Page 25 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Chapter Nine

I was right.

About him not leaving me alone, because he doesn’t.

Every morning, he shows up at the coffee shop.

He always gets the same thing, and he always places his order with me.

Always . If I’m not working the register, he’ll wait until I get there and then place his order.

I tell him he’s being annoying, and he tells me I’m being cute.

I tell him to stop, and he tells me to say yes, and he will.

“Why can’t you get your coffee elsewhere?” I ask.

“Because I come here for you, not the coffee.”

“You—”

He jerks his chin up at me. “Has he bothered you lately?”

“Has who bothered me lately?”

“Your fuckwad boss.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “The only one that’s bothering me is you.”

He takes my face in. “Well, you better get used to it, because I’m not going away.”

“You—”

“And if he bothers you, I want to know.”

I keep watching him before sliding his coffee mug toward him on the counter. “You know, you’re not really a problem solver.”

“No, not a problem solver, your problem solver,” he corrects, picking up the coffee and taking a sip while watching me over the cup.

My belly flutters but I tamp it down. “First, I can solve my own problems. And second…” Leaning over the counter, I whisper, “I’m not having sex with you for money. I’m not having sex with you period.”

He keeps staring at me the same way, with arrogance and a certain amusement running through his features. Like I’m just so funny for protesting. Then, “You’ll do both.”

And then I come out with it and ask, “Do you think we’re connected, Shepard? Because now that you know my childhood has been more or less like yours, you want to help me through things. But because you’re so allergic to emotions, you’re dressing it up as some business arrangement.”

I watch his face shut down then, his expression going harsh. I knew it would. Because I have him figured out. He hates, absolutely hates , talking about stuff and analyzing things. And that’s the conclusion I came up with, about the money thing. That this is why he’s so adamant about it.

He knows we’re connected now. He feels it.

Maybe that’s why he noticed me in the first place too.

He felt something. He felt what I felt when I saw him nine years ago.

Although my connection bloomed into something else, something much more emotional.

But as I said, he’s allergic to emotions so his didn’t.

But that doesn’t mean he still can’t want to help me.

Only he can’t do it without twisting it in his head.

Not that I’d accept his money either way but still.

And I think that’s… God, it’s kind of sweet but in a very stunted way.

In a way that’s so unlike anyone I’ve ever known.

But in any case, if I want to repel him—my stepbrother—this is the only way: talking .

Then, “Just get me my fucking scone.”

I smile at him sweetly and produce it from behind my back because I already had it warmed.

Although I can’t deny the disappointment I feel that he never wants to open up.

I mean, why would he, with me no less. We’re nothing to each other.

Except, we’ve been watching each other all this time and neither of us knew it.

And then it’s time for him to leave. But not without this crazy thing he does at the end.

Takes his cap off—yes, he always wears a cap, and it always has his jersey number and his name on it—and puts it on me.

I know he does it to stake his claim and if I want to stay strong and send a message, I should take the cap off.

But despite all my promises to myself, I didn’t the first time he did it, and I don’t now.

I wear it all day until it’s time for me to leave and go to my second job.

The strip club.

I wish I could say wearing his cap despite my better judgement is my only crime.

But it’s not. My other crime, or rather my real crime, is what I do when he shows up at the strip club.

In my defense though, I promise I do it with good intentions.

I do it to show him I’m not his and he can’t tell me what to do.

And in order to do that, I wear skimpy clothes. Or rather, skimpier than usual.

The first time he came around, after issuing the ultimatum that if I didn’t quit he’d have me fired, I wore a tube top that left my shoulders and my belly bare and a flouncy, frilly skirt that showed off my taut ass cheeks.

I paired it with knee high socks and my favorite heels.

And he got the message. His body sprung tight.

His eyes flared and his jaw hardened. His fingers around the beer bottle tightened to the point where I thought he’d break it.

Honest to God, I wanted to turn back around and go to the locker room so I could cover myself.

It wasn’t me anyway. I didn’t wear things like that.

And my stupid stunt was making him vibrate with rage, but I held on.

