Pissed and confused, he whirls to face me. I know he doesn’t miss the fury in my expression, either.
“Too far!” I shriek, and before I can stop myself, I swing on him again, but this time I aim for his face.
Just as fast as I fire off, his hand catches mine in midair and I’m not sure what pisses me off more. That I swung and missed, or that I’m having to try so hard not to look down at his junk. Even not lowering my gaze, I see way more than I should.
His chest heaves with rage and his eyes reflect it. A sharp tick in his jaw has me equal parts angry and turned on.
“Get the hell out,” he growls, but the command isn’t meant for me. It’s meant for those who were just showering in peace before I strolled in. But now, they’ve taken heed to their king’s orders and I’m left alone with the magnificent beast himself.
The rims of his nostrils flare with anger and mine at least matches his.
“You ruined my car!” I shout.
A sick, twisted grin slowly touches his lips, but he doesn’t let my fist go.
“What’s wrong? Didn’t like my little surprise?” he teases. “At least I left the tools you’ll need to get that piece of shit back on the road.”
My chest tightens and I’ve, without a doubt, never hated anyone more. Which makes it super confusing that I’m finding it more difficult not to peek at his package by the second. To fight the urge, I swallow hard, staring instead as water rinses down his face and chest, washing away the soap that once covered him.
Dark strands of hair cover his forehead, drawing my attention to the pair of eyes now blazing a hole through me.
“You must be used to this,” he rasps, “coming outside to find your car on bricks? Has to be a regular thing in your hood, right?”
He’s so damn snide and arrogant. It’s amazing he can even stand it himself.
“You crossed the line,” I hiss.
His grip on me tightens and, before I can react, he has my other wrist and yanks me forward, bringing me beneath the scorching water with him. It rushes down my arms, soaks my hair and clothes, but I don’t even flinch.
“Do I look like I give a shit what you think?” he seethes.
“Fuck you, West,” I say back, and the statement leaves my mouth with a rough edge.
There’s so much hatred in those words, mine and his. In his eyes, even. But, for some reason, amidst all this swirling tension and negative energy, this is the precise moment I lose the battle, glancing down the rolling hills of his abs, blinking droplets of water from my lashes as my gaze slips lower.
I only gawk for a moment, admittedly startled by his impressive size, but when I lift my eyes again, that wicked smirk of his is back. I’m already rolling my eyes before he speaks, at the mere idea of what his reaction will be to catching me in the act.
“See something you like?”
His deep voice is low and penetrating. I feel it everywhere when he leans in to speak.
The words, “Go to hell,” pass between my lips.
He’s close, staring down his nose at me, and I see the war. It rages inside him. He hates me, yes, just as much as I hate him. But there’s more to it than that.
More to us than that.
It’s uncomfortable to even think that word—us—but it fits. Because there is an us. Even if what we are is warped and ugly, lust wrapped in such intense loathing that it runs bone-deep.
But … it’s still real.
As real as the monster standing before me. The one who’s just brought me another step closer, making this space feel small and suffocating.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, his voice rumbling low. “Do you see something you like?”
My lips part, but no words come out.
“Or is ‘like’ the wrong word?” he questions. “Maybe you see something you want.”
These words fall from his lips and I swear the water gets hotter as we stand beneath it. Unprepared for such a bold statement, I, again, don’t immediately have a response. The effect of being called out passes quickly, though, and I come up with a snide remark.
“I didn’t answer because there isn’t much to see, King Midas.” My brow quirks with the lie I’ve just told.
The cocky smirk that follows means he knows I was only protecting my pride.
“Come on, Southside,” he says against my ear, “just admit it. You love this.”
I scoff, and with how he’s invaded my space, my mouth nearly touches his shoulder.
“What kind of sick person loves being tormented? Loves coming outside to find her car in pieces?”
A low, primal laugh vibrates in his chest and, for some reason, the sound of it sends a chill streaking down my spine.
“The kind of girl who’s just as fucked up as I am,” he answers. “The kind who always wants who and what she shouldn’t.”
I feel exposed, like he dug down to the core of who I am, found the strands of depraved DNA my mother marked me with, and forced me to own it. Only, his statement has the opposite effect I think he intends for it to have. It jars me out of the trance our bizarre energy always puts us in when we make the mistake of venturing too close to one another. For once, I’m the one who breaks the spell, putting distance between us.
I don’t miss the flash of disappointment that leaves his expression as quickly as it revealed itself. He’s a wizard at using that mask, the one that paints him as a one-dimensional jock, but it doesn’t fool me anymore. If there’s only bad blood between us, this wouldn’t keep happening. These moments of letting our guards down. These moments of craving something from one another neither of us is prepared
