head lifts at the sound of Cora‘s voice. Focusing is hard since she’s doubled, but I know it’s her. I can also hear her concern. “What’s wrong?” She falls to her hands and knees. “Bianca?”
I open my mouth to speak. Shit. There is no complete sentence. Pain strips me of words. “Cabin.” That’s all I can say and it slurs.
“Shit, no.” She’s grabbing my arm, propping me up. “The hospital.”
I shake my head, regretting it as more pain collects. “Cabin. Sleep.” All I need is sleep. I know it.
She huffs hard through her nose. “If I take you back to the cabin, you have to promise me to go to the hospital after we get back home, okay?”
I nod, and Cora takes me to her car. I can’t sit in the front, sitting up is a bitch.
Instead, I collapse in the back seat and lay on my side. I’m thankful for the dark and close my eyes. Stress. I repeat it. This pain will be gone in the morning and then I can go on and get back to what I was doing.
Trying to write and being mediocre at life. But most importantly, disliking Brett Walker. Screw his apologies. I hate him, and after the way he left me tonight—cold with a splitting headache—I’m going to ensure each of our run-ins is unpleasant and leaves him wincing. It’s the least I can do. After all the douchery he’s subjected me to, he deserves it.
I’m going to make him regret walking away from me. I’m going to make him regret it for life.
Chapter 10
The metal spiral bindings of my notebook indent and press into my chest while I walk into Giuseppe’s. It’s a popular Italian restaurant here in Copperslane. Rustic red brick and a bright green canopy give this building a Disney look, making you think it was constructed in another world—same goes for the inside with its low lighting and checkered tablecloths.
Its location is perfect too.
The restaurant is in Historic Downtown. A picturesque area with cobbled stone streets, storefronts out of a magazine, and restaurants galore. Simply put, if you want to have a quaint time and forget your life sucks, come to the fantasy land of Downtown and grab some food, either at a posh place, or from one of the multiple food stands in the square.
I’m here for my usual Friday night bite. Any weekend, you can catch me at this place with my notebook, trying to scrounge up ideas for writing.
Plotting and brainstorming for anything new is still a bitch, but I’ll be damned if I’m just going to give up. Or perhaps it’s the food I’m not willing to part ways with and I’m eating under the guise of writing. I’m not sure.
What I am aware of is how happy I am to be here, especially while strolling up to the entrance. The owner, Mr. Giuseppe, is pre
sent tonight and the smile on the stocky, round man leaves his cheeks plump and high.
“Signora Stanley.” He claps his hands together, taking a large stride toward me. “You came.”
“Of course.” I squat, lowering down to his level to receive and exchange a kiss on both cheeks. “You didn’t think I’d miss my weekly session, did you?”
“No, no.” He laughs, belly bouncing, hand waving in the air. “I know you wouldn’t let that happen.” Resting his hands on his rotund stomach, he winks. “Your table is already prepared. Water and your menu are both waiting for you.”
Damn, that’s good to hear. It’s people like this man that make life sweeter. A giggle slips out. “At this rate, you’ll be serving the food before I get here.”
“We could, if you wanted.” He gives me a wide grin. “Chicken marsala, correct?”
“Always.” Patting him on the shoulder, I slide past.
“You want a host to take you in?”
“I think I know my way around by now.” We exchange one more smile and I cross the entrance.
Closing my eyes, I moan. It’s the same comforting scent that weakens my knees each time—warm bread and fresh pasta. My shoulders already lose their natural tense state at the soft music playing over the speakers. It’s serenity to the soul. Honestly, it’s nice to be home. That cabin trip was for the birds.
It’s been a week since that talk with Brett. I also haven’t had a headache since. The last one knocked me on my butt, forcing me to stay in bed for the rest of the trip. But maybe that was a good thing. I haven’t seen or heard of anything concerning Brett since all that mess went down.
I’d like to keep it that way.
Fat chance of that happening. I feel that’s what life says to me upon reaching the main area of the restaurant.
He’s here, sitting at a table, an untouched plate of food in front of him. Across is a thin chick with dark blonde locks and a tight, blood-red dress.
My feet anchor themselves to the floor and I stare far too long, not sure if I’m repulsed at the enticing way he smiles at her, or if I want it for myself. The only reaction I identify is my heart, which taps harder at my throat.
I’m chewing the inside of my cheek, trying to sort out what I’m feeling, when he laughs. The noise is dark and sultry, and a pang of envy needles through my core. I clench my fist. Why can’t he be nice to me? He seems decent to everyone else. Seems. From our talks, I know he doesn’t think much about others, but shit . . . at least he manages to smile and laugh with them.
A filter of green overtakes my vision when he reaches across the table and pats her hand. He keeps it there, then drags his thumb across her skin. My teeth grit. I know what that touch feels like, and remembering it has me recalling the promise I made after he walked away. Make him regret it, right? I set my plan into motion and bee-line for his table.
Contempt carries my legs, making them move faster than normal. Make him regret it. The statement loops like a broken record.
Make him regret leaving me with a splitting headache.
Make him regret the pathetic way he makes me feel, and for the low dig at my mom’s blouse. Fuck him. That piece of clothing meant everything to me, and he’s talking about it like it was nothing.
Like a port in a storm, I spot the water glass near his hand. I want to pick it up and splash the contents of it on his face—but that will be obvious, and paint me as a crazy-looking bish. My plan will have to be much more subtle. Instead of loud and messy, I opt for a backlash that’s quiet and controlled.
Finishing my traverse across the room, I rest my hand on the checkered tabletop, nonchalantly sliding my hand forward in a smooth motion.
