Page 9 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Chapter Two

The stripper’s name is Bridgette.

I only realize that when after, screaming, she jumps off his lap and turns toward me in outrage.

I immediately feel regret because I know her.

She’s not going to let this go. I mean, I also regret that I ruined her dress.

Or rather, her lingerie but still. Anyway, it’s brand new.

I know that because she tells me. Or rather yells at me, with frantic hand gestures.

She also snaps at me about being careless and blind and what the fuck was I thinking. I want to apologize to her, but she won’t let me get a word in edgewise. Especially not when she busts out the B word. As in, bitch.

“That’s enough.”

I flinch at the voice. Rough and low, seemingly filled with secrets, my favorite.

Right now, it has a command in it that Bridgette heeds and stops.

She turns away from me and focuses on him.

I think he’s up from his seat as well. I can’t be sure because I’m not looking at him.

Probably because I’m having a hard time with that after what I did.

Stupidly. Impulsively. Crazily.

God, what was I thinking? Why don’t I ever think when it comes to him?

“What?” Bridgette says belligerently.

“You should leave,” he says, or rather orders.

“Are you serious?” Bridgette puts her hands on her hips. “The bitch spilled her drink on me and ruined my very expensive lingerie. So no, I’m?—”

“Call her that again and I’ll make sure that’s the last piece of expensive lingerie you’ll ever wear.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Bridgette opens her mouth to retort, but I finally get enough sense to chime in, “I’m so sorry.

It’s all my fault.” She turns her attention to me, and I hug the tray to my chest. “You’re right, I wasn’t looking, and I ruined your dress.

I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Pay you, whatever, to make up for it.”

Don’t make me pay. Don’t make me pay. Please, for the love of God, don’t make me pay. Because I don’t have any money to spare. I don’t even have the money I need for my bills so yeah, please. God, I’m an idiot .

“Yeah, that’s the least you’ll do, bitch. Or I’m going to the boss and having you fired.”

My heart thuds. “There’s no need?—"

“Here. This should cover it.”

At this, I have to look. I have to gather my courage and turn toward him.

Or rather, toward what he’s offering. A wad of cash, clutched between long, dusky fingers.

His fingers. Instead of focusing on the cash though, I focus on the make of his hand, the strong shape of his fingers, the jut of his knuckles.

The fact that they look rough, scrape-y, his nails short and blunt. So masculine.

It isn’t the first time I’m seeing his hand, of course. But all the previous times, I never really paid close attention to the details. I shouldn’t now either, more important things are at stake, but I can’t help it.

“It’s a lot more than what your lingerie’s worth, and your time,” he states. “So take it and leave.”

Bridgette seems to agree and quickly snatches it out of his hand, flouncing off. And then there’s just the two of us. Alone.

Well, not really. I mean, the place is packed.

Yes, we’re in a corner and there’s a pillar that partially blocks it from view, but the bar is right there.

And I can see the bartender working behind the counter.

So no, not alone. Still, when he steps toward me—I see his big black boots making the move—it feels like there’s no one else here but me and him. And my heart starts to pound with fear.

It pounds harder when he drawls, “Nice uniform.”

“I-I’m sorry about the drinks,” I say, stepping back.

He takes a step closer. “I like this one better.”

Both my words and my steps stutter as I move back. “You didn’t have to pay her though. I could’ve?—”

“So what are you supposed to be, an angel?”

I clutch my tray to my chest even tighter as I finally reply, “A muse.”

“A muse.”

“Yes. T-that’s what George calls us.”

“Who’s George?”

“My boss.”

“Does he like redheads too?”

Before I can think it through, I snap my eyes up and look at him. My first thought is that I completely ruined his t-shirt. It’s all wet around the neck and the chest, going as far down as the hem and even the top of his washed-out jeans.

My second is that he looks… like he always does, handsome, beautiful, heartbreakingly stunning.

His hair’s all mussed up, as it always is, and in need of a haircut, strands grazing his forehead, and his eyes look like dark velvet.

Every line, every slant and slope of his face is just as sharply sculpted as it always is, all juxtaposed against those soft details I usually can’t look away from.

But more than gorgeous, he looks unharmed.

I mean, I knew he would be. It’s been six months since the fight, but still, I can’t help but run my eyes over him, as if to make sure he’s really okay.

