Brenna is soaking wet. Despite her initial shock, she recovers quickly, reaching for a napkin to wipe her face. “Who exactly is your man?” she asks calmly.
The blonde points to a spot about ten feet to her right. She’s got long fingernails, painted bright fuchsia (or pink, as a naïve Hollis would say) and one sharp talon directs my gaze to the polo-shirt-wearing guy who was hitting on Brenna. The attempted boob-grabber.
“Him?” Brenna’s disdain is written all over her gorgeous face.
“Yes.”
“Funny. He didn’t mention he had a girlfriend when he was offering to take me for a spin in his Lambo.”
Hollis snickers.
“You’re a liar. Davey would never do that.” The girl is still spitting mad, cheeks redder than the crimson tank top she’s got on. Her top clashes with her nails. I hate that. “He said you were throwing yourself at him.”
Brenna’s lips curve in a mocking smile. “Of course he did. His ego was bruised. But if I’d agreed to blow him in his fancy sports car after you went to bed tonight? I guarantee you never would’ve known he talked to anyone but you.”
“Truth,” Hunter drawls.
I hide a grin. She’s absolutely right. The only reason this loser even mentioned the existence of another woman to his girlfriend is because he needed his ego stroked. He probably knew she’d go apeshit on Brenna and stake a claim on her man, which makes him feel nice and wanted after Brenna laughed when he suggested they hook up in his Lamborghini.
Brenna gets to her feet. Her face is dry, but the front of her sweatshirt is still sopping wet. The clear liquid doesn’t reek of alcohol, so I suspect it was just water. With an annoyed breath, Brenna unzips the wet hoodie and peels it off her slim shoulders.
“Oh my fucking God,” Hollis groans, arousal darkening his eyes.
She’s wearing nothing but jeans and a lacy black bralette that’s more crop top than bra, and not much skimpier than what the blonde has on. She won’t get kicked out of Malone’s for indecent exposure, but she’s definitely about to be responsible for every hard penis in our vicinity.
Even Fitzy’s? a voice taunts.
I try to swallow my jealousy. I do not like the idea of Fitz getting hard for Brenna, no matter how incredible her boobs look in that bralette.
But a quick glance across the booth at Fitz reveals a harsh expression and sneer of distaste as he eyes the polo-shirt guy, who’s now creeping toward his girlfriend. Fitz’s big hands aren’t quite fists, but they’re curled on the tabletop. He’s on guard and not liking this escalating situation.
“Hey, sweetheart?” Brenna says to the blonde. “Your man is a fuckboy with a capital F. Drop him now before he hurts you worse.”
“Did you just call Davey a fuckboy!” is the outraged response. “You’d be lucky to have someone like him! If he tried to get with you, and you said no, then you’re a stupid bitch.”
Brenna’s brown eyes twinkle. “First you’re mad because you think I tried to steal him from you. Now you’re pissed because I turned him down. Pick one injustice and commit, sweetie.”
I can’t help but laugh. The blonde glares daggers at me.
“But if you want, I’d be happy to bang him,” Brenna offers. “His technique was wicked clumsy when he tried to grab my breast. I could probably teach him a few things.”
“Slut,” the girl spits out.
“Right. I’m the slut, not him.”
“You wouldn’t know a good man if he walked up and smacked you in the face.”
“Neither would you, apparently.”
Hunter chuckles.
The girl’s face is so red, I almost feel bad for her. Almost.
“Stupid slut!”
Just like that, I officially reach the maximum amount of slut I’m willing to hear.
I shoot to my feet. “Enough with this slut bullshit,” I snap at her. “Do you realize how many decades you set us back every time you call another girl a slut? We’ve spent years fighting to not be viewed as sexual objects or be judged and shamed if we happen to enjoy sex. It’s bad enough that men still do this to us. When you do it too, it sends the message that it’s fair game for women to be treated this way.”
“Shut up,” is her comeback. “You’re a slut too!”
I cross my arms tight to my chest. “Say that again. I dare you.”
She flashes a smug smile. “You’re. A. Slut.”
