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“What?”
“You give the rest of the world sweet and kind and caring. You give them patience and understanding. But me? I get the real you. The one that wants to rip my throat out and put me in my place.”
“See! That’s what I’m trying to say! That makes no sense! I am not yours. You don’t even like me!”
“Oh, I like you all right, sweet girl.”
“You like fucking me,” I say, rolling my eyes. I also have to work hard to ignore the flutter in my belly at his boyish, wicked smile. He laughs, that full belly laugh that I love to hear. It’s so rare, but when it happens, it's a full-body melting sensation.
His hand moves to his apartment door and opens it before stepping inside. Then he pops his head out to look at me. “I like doing that, too. But that’s not all I like.” Then he closes the freaking door in my face. I stand there, staring at the door he just closed like an idiot.
The door opens again, and there’s Ben again, standing in the doorway.
“Are you coming?”
“Where?”
“My place.”
“I’m not going to your place.”
“Fine, your place. But you gotta come inside so I can grab some clothes and shit.”
“Why do you need to grab shit?”
“I thought you said you wanted to go to your place.”
“I do.”
“Then that’s where I’m going too, babe.”
“What? No.” His hand reaches out, and he grabs mine before gently tugging, pulling me into his apartment. Before I can wrap my mind around what’s going on, he’s pushing me against the thick wood door of his apartment and pinning me there with his body.
“No way in hell are you spending any time alone for the next few days. I just watched you almost get fuckingkidnapped,Lola. Johnny’s out of the picture, but who the fuck knows what will happen next. That debt is still fucking out there. It doesn't just disappear because a man confessed to a murder of a mob boss. Who knows what your father will do next.”
“My father said he’d handle it.”
“I don’t trust that man as far as I could throw him.” My mind wonders just how far he could throw a man. My eyes wanders to his arms, muscled and thick, and I think that might actually be pretty far. “You’re staying with me or I’m staying with you. End of story.”
“Why?”
“Jesus, babe. We just did this. Know you hit your head, but Vic said there’s no concussion.” I stare at him, not answering. “You’re mine.”
“That makes no sense.”
“How the fuck does it make no sense?” And I don’t know if it’s the drama of the day or adrenaline or pain pills or that I genuinely want to get this conversation over with, but I say it.
“Because . . . you hate me.” His entire body stills.
“What?”
“You don’t even like me,” I say, this time quieter, embarrassed. God, I feel like an idiot. Some needy woman putting it out there in order to keep a man interested.
“Bullshit,” he says, and there it is. That anger in his voice. It’s not there on his face, but it’s in his voice. In his soul, the way it sounds, I’m sure.
“How is that bullshit?”
“If I hate you, what the fuck have we been doing the past few weeks?”