As if to look for any lingering injuries, a mark or a scar.

Anything that might have gotten left behind from that night, any ugly reminders. Of his heartbreak.

Yeah, I’m looking for the signs of his heartbreak so I can…

I can do what, exactly?

There’s nothing I can do. It’s none of my business either. It never was. It never will be. So all I do is shake my head and answer his question. “No, George is nice.”

I mean, sort of. He’s the manager of a strip club where they encourage tons of fraternization between clients and the staff.

Plus he’s the one who came up with the whole muse thing so he’s not a saint or anything.

And yes, he flirts with me a little bit but he hasn’t asked me out on a date like my catering boss or tried to grope me like some of these customers here.

So the world that I live in, he does fall into the nice category.

His eyes narrow a bit. “Too nice?”

“To me?”

“Yeah.”

I shake my head again. “Not really.”

His eyes narrow further. “Not really.”

My widen in return and I realize the road this could send him down, if I told him about my slightly pervy boss. So to divert his attention and also because it’s true, I say, “I totally ruined your clothes.”

I hope he lets it go. I don’t want to get George fired or have my job jeopardize in any way. I also don’t want to be eyed like a toy my stepbrother wants to play with either. Which is how he’s looking at me as he says, “Yeah, you did.”

I wince. “Let me at least get you a towel, please.”

His eyes flash again, this time more brightly, dangerously . “Please.”

“What?”

He studies my features, his eyes going from one side to another, haphazardly, repeatedly.

And for a crazy second, it feels like he’s trying to catch up.

To the last six months, like I was doing.

Looking for signs of things that happened during the time we didn’t see each other.

Although, honestly, nothing happened. My life is still the same as it was six months ago.

Work, my catering gigs, my sister, my friends.

Trying to figure out how to pay my bills and send Snow to college.

Staying up late into the night, thinking about him, worrying over him.

Then admonishing myself for caring so much about someone who’s only ever been cruel to me.

“Didn’t think I’d like it so much,” he murmurs, breaking into my thoughts.

“Like what?”

“Hearing please ,” he explains. “In your sweet little voice.”

“I—”

“But,” he cuts me off, arrogance flickering through his features, “I’m sure you can do a better job of it.”

“A better job of what?”

“Begging.”

My heart thuds. “What?”

“After what you did.”

Shit. What a stupid freaking thing to do. Especially when I know how he can be. I’ve only ever had two encounters with him, and still I know this could get very bad, very fast. I swallow and resume walking back. “Look, it was a mistake, okay?”

He resumes advancing. “Yeah?”

“Yes, I didn’t mean to do it. I?—”

“I think you did.”

I keep hugging the tray as a shield against him and lie, “No, I didn’t. I-I stumbled.”

He hums. “See, I’m finding that a little hard to believe, given the very peculiar sickness you have.”

My back thuds against the pillar and all I can do is gasp at the impact.

More than the impact though, it’s the fact I have nowhere else to go now.

Not even when he’s right here, so close and getting closer as he leans down.

He rests his palm on the pillar, his fingers splayed wide, and dips his head, bringing our faces only inches from each other.

And my mind, without my volition, goes back six months. Which would’ve been fine because it’s not really unusual for me, but right now, I’m thinking about that one particular moment before everything fell apart.

When we were just like this, so close, our faces aligned.

When I could smell his sweet breaths and thought they reminded me of strawberries.

When I thought I tasted strawberries on my tongue.

The fact that for a second back there, it felt like he was going to kiss me, and how I was going to let him. How I was waiting for it to happen.

I try not to think about that moment. I try to steer clear of all the feelings that invokes. All the fluttery, longing, painful feelings.

“What sickness?” I ask in a voice I’m not very proud of, all breathless and fragile.

He keeps studying my features before glancing down at my mouth. “The sickness where you have trouble staying away from me.”

My lips tingle as I flick my eyes over to his. “You’re the one w-who’s having trouble letting me go.”

“Only because you don’t want me to.”

“You know, you’re not really a mind reader,” I remind him of our conversation that night.

“No, just your mind reader,” he repeats.

“Can you just step back?” I try again.

“You forgot the magic word.”

“Please,” I say begrudgingly.