I might have let it go. I really might’ve. If she hadn’t stepped forward and flicked her razor fingernails against my cheek in a mocking, dismissive gesture that turns my vision into a haze of red.
I launch myself at her.
“Catfight!” Hollis yells, jumping out of the booth.
I’m too busy tackling the blonde to chastise Hollis for the enjoyment he’s receiving from this. Straddling her, I get one good punch in before her own fist flies out and connects with the corner of my mouth. I taste a burst of copper on my bottom lip, lick it away, and grab a hunk of her hair. She wails when I give it a sharp pull.
“What the hell happened to girl power? Did you never listen to the Spice Girls?” I growl in her face. “What’s wrong with you?”
She slaps at me with her taloned hands. “Get off me!”
Her wish is granted, because suddenly I’m being heaved off her body. Strong arms wrap around my waist to keep me away from her. She jumps to her feet and pounces again. “You broke my nail!” she screeches at me.
Davey grabs her and tugs her backward. She clings to his arm as if it’s the last remaining lifeboat on the Titanic.
I frown at the sight. “Your loser boyfriend tried to grab another girl’s boob—how is that not what you’re mad about?”
Holding his girlfriend protectively, Davey announces to the world that he’s a dumbass by picking this exact moment to join the conversation.
Because only a dumbass would point at Brenna and say, “Look at what she’s wearing! She was asking for it!”
Oh no he di’int.
I lunge forward again, but those big arms lock tighter around me. They belong to Hunter, I realize. But even if I’d been able to charge, I’m nowhere near as fast as Fitz. One second he’s seated, the next he’s got Douchebag Davey by the collar.
“She was asking for it?” Fitzy hisses. “Did those words really just come out of your filthy, rapist mouth?”
Davey gasps for air. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
Fitz slams the frat boy against the brick wall next to the booth. I swear I feel the entire room shake. Malone’s has framed sports memorabilia hanging on the walls, and several photographs of hockey players I don’t recognize crash to the beer-stained floor. I hear the crunching of glass beneath Fitz’s Timberlands as he shifts his feet.
A server comes flying over, but she’s a tiny woman and no match for a six-two, enraged Colin Fitzgerald. His dark eyes spit fire as he literally dangles Davey a foot off the ground with one hand around the guy’s neck.
Concern flutters in my tummy. Shit, this isn’t good. Fitz is strangling the—
Nope, he’s punching him. With his free arm, he takes a powerful swing that lands a bone-cracking blow to Davey’s nose. Fitz releases him, and Davey crumples to the sticky floor, blood pouring out of his nostrils.
“I’m having you arrested for assault!”
“Go for it.” Fitzy sounds amused by the threat, and there’s something so insanely sexy about that. “Saves Brenna a phone call to the cops. She can press charges against you at the same time.”
I cannot take my eyes off his face. His jaw is sharper than steel. His mouth is hard and dangerous. And his arms are… Oh sweet Lord, his muscles are coiled with tension, taut with rage, and his tattoos seem to ripple across his skin as he presses his sculpted arms flush to his sides. The dragon on his left biceps looks as if it’s about to take flight and rain fire on the world. Fitz is as primal as the creature on his arm. He looms over the fallen Davey. Big and broad and radiating raw, masculine power.
I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone more.
“Good idea,” Brenna pipes up, smiling at Davey. “Not sure if you knew this, but groping a girl in a bar is considered sexual assault in this state.”
Her words succeed in making him go pale. His bloody nose paired with cheeks devoid of color gives Davey a ghoulish air. He stumbles to his feet and tries to push past Fitz.
Fitz is a wall of muscle. Muscle walls don’t budge.
“Colin,” Hollis murmurs.
After a few beats, Fitz moves out of the way to let Davey pass.
“Come on, Kerry,” Davey mumbles to his girlfriend. “These fuckers aren’t worth it.”
He says this as if he’d been the one with the upper hand on Fitz and not the other way around.
“Slut,” is the blonde’s parting insult to me.