Brett’s head is just beginning its swivel in my direction when my wrist knocks his tall glass.
It topples.
Water rushes, ice clatters, and it finds him—dumping happily onto his lap. My only regret is that it’s not wine.
“Shit!” He pushes his seat backward and his date gasps. A redness flares in his face and his voice is gruff while looking up. “You stupid id—” His gaze goes wide. “Bianca.” He sounds winded and I don’t know why.
Biting down on my lip, I serve up the nastiest stare of my life. “That’s for abandoning me outside and not following through with your stupid kiss.”
“Kiss?” The blonde’s question screeches, but Brett doesn’t look in her direction.
Neither do I.
We’re the only two in this area as we command each other’s attention, yet his stoic face isn’t something I’m able to decipher. “Is that what you thought I was going to do?” There’s a graveling edge in his voice tonight and I hate how sexually charged he always sounds.
“Wasn’t it?”
His arms fold across the span of his chest and he nods to a nearby space. “Why don’t you go stand against that wall over there and find out?”
“You would like that since that’s where you always put me.” I scoff, clutching at my necklace, the edges cutting into my palms. My mouth twists up the longer I stare at him, forcing my words to prod deeper. “Is that the only position you have, or are there others?”
His teeth grind, causing a vein in his neck to form. “I have a lot of others, Bianca.” His voice is low, flowing with an edge of danger. “Would you like me to show you?”
Shit. What on Earth did I just unleash? I’d love to backtrack, but doing that seems like a total cop-out. Instead, I hide my suddenly shallow breaths and purse my lips out in an attempt to look bored. “Sorry, but I know whose mouth has been on you and I think leftovers are disgusting. Besides.” I arch my brow, ignoring the loud rush of blood in my ears. “I doubt you have any position up your sleeve that could surprise me.”
“Excuse me?” Brett’s date speaks again. “I think that’s enough.”
We still don’t look at her.
Instead, the air changes, and I watch him shift under the dim lighting. He inhabits the other persona I know him as.
Sin.
It oozes off him, residing heavy in his dark eyes which dip and then pull across my breasts. He groans, his tongue pokes out, and air slowly rags from his lungs. “Trust me, little one.”
Damn. My eyes squeeze themselves shut—my stomach matching the action at the guttural usage of his ending words. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to his table.
“I have more positions than you can dream of. I have . . .” His voice falls off.
Opening my eyes, I’m flooded with the vision of his gaze dancing along the swells of my hips.
“Fuck.” He whispers it, rakes through the sides of his hair, and pulls to his feet.
A gulp lodges in my throat—my eyes gluing themselves to the worst area possible. His cock.
An outline of it displays through his wet pants. The shape is wide and solid. Upright, rigid. Perfect. Its T-shape pushes against the fabric, leaving zero room to the imagination of what he’s been blessed with. I wonder how Monica handled it all and I end up biting down on my lower lip so hard a copper taste hits my tongue.
“Look up here, kitten.” Brett’s raspy voice forces my attention away from his obvious erection. “Like what you see, Bianca?”
Our eyes clash. My core tightens, and I think I’m overheating. It suddenly feels sweltering in here. I keep my breathing in check. When I speak, it’s hardly above a whisper. “No. I—”
“Okay.” The blonde speaks once more. “This is ridiculous and disgusting. If you—”
“Leave.” Brett never looks at her, only angles his head a little to make it clear he’s addressing her. “This doesn’t involve you.” One of his brows arches. “Sorry for a shitty date.”
Her loud sigh hits the air. “Exactly why I drive myself.” She collects her things, mumbling cuss words about men under her breath, and then she’s gone.
With the two of us alone, he cocks his head. “Happy? Now you have me all to yourself.”
Shock palpitates my heart when I realize what’s happened. Brett’s just
dismissed his date and told her to go home . . . all because of me. I’m not sure if I love it or hate it. I came over here to be a pain in his side. All he’s doing is turning on wild emotions and giving me all his focus.
It’s annoying as hell.
My eyes narrow. “If you think I like your attention, you’re dead wrong.”
“That’s too bad, because the attention is your fault.” He flicks his eyes up and down my neck. “I told you not to make yourself memorable. Blame yourself.”
My teeth grind against each other, hot annoyance prickling at my skin and steaming up my face till I think makeup is about to smear. “Fuck you.”
“I wish you would, just once so I could get you out of my system.”
The anger peaks, flaring up my body, forcing me to want distance. I stumble backward and bury my nails in my palms. “I’m sorry I came to this table.” Everything’s backfired but hindsight is twenty-twenty. I should have just strolled on by and eaten my meal in peace.
At least I can still do the latter. Twisting on my heel, I resecure my notebook under my arm and try to head to my usual table.
“Don’t leave, Bianca.”
My body obeys the request to an extent. I don’t turn around, but my head strains over my shoulder to look at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’m sick of it.”
A hard huff hits the air. “Then don’t come over here, ruin my date, and expect to get away with it. Sit with me.”
Looking at his pants, a smirk captures my face. “Don’t you need to go home and change? I’m sure sitting in wet pants isn’t fun.”
“It isn’t.” He shrugs. “But I’ll live. Trust me, I’ve had worse things dumped on me. Now sit.”
“No.” My foot steps out.
“Yes.” He catches my arm in his hand.
“Brett—” Tugging away is pointless. He’s much stronger, easily directing me back to the chair that was his. He applies pressure to my shoulders, plopping my ass down in the hardwood. Water soaks through my jeans. I squirm at the cold contact. “It’s wet.”
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