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Fox snagging my phone from my hand, taking advantage of my closed eyes.
And reading my unlocked screen.
Or the lack of messages on my unlocked screen.
“Wow.”
My eyes had already snapped open at the loss of my cell, seeing the smirk on Fox’s face. But I really didn’t need this.
Not right then.
It was late.
We’d lost three in a row.
My hip hurt like a motherfucker.
And Fox, sitting across from me, expression snarky and all-knowing, sent a surge of adrenaline through me.
My fist would look excellent slamming into his face.
Would be excellent at wiping that dumbass smirk off his face.
I sucked in a breath. Fought for control.
We were on a bus.
There wasn’t a lot of personal space.
I was one of the older guys, had been around long enough that I got one of the double seats toward the back—slightly more space, slightly more privacy (minus Fox’s intrusion).
But there were unwritten rules.
Don’t be too loud.
Don’t be too much of an asshole (here, again, I narrowed my eyes in Fox’s direction).
Don’t start fistfights when we had several more hours to go.
I released the breath I’d taken in, letting it out between my teeth, and extended my hand, “Give me my cell.”
“You sure about that?” Fox said, holding it up, displaying the blank screen.
With Billie’s name across the top.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I gritted my teeth. Most of the guys were lost in their phones, listening to music or podcasts or catching up on TV shows. But with the scene Fox seemed to be determined to make, that was sure to end.
“Yes,” I muttered, twitching my fingers.
“Yousure?”he repeated—or sort of repeated, anyway.
My answer was still the same.“Yes.”
“I mean,” he said, still not handing me the damned phone, “I’d ask again, because clearly you’re striking out, but worse, this blank screen means you haven’t even stepped up to the plate.”
I hadn’t.
