Chapter 8 #2
My mouth opens. “Are you serious? Why would someone want to do that?”
He shrugs, grinning. “Why not? Free drinks, wild parties, and if they’re lucky, maybe they get claimed and become someone’s old lady.”
“That’s insane.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
I look down at my lap, suddenly tired. “I should’ve stayed home. This is too much.”
He tips my chin with two fingers, gentle. “I’m glad you came.” His eyes search mine. “And I know what we can do to make Swag jealous. Is that what you want?”
My heart lurches. I picture it again because that image seared into my brain. Her hands. Her mouth. Swag watching me the whole damn time. Yeah, I kind of do want to make him jealous. But I also know the truth.
I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s going to work.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s not interested in me like that,” I whisper. “He can barely stand me.”
“Oh, Jo-Leigh…” Pretty Boy’s voice is low and coaxing. “You don’t know how wrong you are.” He grins. “So are we going to do this?”
Before I can answer, he adds, “And think long and hard. I can’t say for certain what he’s going to do once he sees us.”
My heart jackhammers against my ribs. “What are we going to do?”
His eyes gleam with wicked intent. “We’re going to have some fun . ”
Something hot coils low in my belly.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His lips brush over mine—light as air, just enough to spark something under my skin.
“I knew you were a badass,” he murmurs.
The words light me up. Give me the courage I didn’t know I needed. I mean, this probably won’t work. But it might. And even if it doesn’t? It’ll still be fun. He pulls away and straightens to his full height, looming over me like a dare in the flesh.
“Lean back on the couch,” he says, voice suddenly firmer. “And spread your legs.”
His tone sends a jolt straight through me. Confident. Commanding. I don’t think. I just do . Because not thinking is the only way I survive this moment without unraveling. He steps between my legs, taking up all the space around me, heat and danger wrapped in a smirk.
“Whatever you do,” he says, lowering his head, “keep your eyes on me. Got it?”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
He grabs the bottle of tequila, uncapping it with his teeth.
My lips part as he spits the cap aside.
I can’t help it. I grin. “Interesting party trick.”
“Learned it when I was fifteen,” Pretty Boy says, lifting the tequila bottle again. “Saw how crazy it made the girls.”
We share a smile that crackles with something dangerous.
He takes two long swigs, then passes the bottle to me. I take a small, cautious sip. His eyes narrow.
“Babe,” he says, voice rough silk, “you’re gonna have to do better than that if you really want to make him jealous.”
He leans in, tapping the tip of my nose.
“He said no tequila, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I think you ought to show him what you think of his demands.” He grins. “But don’t you dare look in his direction. Understand?”
“I understand,” I say, my pulse fluttering at the base of my throat.
I lift the bottle again and take a long drink this time. It burns on the way down, and I grimace but then I do it again.
“I knew you could do it.” Then he steps in front of me and nods toward the couch. “Now lean back and get ready for the show.”
I shift, settling back against the worn leather. Pretty Boy’s eyes darken as he grips the couch behind me, caging me in.
Then he starts to move.
Holy mamma-jamma , I’m pretty sure I’m getting a lap dance.
And not just any lap dance. This is practiced, sinful, deliberate. He leans in, brushing the tip of his nose against my cheek. His scent—tequila, smoke, something hot—wraps around me, and I can’t think.
“Pretty Boy?” I murmur, dazed.
“Yeah, babe?”
“Would it be insulting to ask if you used to be a stripper?”
He grins and nips my earlobe, sending a jolt of heat through me.
“Not insulting at all,” he murmurs. “I used to dance at a club in Dallas called Bangers. The money was good. But bikes? That’s always been the dream. So when I got the chance to come back out here I took it.”
“Is that why they call you Pretty Boy?” I ask, my voice soft.
“Yeah.” His grin is all wicked charm. “Now put your hands on me.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” he says, eyes gleaming. “I can feel the daggers being shot in my back right now. Can you?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, breathless.
And I can. I know Swag is watching this and is pissed.
Pretty Boy leans in again, lips brushing over mine, not quite kissing.
The way he’s dancing keeps my legs spread wide beneath him, and every now and then, something hard presses right where I’m aching.
It’s foreign. But God , it feels good. And I don’t ask him to stop.
One of his hands moves to my hip, gripping me with purpose.
I gasp, and he grins like he knows. Because he does.
My head buzzes from the tequila, and for the first time in my life, I want to be reckless. Maybe it’s the moans echoing around the room. Maybe it’s the scent of weed that clings to the air. Or maybe it’s the fact that Swag said no, and I’m finally saying yes.