I swallow a sigh. Some people never learn.
“I’m sorry,” comes Fitz’s rough voice. He’s speaking to the wait staff. “I’ll pay for the damages.”
“No,” I blurt, stepping forward. “I will. I started the fight. It’s my fault.”
The fact that Fitz doesn’t argue the point or insist on paying tells me he feels the same way about where the blame lies. One look is all it takes for me to glimpse the barely checked accusation in his eyes.
Oh, he blames me, all right.
I wait for him to scold me. Or maybe throw me over his shoulder as he’s prone to doing. Instead, he curses under his breath, grabs his jacket, then mutters, “I’m out.”
Disbelief spirals through me as I watch him stalk away. I’m frozen for a beat. Then I tear my gaze off him and grab my Chanel purse from the booth seat.
Nate and Matt are trying to help the flustered waitress clean up the broken photo frames, while Hollis is murmuring something in Brenna’s ear.
That leaves Hunter. I toss him the Chanel and say, “I’ve got cash—can you pay whatever needs paying? I want to check on Fitz.”
Without giving him a chance to reply, I dart toward the exit.
Outside, I’m quick to realize my mistake. I forgot that it’s winter. My coat is inside, and I’m wearing a shirt that doesn’t have a back. Goose bumps break out on my exposed skin when the chilled air kisses it. I run as fast as my Prada boots and sense of self-preservation will allow. The heels aren’t that high, but a layer of ice covers the ground beneath them.
I catch up to Fitz in the parking lot behind Malone’s, as he’s unlocking his car.
“Wait,” I call out.
At the sound of my voice, his broad frame tenses. “Go back inside, Summer. You’ll freeze to death.”
I hurry over to him. “Not until I make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” His tone is terse.
“Your knuckles are bleeding.” Alarmed, I grab his hand and rub one big knuckle. The pad of my thumb comes back stained with a reddish tinge.
“Screw my knuckles. Your goddamn lip is bleeding.”
I wipe my mouth with the heel of my palm. “She didn’t split my lip,” I assure him. “It’s a scratch from her demon nails.”
He doesn’t even crack a smile. “Go back inside,” he repeats. “I’m leaving.”
Something about his expression raises my hackles.
Well, not something. I know exactly what’s bothering me—the disapproval shining in my direction.
“You’re pissed because I tackled that girl?” I demand.
“Of course I’m pissed.” He slams the driver’s door and marches toward me. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was defending myself and my friend,” I snap. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly enjoy repeatedly being called a slut.”
“And I don’t particularly enjoy bar brawls,” he retorts. His breath hangs in the frigid air before dissipating.
“Right, and I’m a habitual bar brawler!” I clench my teeth. Because I’m cold and they won’t stop chattering, but also because I have the craziest urge to bite him. Maybe I am a brawler.
“Whatever,” he says flatly. “I don’t want to be put in that position again, okay?”
“What position?”
“Where I have to defend your honor.”
My jaw drops. “I didn’t ask you to! You’re the one who decided to throat-grab that jerk. Granted, he had it coming—”
“He wouldn’t have opened his fool mouth if you hadn’t attacked his girlfriend,” Fitz cuts in. He shakes his head at me, scowling deeply. “I don’t like to fight, Summer. I learned a long time ago that problems don’t need to be solved with fists.”
“He groped Brenna,” I remind Fitz. “He deserved a fist.”
I can tell from his inflexible expression that he doesn’t agree. In Fitz’s mind, I forced him into a bar fight, end of story.
I turn on my heels. “I’m going back inside.”
“No.”
With an incredulous look, I spin around. “Are you serious right now? I’m doing what you want! You keep telling me to go inside.”
“Changed my mind,” he barks. “I’m taking you home. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”
“I caused trouble! What about the maniac who dumped water all over Brenna? Or her sleazy, gropey boyfriend? I cannot believe you’re blaming me for anything that happened in there!”
He takes a step forward and I whip both hands up in a martial arts pose. I took three months of karate when I was twelve. I can take him.
