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“I know you don’t think you’re calling for a taxi,” Mitch scoffs.
His heavy footsteps echo across the pavement. No silent ninja moves tonight. I continue to ignore him. If I turn around, I’ll lose it. We’ll end up fighting or kissing, and fuck…I’d take either one or both right now, but not on a public street. Not outside the launch party for the band’s album. I’ve done enough damage for one night.
“Fuck off, Hale.”
“I don’t think so. You’re coming with me,” he insists.
Incensed by his bossiness, especially after he crossed a very fine line tonight, I whirl around with every intention of handing him his ass.
“Don’t even think it,” he hisses when he sees me ready to attack. His angry expression dissolves, leaving one of concern. “Come on, I’ve got the car.”
Baffled, I let down my guard. “Car? We left the car at the label and came in the limo.”
Mitch smiles, avoiding my gaze by staring at his feet. “I sent someone to get it. I kind of figured you’d want to leave.” He shrugs.
I watch as his rugged, stubble-covered cheeks turn crimson. Holy shit he’s adorable. I’m pissed as hell, but he still manages to charm me.
“Fine,” I agree. “Where is it?”
Mitch jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Just down the block.”
The walk to the car is awkward, neither of us knowing what to say. We get inside and Mitch starts the engine. Just as I’m about to broach the subject of the kiss in the club, he breaks the silence.
“I need to get a few things from my place, so we’re going to swing by there first if it’s okay with you.”
I have to blink a few times to make sense of his random comment. “Sure.”
Mitch nods and continues staring out the front window. He drums on the steering wheel, his rigid body language screaming discomfort like a blinking neon sign. I jam my hand in my pocket, grasping my stone.
We pull into the garage at Mitch’s townhouse. With the engine off, the silence becomes a thousand times more uncomfortable than it was during the drive. My solution to break the tension would be to fist the front of Mitch’s shirt and yank him over the console so I can attack his mouth.
The slamming of a car door gets me moving. Apparently, Mitch’s solution is to go inside the house. I follow Mitch up the stairs to his kitchen and run smack into his delectable backside when he stops short on the top step.
I wobble, nearly tumbling backwards down the flight of stairs. Scrabbling, I reach out and grab onto Mitch’s firm bicep to break my fall. He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me forward, holding me up so I don’t go tumbling down ass first.
“What the hell?” I ask, holding a hand over my heart, which is hammering in my chest from my near accident.
“Shhhhh,” Mitch looks over his shoulder and shakes his head. He mouths the words, ‘break-in’.
My hand tightens around him and a spike of fear stabs at my throat. Is the burglar still here? Are we in danger? Mitch lets go of me to bend down and hike up one leg of his way-too-tight jeans. He produces a small handgun from a battered combat boot.
“Christ, Mitch,” I whisper, still clinging to his arm like a pathetic damsel in distress. But damn that was hot. Danger or not, a man with weapons hidden on his body is a total turn on.
“Shhhhh,” he repeats.
Mitch steps into the kitchen, making no move to shake off my hand. In fact, when he pulls forward, my hand slides down his arm into his palm where he wraps his fingers around it. If my heart beats any faster I’m going to drop dead.
I’m standing in the middle of a terrifying break-in, and I’m getting giddy because a hot guy is holding my hand. There are not enough drinks in the world to deal with this.
When I step out of the stairwell and glance around, I’m astonished. Mitch’s kitchen has been trashed. Every cabinet is open, dishes broken and the pieces littering the countertops and floor.
“Shuffle your feet,” he whispers. “So the glass doesn’t crunch.”
I squeeze his hand so he knows I understand. Carefully, we make our way to the living room. The damage is similar. The television is smashed, the couch cushions sliced open and scattered. A quick sweep of the upstairs brings similar results. Everything is ruined, with no sign of the suspect.
“Fuck!” Mitch shouts once he deems the house clear. “Fuck!” He lets go of my hand, sheaths his gun, and kicks his mattress, which is lying on its side with the stuffing pulled out.
I can’t form any words. This is too much to take in. It’s scary as hell and Mitch’s violent fury is equally intimidating.