Wrapping my arms around Pretty Boy’s neck, I pull him closer.
“I’ve never been kissed,” I admit, voice low. “I’d like to change that.”
Pretty Boy stills. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, dark and focused. “I think we can make that happen.”
My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my chest.
We lean in closer.
His breath is warm against my face.
My eyes flutter shut.
This is it.
I’m about to be kissed.
But then the warmth in front of me vanishes.
I open my eyes?—
—and Swag is standing over me, fury radiating off him like heat off asphalt. He looks like he could kill.
My gaze shifts.
Pretty Boy is on the floor.
Cupping his jaw.
I blink in shock.
A laugh slips out. A small, nervous giggle I can’t contain.
Swag’s arms cross, his voice like a blade. “Something fucking funny?”
Pretty Boy scrambles to his feet, jaw clenched. “What the fuck is your problem, man?”
Swag doesn’t flinch.
“Did you forget who I am?” His voice cuts low and sharp. “Try that again. This time with some respect.”
Pretty Boy glares but mutters through clenched teeth, “Sorry, Prez.”
Swag turns to me, eyes like wildfire. “Get your ass up. Now.”
People are watching. Conversations falter. The entire vibe of the room shifts as attention narrows on us.
And even though I’m not sure what’s happening?—
Even though none of this makes sense?—
The look in Swag’s eyes has me standing before I can even think twice.
“Fix your fucking dress,” Swag snaps. “Unless you want the entire club to get a good look at your pink panties.”
Humiliation hits me like a gut punch.
I tug the hem of my skirt down, cheeks burning. It’s not that bad—not like he’s making it sound—but with the way he’s glaring? I’m not about to argue.
“Come on.”
He leads me across the club, and people part like they know better than to be in his path.
I still don’t know what I did to make him this mad. Then I realize where we’re going. The front door. I stop in my tracks.
“I don’t want to leave.”
Swag turns, jaw tight. “And I didn’t want to cut my night short to take a drunk chick home, but here we are.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You better hope you are,” he growls, “because otherwise you don’t have a damn excuse for letting that fucker rub on you like a dog in heat.”
My stomach knots.
“Is he the dog,” I ask quietly, “or am I?”
His jaw tics. “Does it matter?”
“Maybe.” My voice wobbles. “I don’t know.”
I sway on my feet, suddenly unsteady. The tequila’s catching up with me fast.
“I don’t feel so good,” I murmur. “Is there a bathroom?”
“Fucking hell.”
Then I’m weightless. Swag scoops me into his arms like I weigh nothing, carrying me away from the pounding bass and drunken laughter. The noise of the party fades behind us. I close my eyes. Not just because the spinning’s making me nauseous. But because I don’t want to cry in front of him.
Not again.
“Can you stand?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I can. Swag lowers me to the ground, and I immediately reach out to steady myself as the room sways like a boat in a storm. He doesn’t let me fall. His hands are there, grounding me.
When the spinning eases, I blink and realize we’re in a bedroom. A very masculine, very messy bedroom. Dark walls. Rumpled sheets. Boots on the floor. Another wave of dizziness hits, stronger this time.
“I think I need to lie down,” I whisper. “Or I’m gonna be sick.”
He sighs like I’m the biggest inconvenience in the world but still helps me over to the bed. His bed, I think. Or maybe not. What if this is hers ?
The thought makes my stomach turn for a different reason.
But then I sink into the mattress, and my cheek hits a pillow that smells like him. Not cologne. Not detergent. Just Swag. And somehow, that calms me.
I breathe him in.
Out loud, without meaning to, I murmur, “Good thing you didn’t bring me to that ho’s room. I would’ve been so mad.”
He chuckles.
Close.
Warm.
“And why would you have been mad, little bee?” he asks, voice thick with amusement. “Were you jealous of what you saw?”
“Something like that,” I mumble, lips brushing the pillowcase.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says after a beat. “I was jealous too.”
I frown. “Of what?”
Silence stretches, too long, too heavy. I snort into the pillow.
“Forget I asked.” Then, I sigh. “I don’t know what I did.”
“Did?” he echoes.
“To make you not like me.”
Something soft settles over me. A blanket. Warm. Heavy. Comforting. I curl into it.
“You’re so nice to everyone else,” I mumble as the weight of sleep pulls me under. “But not to me.”
He’s quiet. And then?—
A breath across my neck. Low and rough, just for me.
“Believe me, bee,” he says. “ Nice is the last thing I want to be where you’re concerned.”