“If you throw me over your shoulder, I will scream my bloody lungs out,” I warn. “It’s not my fault you decided to punch someone tonight. Deal with the consequences of your own actions.”
Dark eyes blaze at me. “I wouldn’t have to deal with these consequences if you hadn’t gotten your panties in a knot over some silly girl who wasn’t worth your anger.”
Just like that, my body reacts as if someone cranked my internal arousal meter up to Danger: Orgasm Imminent. A guy as sexy as this one isn’t allowed to say the word panties. Because now I’m imagining a variation of that sentence. In my head, I hear his deep voice rumbling, “I want to rip your panties off with my teeth, Summer.”
“Don’t you fucking look at me like that.”
My gaze jerks toward his. Okay, the words aren’t the same, but the growly rasp is exactly what I’d heard in my head.
“Like what?” I ask weakly. My pulse has gone from zero to a million in a split second, making my knees wobble.
“You know what I’m talking about.” He hisses out a breath. “And you need to stop it.”
“Stop what?”
He groans. A frustrated, animalistic groan that sends a bolt of heat between my legs before spreading outward to set every square inch of my skin on fire. I’m no longer feeling the cold. I could be buck-naked in the Siberian tundra, and I’d still feel like I was going up in flames. I thought I’d known what lust felt like, but I was wrong.
“Stop playing with my damn mind.” The words are tortured, shaky. “One day you’re flirting with me, the next you’re cuddling with Hunter.”
Guilt pricks into me. Crap. I forgot about the night Hunter and I snuggled. Fitz knows about that?
“One day you’re calling us best friends, the next you’re standing in front of me looking like you want my dick in your mouth.”
My core clenches with an ache so powerful I almost keel over. Oh my God. That is a visual I do not need right now.
He shakes his head before dropping his gaze to his scuffed boots. “I don’t like mind games and I definitely don’t like drama,” he mutters.
“Fitz.” Wariness curls around my throat. “What are you actually mad about right now?”
His jaw clenches tight. For a moment I don’t expect him to answer, but then he mumbles, “You could’ve gotten hurt in there.”
Surprise jolts through me. That’s what this is about? He was worried for my safety?
“But I didn’t,” I assure him. “Trust me, I know how to handle myself. I’m scrappy.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I shake my head irritably. “Why couldn’t you say that from the start? Summer, I don’t like the idea of you getting hurt. There. Easy. Instead, you shout at me like a maniac and then act like there’s something wrong about me thinking you’re hot when you’re angry?”
Slowly, he lifts his head.
I suck in a breath. He levels me with a hot, needy look that has me desperately squeezing my legs together. The throbbing is back, and it’s worse now. Nobody has ever looked at me this way.
“You think I’m hot when I’m angry?”
“Yes, I do. You were sexy-shouting and it got me going. So sue me.” I glare at him. “Just because you’re not attracted to me doesn’t mean I’m—”
“Not attracted to you?” he interrupts incredulously, and the next thing I know he’s snatching my hand and placing it directly on his crotch. “Feel this? This is what you do to me. You make me hard. Constantly.”
He presses my palm tighter to his body, and a moan gets stuck in my throat. I’m mesmerized by the thick ridge beneath my hand. He’s impossibly big. I mean, I guess I expected it. He’s a big guy. Tall, muscular, huge shoulders. Big hands… But that isn’t always a reliable indication of wiener size. I dated a tight end once with bear paws and size fourteen shoes and a teeny little ding dong. The kind of penis that makes you cry real tears because it’s so depressingly disappointing.
Fitz? He doesn’t disappoint. I wish I could wrap my fingers around him, put my mouth on him. But his stupid pants are on, so I settle for rubbing the tantalizing length of him. Just slightly, and yet the fleeting contact is enough to summon a deep, tormented moan from his throat.
“You think it’s fun walking around with this damn thing all day long? You so much as breathe in my direction, and you do this to me. You’re on my mind twenty-four-seven.”
“But…” I swallow. “You think I’m fluff.”
