Page 76 of A Little Crush (The Little Things #6)

“Another couple was hooking up in mine, so we came in here instead.” The lie rolls past Jagger’s lips, smooth as honey. He keeps me caged in, holding me hostage between his chest and the drawers behind me.

“We?” his brother challenges.

A warning sparks in his dark eyes as Jagger stares down at me and my lips turn down in confusion.

What’s he trying to say? What am I missing?

After another beat of hesitation, Jagger moves aside, revealing my presence to the third brother.

Hawke, I think? Not that we’ve been formally introduced.

Obviously. But it’s not like the math is hard.

Everyone knows there are three Harden boys.

And if Jagger’s clearly Jagger, and Ford is Ford, then…

“Figured we could use your room,” Jagger continues. “That a problem?”

Hawke’s sharp eyes thin. “Don’t you have a fight tomorrow?”

“Guess I’m making an exception.”

An exception? What the hell does that mean?

Hawke’s pinpoint gaze shifts from his older brother to me and back again before he reaches for the door handle. “Clean my sheets after.”

“We’ll do it standing,” Jagger tosses back at him, like they aren’t discussing me right in front of…me. “Less laundry,” he adds.

I fight the urge to elbow him, but only barely.

Did he really just say that?

“Whatever,” Hawke mutters before he closes the door behind himself. Leaving me alone. With a man who just caught me red-handed. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Perfect.

Unsure what to say, I twist my fingers in front of me and stare at the ground.

This is awkward. And bad. Why did he cover for me?

Why did he lie? And to his brother, no less?

What does this mean? “Thanks,” I whisper, though I’m not sure I mean it.

I’m still…reeling. And confused. So freaking confused.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Jagger faces me again and cocks his head, studying me. “You’re a pretty thief, I’ll give you that much.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“Then why are you looking through my brother’s shit?”

“I told you, Ford said?—”

“Ford likes his girls curvy.” His eyes trail down my body, and he doesn’t need to vocalize the second part.

Nope. He’s made his point. I’m a stick. No curves.

No boobs. No butt or thick thighs. Just a boring, brittle stick.

It’s probably from malnutrition while growing up, but what do I know?

Not that it matters, or that I care. The opposite sex is the last thing on my mind.

Even so, I can’t help but fold my arms to cover a bit of his view as he peruses me like he would a statue in a museum.

“Not gonna ask you twice,” Jagger warns. “Why are you searching through my brother’s shit?”

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that he did, indeed, just ask me the same question twice, and choke past the lump in my throat instead. “I was…looking for something.”

“Thief,” he repeats.

“I’m not a thief,” I snap before folding like a wet towel because let’s be honest, there’s no way I’m going to get anywhere if I’m a bitch. “Okay, yes,” I concede. “I was snooping, but the items I was snooping for belong to me, so it’s not technically stealing?—”

“And why would my brother––the wrong brother, mind you,” he clarifies, “put something that belongs to you in his underwear drawer?”

My lips press into a thin line, but I stay quiet because if my conversation exploded in my face with the nice guy of the group? What will happen when a man with soulless eyes hears my reason for being here?

I really should’ve chosen a different door.

“Technically, I didn’t think it was the wrong brother,” I mutter. “I guess I’m in the wrong…room.”

His touch is almost gentle as Jagger grabs my chin and forces me to look up, refusing to let me curl in on myself or back down now that I’m here. Front and center, and caught in his snare. Just. Like. Prey.

“Why are you here?” he demands.

“Her dad stole from her to pay off a bet,” someone announces from the doorway.

Seriously?

You’d think I was on a stage, performing for an audience with what little privacy I’ve found since sneaking into this room.

Pulling away from Jagger’s touch, I shift to one side so I can catch a glimpse of the newest culprit joining us, er, culprits. As in plural. Seems the party is moving up here. A very annoyed Ford glares back at me, and, with folded arms, Hawke follows him into the room. Tattle tail.

Apparently, he didn’t buy Jagger’s lie about us hooking up. I’m probably not Jagger’s type, either.

Surprise, surprise.

Ignoring my completely unwarranted annoyance, I push, “It wasn’t my dad’s money to give. I need it back.”

My words hang in the air as Hawke and Ford exchange glances before turning to their oldest brother. It’s like they’re letting him take the lead.

So Jagger’s the one to make the final decision.

Good to know.

I force myself to look him in the eye again, this time of my own volition.

Big mistake. I’m usually pretty good at reading people.

It’s not a flex. It’s a necessity. But Jagger?

The man is a freaking vault. A stupidly attractive, square-jawed, dark-eyed vault.

His silence makes me squirm even more because even though I was distracted by his brothers’ presence, Jagger’s attention hasn’t shifted in the slightest. Nope. He’s looking at me and only me.

“So you are a thief,” he murmurs.

“I’m not a thief!”

“Says the thief,” Jagger volleys. His expression is just as locked down as before.

It only feeds my annoyance. “Just give me my money, then go after him again to make him pay it back?—”

“He did pay us back,” Ford interjects.

I glare around Jagger’s torso. “But it was my money?—”

“Semantics,” Ford decides.

“It’s not—” My mouth bunches, and I fist my hands at my sides, weighing my options.

The problem is, there aren’t any. “None of you are going to help me, are you.” It isn’t a question, and they don’t bother to answer it.

Nope. The same annoying silence reverberates through my skull, giving me a migraine.

“You guys are all assholes,” I mutter. “I’m leaving. ”

As I start to move past Jagger, he grabs my wrist, preventing my escape. “What’s your name?”

“Where’s my money?”

He shakes his head. “Not how this works.”

“If you’re not going to play my game, then I’m not going to play yours.”

Something flashes in his gaze as he runs a thumb along the inside of my wrist. “Look around,” he murmurs. “Everything’s a game here.”

“Which is why I’m leaving.”

With his free hand, Jagger pulls out a one-hundred-dollar bill and waves it an inch from my nose. “Name.”

I stare at the crisp bill as every single meal it could buy flashes before my eyes.

“No.” His brow lifts. It’s like the two-letter word is foreign to him.

Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that the entire reason I’m here is to get my money back, yet here he is, waving some right in front of my nose, and I turned him down.

“That’s not my money,” I explain. “It’s yours. ”

He shows me another two crisp bills, adding them to the first. Three hundred dollars. Three. Hundred. Dollars. And for what? My name? That’s it?

Or is it?

It always starts with little things. The slope is slippery, and if I’ve learned anything from my dad and my mom, it’s this: All it takes is one concession. One. And you’re trapped forever.

Staring at the money, I whisper, “I’m not playing your game.”

“Everyone plays.” He bends closer. So close I can almost forget we aren’t the only two people in this room. “It just depends on their price.”

Their price.

As if I can be bought.

Seems my dad isn’t the only asshole I’m dealing with today. And I’m so freaking tired of rolling over and taking everyone’s bullshit. Having to react instead of just…be. Before I have even a millisecond to consider the consequences, my knee moves on instinct, connecting with Jagger’s crotch.

His grasp on my wrist disappears, and he cups his balls, doubling over in pain as a low, muffled groan escapes him. “Fuuuuck.”

Taking full advantage, I dart around him, only for a pair of strong arms to wrap around my torso and keep me in place.

“Big mistake, sweetheart,” a low voice growls.

I am so screwed.