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“Right,” I sa
y, nodding to Eric.
We roll out, with me clearing a path and Eric protecting Kara. I put on my best Fuck with me and see where it gets you grimace, and when people don’t fucking move fast enough, I pick them up and chuck them out of our way.
“We’ve got another problem,” Eric says as we help Kara into the limo waiting for us.
I follow his gaze and look over the photographers, where—fucking hell—a large group of horny-looking women seems to be congregating, pushing their way past the press and prowling towards us like a bunch of hungry, half-starved lionesses.
I know it the second Eric points it out.
Protein fucking Plus.
Worst fucking idea we’ve ever had.
Eric slips into the limo after Kara, and I’m just about to follow suit when one particularly ugly, fat little Ron Jeremy-looking son of a bitch has the gall to push forward and shove his camera beneath my arm into Kara’s face.
“Kara, are you going to get fat again once Miss Sexy Universe is over?” he shouts at my woman. “Still a fatty on the inside, eh?”
And man, I know I shouldn’t do it.
I know it’s like, wrong or whatever, depending on what set of fucked up morals you happen to subscribe to.
And I know it’s only going to end up scoring me a conversation with my parole officer, with a lawsuit breathing down my neck to boot.
But sometimes in a man’s life, he’s just gotta make a fucking decision.
Does he choose the high road? Make a good example for all the kiddos out there and turn the other cheek?
Or does he take the squirrely fucking douchebag who just insulted his woman by the neck and make him eat the few yellowed, crooked-ass teeth the piece of shit has left in his shit-talking mouth?
“Fucking drive,” I say, getting into the limo and shaking a malformed front tooth out of the place where it’s embedded itself into my knuckle.
“Chase!” Kara gasps. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fucking better than okay,” I tell her—and then, yeah, okay. I fucking go for it.
I grab Kara’s pretty little chin, and I conquer her sweet fuckin’ lips in hard, lingering kiss.
It’s only when I feel something hot and wet on my lips that I realize she’s fucking crying.
“Aw, babe,” I say, looking down at her with concern. “It’s okay—fuck those people, they don’t fucking know you, they don’t know your life.”
“Yellow-bellied bastards,” Eric agrees.
“I don’t fucking care,” Kara sobs. “I’m done. This is over. I fucking quit.”
Kara
The fine china from our room service, the decadent spread of cheese, and the wine and fruit should technically comfort me, but…
They don’t.
I’m wearing a red satin silk robe that brushes smoothly against my skin. I’m lying in an insanely comfortable bed, sitting atop a cloud of fluffy pillows. The sheets are high-end thread count and feel good on the bare parts of my body.
I’m in in our lavish hotel suite in Tokyo. Everything about this hotel and the penthouse suite we’re staying in is covered with luxury, sweeping across the board.
In reality, I should be grateful.