“For fuck’s sake. Are we back to that? I only said that shit to Garrett because I was trying to convince myself not to get involved with you.”
I falter. “Really?” I experience a burst of hope…until the last thing he said registers, bringing a flicker of hurt. My hand drops from his groin. “Why didn’t you want to get involved with me?”
“Because you drive me crazy. Wanting you is exhausting, Summer. Being around you is exhausting.” He throws his hands up before dragging them through his messy hair. “I’m an introvert, and you’re the very definition of social. And exhausting. Did I mention you’re exhausting?”
I frown. “I don’t—”
“Everything okay out here?”
We both whirl around at the sound of Hunter’s voice. Our roommate strides across the lot, my parka slung over one arm. He holds it out for me, and, despite the heat still coursing through my blood, I take the coat and shrug it on.
“Thanks,” I tell Hunter. “And everything’s fine.” I’m dying to look at Fitz, but I’m afraid of what I’ll see.
He solves the dilemma for me by walking to his car. “Make sure Summer gets home safe,” he says.
Not even a backwards glance.
A moment later, his huge body disappears into the driver’s seat, the engine sputters to life, and he peels out of the lot without even waiting five seconds to defrost his windshield.
Tears sting my eyes. I blink hard and fast, but they still manage to break free. The adrenaline from the bar fight (both my fight and Fitz’s) is suddenly sucked out of my body as if someone stuck a vacuum hose on me. It leaves me feeling weary.
Hunter draws me toward him, wrapping one arm around my shoulders. “Hey, don’t cry, Blondie.”
I bite my lip, blinking faster to ward off the tears. “Sorry. Adrenaline crash, I think.”
“I get it.” There’s humor in his tone. “I mean, you did kick someone’s ass tonight.”
“Barely.”
His free hand reaches for one of mine. He lightly caresses the inside of my palm with his thumb. “That was so badass of you, by the way. Defending Brenna like that.”
At least someone thinks so. “Thanks.”
He chuckles softly. “Though I’m pretty sure that catfight gave Mike enough spank-bank material for at least a year.”
I make a face. “Oh God, I hope not.”
Hunter’s callused fingers graze my palm before linking through mine. Holding his hand is both comforting and unsettling, but I don’t have the strength to pull away. I’m currently using most of my energy to try to make sense of everything Fitz said before his abrupt departure.
I drive him crazy.
He finds me exhausting.
He wants me, but he doesn’t want to want me.
“Blondie,” Hunter says roughly.
“Hmmm?” My mind continues to race, making it hard to concentrate. Or rather, making it harder to concentrate. My ADHD already gives me a handicap.
“Next Saturday,” he starts.
“What about it?”
“We don’t have a game.” He hesitates. “Do you want to go out that night? Grab some dinner?”
It’s my turn to hesitate. There’s no mistaking his intentions. He’s asking me on a date. And maybe if Fitz wasn’t in the picture, I’d—
Are you fucking kidding me right now! my inner Selena Gomez shrieks.
Wow. A rare F-bomb from her. Inner Selena is usually far more proper and composed. She doesn’t let the exasperating behavior of men affect her pure, elegant way of living her life.
But she’s absolutely right. I have one guy who doesn’t want to want me, and another one who’s proud to declare that he does—and I’m leaning toward the first one?
Why? Really. Why. Why is this even a choice? Hunter is gorgeous. He’s a great kisser. And he’s actually making an effort to be with me instead of running away every chance he gets.
I like Fitz, but he’s too confusing. He thinks I’m playing mind games? He’s gone from telling Garrett he’d never date me, to comforting me about my midterm and offering to help me, to confessing he’s attracted to me and then saying I’m too exhausting to be with.
Uh-huh. I’m exhausting.
I want a man with clear intentions. A man who makes an effort and is excited to spend time with me. A man who actually wants to want me.
If he has to fight himself to be with me, then chances are he’d never fight for me if it came down to it.
What woman would ever choose somebody like that?
I rest my head on Hunter’s shoulder and allow the warmth of his body to seep into my tired bones. I squeeze his hand and say, “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
