Chapter 2 Jamie
JAMIE
Dude – Your dog is an asshole.
Tell me something I don’t know.
—Text from Ryker to Jamie
Ashton Carmichael storms past me into the small hotel room like I’ve personally caused her shit day, instead of being the reason she’s not spending an even shittier night passed out on a hard airport chair with some dick drooling next to her, debating whether he can get away with touching her tits.
Because there’s no man alive who’s into women who’s not looking at her perfect tits, straining against the little white sweater wrapped around her and tied in a perfect bow at her waist, like a sexy birthday present waiting to be unwrapped.
One that might bite you if you get too close.
She’s small, but she’s vicious.
Always has been.
Juggling two bottles of champagne and what looks like a box of candy I think she may have just grabbed from the trash, I watch as she toes off flat black shoes and stretches her feet.
What the fuck? Did this woman even bother to look at the damn weather before she got dressed today?
There’s no coat in sight, just her thin sweater and skinny jeans cuffed at her ankles, making this already tiny woman look even shorter.
She doesn’t even have on socks. Just red polished toes shining brightly in stark contrast to her pale skin.
A matching red flush creeps up her neck and over her cheeks as she looks around the room, muttering something under her breath that I strain to hear.
“Can’t fucking believe this. Like this day didn’t suck already, I’m stuck spending the night . . . with him.”
Oh yeah . . . she’s pissed, and it’s cute as hell.
What’s the name of that animal—the one that looks like it should be in a petting zoo, but really it could eviscerate you before you get close enough to touch it?
I blow out a breath, trying not to laugh, and she spins on me, long strands of rich, chocolate-brown hair whipping against her face as her eyes narrow.
A honey badger . . .
Yeah, that’s the vicious little killer.
I’m pretty sure if I told her that right now, she’d rip my sac off and feed it to me. Slowly.
Maybe if I didn’t know her as well as I do, that would sound kinda hot.
Instead, my balls shrivel up and crawl back inside my body where they’re safe.
She looks around, her eyes narrowing with each pass of the small room, like if she glares hard enough, maybe it’ll grow. Fuck. Nothing’s growing with that look plastered on her face. “It’s not that bad, Ace.”
I mean, come on. It’s just one night. It’ll do.
Big windows overlooking the city.
Soft lighting.
A couch that would look better with Ashton bent over it, that perfect ass in the air, and my handprint bright red and glowing on one cheek. Yeah . . . now that’s a pretty picture. Or maybe it would be if she didn’t look like she was ready to eviscerate me.
Total honey badger energy.
“One. Bed . . .” she seethes.
Maybe I shouldn’t grin, but I’ve never had much sense of self-preservation.
Pissing off this woman is just too much fun to stop now.
I drop our bags to the floor with a flourish. “Don’t look so murdery. It’s just one night.”
“Murdery?” Her fists clench at her sides.
“What? It’s a word,” I shrug out of my coat, enjoying the way her eyes catch on my chest and choose to ignore the fact she’s probably plotting my death and looking for the best place to stab me as I toss the coat to the couch.
The one this woman will abso-fucking-lutely not be bent over later tonight.
Pain in the ass or not, we have a history.
One that’s complicated. She’s also my younger brother’s best friend.
I’m bigger and stronger, but he’s got a mean streak a mile wide and access to prescription drugs and a scalpel.
I try not to piss him off, especially not now that he’s living in my house.
I guess my sense of self-preservation kicks in occasionally.
Ashton turns slowly. Her brown eyes, flecked with gold the color of warm honey, flick back to the bed like it’s covered in snakes. And. She. Hates. Snakes. “You failed to mention it only had one bed.”
I hum low in my throat, getting tired of her shit attitude.
“Well, let me get right to apologizing, your royal highness. I wasn’t exactly worrying about how many beds the room I managed to get for myself had when I was flirting with an eighty-five-year-old airport worker with blue fucking hair, just to get the damn room.
But hey—guess what . . . There’s only one bed. Consider yourself told.”
I watch the rise and fall of her chest as her fury grows until I’m expecting steam to blow out of her ears. “Tell me you’re sleeping on the floor.”
I glance down at the carpet with a wicked grin. Plush, but I’m not taking a black light to it, all the same. “Tell me you’ve lost your damn mind.”
Pretty sure she’s contemplating throwing one of those magnums of champagne at my head. Not that I’m worried. I’ve got great reflexes. “I’m not sharing a bed with you, Murphy.”
“Relax,” I lick my lips and consider telling her she can sleep on the couch if she wants before I think better of it. “It’s a queen. Your feet aren’t the ones that’ll be hanging off the thing all night. But hey, we could build a pillow wall between us. Very mature. Very platonic. Very 80s sitcom.”
Oh shit.
That’s not a good look.
“Relax . . .” Her pink cheeks turn a violent shade of red as her eyes take on a wild flash.
