Brock narrows his eyes at me, and a guy walks past towards the dance floor. “Hey, do you want to dance with me?” I ask the stranger.
He smiles as if he’s won the jackpot. “Sure.”
Brock grabs my hand. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growls.
“Dancing.” I fake a smile. “Remember, that thing you have no interest in learning.”
“Don’t you dare dance with him.”
I smirk and tilt my head.
“I fucking mean it, Tully. Don’t fucking push me.”
“Goodbye, Brock. Go fuck one of your girls who you don’t have to put any effort into.”
He glares at me.
“I don’t need a man,” I tell him confidently.
“That’s right,” Meredith interrupts. “She has a huge vibrator.”
“What?” he growls as his eyes blaze. “You think a fucking vibrator can replace me?”
“I do, actually, because unlike you, my vibrator isn’t an entitled ass who thinks that he’s God’s gift to women. He does his job and keeps his mouth shut.”
“Get in the fucking car before I drag you outside.”
“Go fuck yourself.” I turn and walk to the dance floor. I’m so angry, I feel like I can hear my thudding heartbeat in my ears. Who the hell does he think he is?
That man is a complete asshole.
The cab pulls up at my house at 4:00 a. m., and I stumble out onto the road.
Meredith and Callie went onto another club with everyone else, but honestly, I just couldn’t. I’m so tired. I pay the driver and stumble up the pathway, stepping back when I see Brock leaning against a tree.
It’s dark, I’m alone, and he’s glaring at me.
“Took your fucking time,” he growls. “Where have you been?”
“Dancing,” I reply flatly.
The sensible girl inside of me should be outraged that he’s here. However, the masochist in me is thrilled.
Good girl verse bad girl. There’s a whole lot of wrong in that sentence.
It should be no contest.
“How do you know where I live?” I ask as I open the foyer door with my key.
“I’m a private investigator. I know a lot of things about you.”
“Ha,” I huff as I push the door open. “You must be crap at your job then otherwise you’d know I like to dance.”
He fakes a smile. “Witty.”
Should I ask him in? He’s not drunk or anything, and he is a private investigator. I guess he must be trustworthy. I hold the door open. “Are you coming?”
His eyes hold mine for a moment, as if he’s surprised that I’ve actually invited him in so easily. The truth is, I do want to talk to him, but I’m not doing it outside in the cold.
I get into the elevator and he stands beside me silently. His large frame overtakes the space, the power radiating from his body.
God, this is unbelievable. What the heck am I doing right now? Three hours ago, I swore to loathe him for all of eternity. How does this work? He’s a hot guy who I’ve been fantasising about for weeks. He goes caveman, loses his shit at me, leaves the club, and then he turns up at my house and 4am… and I just go right ahead and invite him in like he’s an old family friend.
You idiot.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling as I stare at the floor.
The doors open and I walk out like a woman on a mission, and a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing and why she’s doing it.
To be honest, I have no frigging idea what I’m doing, but the fake-it-til-you-make-it strategy seems like a good starting point. I open my apartment door and walk inside in a rush, throwing my keys onto the sideboard and flicking my shoes off without grace.
“Oh, man,” I sigh. “What a relief. Those shoes are the devil.”
Brock puts his hands on his hips angrily, and my eyes rise up to him and his hostile stance. It makes me smile. He is such an open book. He has absolutely no control over his emotions. If he thinks it, he says it, and damn the consequences. To be honest, it’s an admiral quality that he holds, and I wish I could do it more often. I guard most of my thoughts and would never say them out loud.
The funny thing is, even with all of this hostility, he doesn’t scare me one bit. I bet he’s a big pussy cat under all this alpha-hole wrapping.
“What’s that look for?” I ask.
“You piss me off.”
“Me?” I point to my chest. “What did I do?”
“You danced with every other bastard in that club and completely ignored me.”
“And?”
“And, I didn’t fucking like it.”
I smile. “Is that so?”
His anger is escalating at my lack of interest in fighting with him. “Yes. That’s so.”
I shrug and walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. “Do you want one?”
He follows me in, frowning at me like I’m stupid. “No, I don’t want one.”
I drink the whole large glass of water as he watches. Then I fill my glass again and repeat the process. I hear him sigh when I go to fill my third glass.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be that fucking thirsty.”
I smirk and walk back into my bedroom. He follows me.
“I’m not going to stand around for hours while you dance with other people, you know,” he says with petulance in his tone.
I take my pyjamas out of my drawer, and close it with a slam. “Okay.”
“What does okay mean?”
“It means okay, don’t stand around. Go home. No skin off my nose.”
He narrows his eyes at me and I can see his fury bubbling just beneath the surface. “It’s like that is it? You just don’t give a fuck?”
I walk into the bathroom and he follows me there, too.
“You don’t even give a fuck if I leave right now?” he asks angrily.
I shrug. “You’re a big boy. You do you.”
“Stop being a fucking smartass, Pocket,” he growls.
My eyes snap to him and I shake my head. “No. You don’t get to call me that tonight.”
His tilts his chin to the ceiling. “And why not?”
“Because, Pocket is your pet name for me, and when you’re acting like this and pissing me off, you don’t have a right to make me sound so familiar.”
“So, you are pissed off with me?”
He seems to like the idea that I’m pissed with him. God, he really does want a good fight. Well, he’s not getting one from me.
Is fighting the way he communicates? Hmm. Interesting.
“I never said I wasn’t angry with you.” I squeeze my toothpaste onto my toothbrush and begin to brush my teeth.
“Stop brushing your fucking teeth. I’m in the middle of talking to you.”
I spit my toothpaste in the sink, and I have to stop myself from smiling at his impatience. “Yes. You pissed me off, and maybe next time-if there is a next time- you will dance with me when I ask you to before you lose the chance altogether.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Is that a threat?”
“That’s a promise.” I smile sweetly.
“You think you can actually make me dance with you by threatening me?”
“Do you think you can actually stop me dancing with an ill-timed tantrum?”
“You were dancing with other men. I had every right to get annoyed.”
I screw up my face and spit the water back into the sink before rinsing and putting my toothbrush away. “Shut up, Brock.” I shake my head as I walk back into my bathroom. “We’re not together, and it’s too late for this shit. I’m going to bed.”
He stands and watches me for a moment, clearly confused.
“Turn around,” I tell him.
“What for?”
“Because I’m putting my pyjamas on.” I huff.
“I’ve seen you naked.”
“Not when you’re in time out, you haven’t.”
His face falls for just a second until a small smirk creeps into place. “You’re putting me in time out?”
I nod. “Uh-huh. Turn around.”
He turns his back to me, and I smile and throw my pyjamas over my head.
“For the record,” he says with his back to me. “I decide who is in time out around here.”
“No, you don’t. I’m the boss of us,” I reply calmly.
“What?” His head snaps around, and he looks over his shoulder.
“Turn around.”
“You are not the fucking boss of us, Tully. I’m the boss of us.”
“Nope.” I go to the linen press and take out two blankets. “You are the boss when it comes to the sex between us. You’re the…” I narrow my eyes as I think of the right terminology. “You’re the operations manager. Physical contact is the operations.”