“No.” Liar. Scared of denting that obstinate male ego. But I’m well used to how stupidly headstrong Alpha males can be. I figure it has something to do with carrying a penis about all the time.
I pat a little harder and he hisses out a pained breath. Clearly, he’s hurting big-time but too stubborn to acknowledge it.
My fingers softly sweep over his smooth skin and goosebumps appear everywhere I touch. Could he be a little confused too? Nah. I’m not his type.
I fumble the used wipes and stick them into my pocket. I’ll get rid of them later.
“I think you’re good.” I feel rather chuffed with my work. And I did it without wanting to kill him. Progress I would say.
“Did you give him a sticker for good behavior?” Logan asks suddenly next to me. Damion stands upright but ignores his friend.
“That’s nasty,” Jackson leans over my shoulder, peering closely at Damion’s back.
“Thanks, guys,” Damion says tightly. “Really.”
“Next time maybe don’t bring your PBS to the party. Big mistake.” Jackson has no pity.
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.” I’m still wondering what a PBS is. I’m about to ask when Chloe batters past both me and my brothers to get a hold of Damion.
“And here the Psycho Bitch Stalker is herself.” Okay, that clears up what PBS means.
Chloe ignores him or she’s just too dumb to realize he’s talking about her.
“Darling, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He pulls away and my inner bitch cheers joyfully. Jackson pushes her hardhandedly to one side.
“Yeah, you meant to hurt my sister, slut,” Jackson utters in a cool calm manner contradicting the look in his eyes. “And no one messes with my fucking family.” Chloe sucks in some wind and moves two steps back. I don’t blame her … Jackson can be seriously scary when he wants to be.
“Eh, it was an accident …” she whimpers, “The gun … eh … it got stuck …”
Yeah, right. And I’m the Easter Bunny with a crush on Anne Ramsey.
“Let’s go guys,” Dean Roile calls out right behind me and claps his hands. “Come, come, the party must go on. We’ll meet up at the Reaper Venue.”
He swipes a hand over his hairless head and plays with the thick gold chain around his neck. “You guys owe me big time.” He lowers his feminine voice. “The manager of this place was about to call the cops on you.” Dean is an agent. A very good agent. He handles all the boys in our group in need of his expertise. Damion was his first client, and then Enrique, Jackson, Logan, and Axel joined the club. He’s bold and muscled and extremely flamboyant in his choice of garments … from shoes to jewelry. And he’s the epitome of queer.
Damion whispers something in Kiara’s ear before he walks around to the other side of his truck. Luke is already sitting in the backseat.
“Hey, Mel,” Kiara calls me. She opens the passenger side door. Unexpectedly, she pushes me inside and slams the door. The vehicle speeds off before I can get my bearings straight.
“Put on your belt,” Luke says. Kiara is so going to die a painful death for pulling this stunt … or at the very least, she’s doing the dishes for a week.
Damion slides on a pair of Dior sunglasses, looking cool, collected, and slightly poised.
Me? I’m a hot mess, feeling so out of my league here. He’s still bare-chested … his face is turned to the front – concentration fixed on the road.
He has a beautiful profile and my fingers itch to trace that square jaw. He hasn’t shaved, and the sudden thought of running my tongue over his stubble tempts my mind. I’d like to feel how rough it is against my lips.
“So how long have you and that Ren douche been together?” I jolt as he suddenly interrupts my erotic rumination and a warm blush covers my cheeks. Did he notice the drool?
“Almost two months,” I manage breathlessly. “But we’re not together like in together-together.” Was I just thinking about licking his face? What am I … a dog?
What is it about this man that drives my hormones through the roof? Something only he seems to be able to do.
“I don’t like him,” Luke comments.
“Nobody likes him,” Damion agrees. I stare down at my hands, wondering why everyone dislikes the guy. Ren might not be the man for me, but he’s not a bad guy. Yeah, he has bad taste in friends, but so has Logan for instance.
“That guy is all wrong for you, you know.” He keeps his eyes on the road.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you’re an expert on how I should live my life … just let me get my notebook so I can take notes.” My voice is cold and I hope he can hear the hate laced in it. The arrogance of this man is astronomical.
“Well, he’s cheating on you for one … maybe put that in your notebook.” Unlike me, he appears unhindered, although, like all the other stupid males in my circle, he is a master at hiding his feelings, so it is hard to tell. Sitting there quiet and composed, expression impassive, he looks at the road with that laidback-in-control air he has.
Yearning flows through me, yearning for a man. This man. I feel silly for staring, but I’m trying to figure out why HIM.
Yeah, he’s good-looking, very very good-looking, but so are Axel and Ren for that matter … and that trainer, Alejandro … that man is smoking frickin hot. Yet, my brain gland is frozen around all of them, not even the tiniest of sparks ignite. Zilch. It’s like being stuck in a brain-freeze.
“There’s no sparks between you,” he adds as if he can scan my brain. Then he chuckles softly, all without taking his eyes off the road. “I can read you like a magazine, angel.”
I drastically think about how I can change the topic. I don’t want to talk about Ren. And I actually don’t care if he’s cheating on me. Yeah, it will dent my ego a little, but it won’t hurt me. I’m just building up the courage to dump him, and then he will be in the past.
I look back, maybe Luke can help me out, but the little guy fell asleep on the seat.
“Why did you protect me from Chloe?” I ask the first thing that jumps into my head.
“Instinct,” he says without looking at me. “Or I could be afraid of having Jackson on my case.” He takes a deep breath, “Maybe I didn’t want you to get hurt.” His voice dips to a husky simmer. “Make your pick.” It is a hell of a multiple-choice.
The raspy croak in his voice pulls me to look at him and for a brief moment, it’s as if his usual calm is shattered. I notice his hands clinging tightly to the steering wheel.
Not knowing what to say to that I go with …. “Doesn’t matter … it was sweet.”
And then I add “Thank you,” as an afterthought. I’m the one in the family who has some manners.
“You think I’m sweet?” He tilts his chin down to look at me over his glasses.
I meet his eyes and lose myself in there for a beat.
“I think you can be.” I’ve seen his sweet side over the years. “You’re just not sweet to me.” My brain-to-mouth filter fails, because my stupid brain is filling up on hormones again.