Fuck, Mom always said don’t tell a pissed-off woman to relax unless you want to see her go nuclear.
Oops. “Relaxed took a back seat when I got the call that my mother, saint that she is, was in yet another car accident.”
She rips open the chocolates and throws one in her mouth.
“This time with enough drugs in her system and in her car to not only get another DUI—something I hadn’t realized you could get when your license was already suspended,” she tells me over a mouthful of chocolate she hasn’t bothered to chew yet.
“But also to be charged with possession with intent to distribute. Relaxed leaped off the fucking cliff before I even got to the airport and died somewhere between delayed and canceled.”
Ashton drops the chocolate and one of the bottles to the couch and holds the other bottle between her knees as she tries to pop the cork.
It doesn’t budge.
I could offer to help, but I’m not positive she wouldn’t just try to hit me over the head with it, and besides, this is actually entertaining. Watching her tits nearly topple out of her sweater as she tries to force the cork out is basically soft-core porn.
Okay, so maybe that was a little too asshole-y.
Feeling guilty, I take a step forward until her head snaps up, looking seriously possessed.
That chick from The Exorcist has nothing on Ashton Carmichael.
“I don’t think relaxed is going to be in my emotional bank for the next few days .
. .” The cork finally comes loose with a pop, and she watches triumphantly as the champagne sprays all over the curtain before taking a long pull right from the bottle. “Or maybe ever again.”
“Fair enough,” I offer gently, like I’m trying to calm a skittish animal.
Are honey badgers skittish?
“Fair enough . . .” Ashton mocks, her voice rising as she drops down onto the couch.
Wild golden eyes fill with unshed tears.
And that’s when I see it—not the fire or the frustration but the exhaustion hiding underneath.
The kind that sinks into your bones after a day that won’t stop kicking your ass while you’re already down. “You think?”
Something in my chest tightens, and I dial back the shit I’m giving her.
Ashton’s family has been fucked up for years. But I always thought the rumors about her mom were just rumors. Finn has never mentioned anything.
She brings her legs up to her chest, crossing her feet at the ankles, and rests her face on her knee as she turns toward the window, staring out at the city buried under a blanket of white. Peaceful and quiet, like the storm didn’t just screw over an airport full of people.
“You want to know the worst part?” she whispers, not bothering to tear her eyes away from the city below.
“I wasn’t even surprised.” Her voice cracks, and so does the armor she’s hiding behind.
“When the lawyer called . . . There wasn’t even a moment when I didn’t believe it.
I wasn’t surprised it happened. Just surprised it took so long for her to get caught. Again.”
“I—that . . . Shit, Ace. I don’t even know what to say,” I admit and watch as she lifts the magnum back to her lips.
“Wow. That’s a first.” Her shoulders shake with silent, sarcastic laughter as her eyes find mine.
“What is?” I ask gently as I take the seat at the other end of the couch. Far enough away that we’re not touching but next to her, offering what little bit of support I can as I reach for the bottle.
It’s not enough, but it’s better than nothing, and more than she’d typically let me give her.
“You . . . not saying anything,” Ashton answers and lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow.
When I don’t put my hand down, she relents and hands me a bottle. The unopened one, looking even more pissed when I uncork the thing with practiced ease and take a pull of truly shitty champagne.
What the fuck? This stuff’s awful.
I guess misery loves company because a small smile tugs at her lips as she rips back into the box of candy.
Pressing the tip of her finger into the bottom of a chocolate, Ashton checks to see what flavor is hiding inside.
Whatever she finds must pass inspection because she pops it into her mouth and moans.
Fuck me if that sound doesn’t go straight to my dick.
I watch as this beautiful trainwreck washes the chocolate down with champagne from the other bottle, then cradles it to her chest like a lifeline or a baby, not sure which.
And man, I don’t like this. Feisty Ashton is fun as hell to torment.
But this version of her has me wanting to just fix it all so she doesn’t have to cry.
Damn, I hate seeing a woman cry.
Especially this one.
I’ve seen enough of that to last me ten lifetimes.
“You gonna be okay, Ace?”
A sharp, humorless laugh falls flat as she twists her hair into a bun like she’s done it a thousand times. She tilts her head and stares at me, daring me to argue with her. “Define okay.”
“Good point.” I nod and stretch my legs out, kicking off my boots as I get comfortable. “Wanna get drunk?”
Silence settles between us in the time it takes for Ashton to consider my words. They’re a truce. An offering of a momentary reprieve from whatever shit we’ve built up between us over the past thirteen years. For tonight, we don’t have to acknowledge that mountain.
Ashton’s eyes linger on the bottles of champagne. “Do you think two bottles will do it?”
“Not a chance,” I laugh. “But I’ve got a credit card, and they have room service.”
A moment passes, then another before her shoulders drop, and she lifts her bottle up. “What the hell . . . To delayed flights.”
I do the same and tap mine against hers. “To delayed flights.”