Plus I wasn’t really quitting my job and I needed the tips.

So I went about my business like nothing was wrong.

Like I didn’t feel him following my every move, getting more and more agitated by the second.

Until he finally stood up from his seat, his chest heaving, his features furious and his eyes screaming murder, and prowled toward me.

And like an idiot, instead of telling him to go away, I grabbed his hand and took him to one of the back rooms.

To calm him down. Unless he really did what he said he’d do: beat the shit out of the men watching me. Besides, I thought I had tortured him enough for one night so I should at least give him something to make up for it. As in, a lap dance.

In any case, I think this is where things started to go wrong.

Because every night, I wear slutty clothes that are shorter than the last, and every night, I strut around the place like I’m just doing my job.

Like the peek of my ass cheeks and my jiggling tits in danger of popping out of my ridiculous tube and bikini tops are only for the tips.

They’re not. They’re for him, the one who shows up at the club every night and watches me work in them.

And over time, he grows restless. He grows agitated and angry until he rises up from his booth.

Which is when I drop everything. I cut people off mid-speech, stop serving and leave my tray wherever I am.

I grab his hand and take him into the back room. And proceed to calm him down.

It would still be okay if all I was doing was dancing for him.

But I’m not. Again, it starts off as innocent—as innocent as a lap dance can be—where I keep my heels on and take one, only one , article of clothing off.

Sometimes it’s my socks, or the scarf that I wear around my neck, specifically for this occasion.

Other times, I become daring and kick off my skirt or my top while keeping everything else on.

But always, I leave a barrier between us.

Once that’s done, I start. Dancing for him in heels is still hard for me, but I do it because I know he likes to watch me stumble and fall.

I don’t know why, but it gets him excited to the point where he slides over to the edge of his seat.

Stupidly, it makes me want to keep falling for him for the rest of my life.

It makes me want to keep dancing for him for the rest of my life too.

I ignore all these feelings though and make my way over to him.

At which point it’s not my show anymore, it’s his.

Because the moment I’m within arm’s reach, he’s in charge.

He pulls me toward him and makes me sit in his lap.

He arranges me how he wants to, mostly with my legs spread and over his so he can control my movements, and makes me dance for him with his thorny hands on my rosy body, with his filthy words in my ears.

“You like to fuck with me, don’t you, Little Strawberry?” he rasps in my ear, his fingers grabbing my throat.

“I just…” I try to say, my hips twitching with the way he’s playing with my air. “I’m t-trying to tell you something.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“That I don’t… I don’t belong to you.”

“Then how come,” he says, squeezing my neck so hard that I gasp for breath and arch my back, my core pulsing crazily, “you always end up in my lap with your legs spread and your pussy dripping?”

I grab his hand on my neck. “You m-make me.”

“Yeah?” he keeps growling, squeezing and releasing my throat, alternatively letting me breathe and letting me die.

“Well, I can make you do other things too, you know that, don’t you?

Because if you think this bullshit every night is going to tide me over, then you really don’t know anything about obsession. ”

“I do. I know about obsession,” I tell him. “I’ve been obsessed with you since I-I saw you.”

A puff of air escapes him as he growls, his hand pulsing around my throat.

“Yeah, you may have been obsessed with me since you saw me a year ago, but I can still teach you things about obsession that’ll make you clutch your naive schoolgirl pearls, yeah?

Because, baby”—he squeezes my throat again and stretches my neck up, making me moan with discomfort—“you may dress like a fucking whore but we both know what you really are is an innocent little rose.”

A year ago wasn’t when I saw him for the first time. This should be my cue to stop everything. This should give me enough sense to get off his lap and run away before I keep drowning in my own lies. But I can’t. All I can do is blush and whisper, “So then, y-you should leave me alone.”

Another puff of breath. “Yeah, you don’t really mean that.”

“I do,” I insist. “I’m not a w-whore. You just said it.”

He hums as if in satisfaction. Then, “Maybe not. But it’s time to make you one. It’s time to turn my Little Strawberry into my Little Whore.”