4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Phoenix
Marcus is not getting Willow alone.
That’s it. I’m not dressing it up as concern because I’m a lot of things, but not stupid enough to lie to myself.
I know men.
I am one, which means I know exactly what Marcus and his soft little “you okay?” actually wants.
I am familiar with the play.
His body angled close enough to look protective without looking hungry and his voice dropped low enough that she has to lean in to hear it. His smile doing its best impression of harmless.
He wants her outside. Away from the noise, the band, and away from fucking me.
Fuck that.
The second I watched Marcus angle his body towards Willow, something in my chest went mean and ugly so fast it didn’t bother asking permission.
I crossed the room before I could talk myself into pretending I’m better than this. I’m not better than this. But I am still arrogant enough to put my arm around Willow as if I have any right to touch her.
As if she were mine.
But she isn’t. Not technically. Not in any way that would hold up under daylight, sober questions, or the glare she gives me when she knows I’m full of shit.
But she is mine in the fucked-up way that doesn’t have a clean word. In the way that lives in the back of my chest like a bruise I keep pressing just to check it still hurts. In the way her songs sit in my mouth every night.
I put my arm around her because I’m an asshole and Marcus is standing too fucking close. Because Willow is looking at him like he might be an exit and I have never been good at letting her walk toward doors that do not lead back to me.
She lifts my arm off her the way you move something that has become inconvenient.
“Don’t,” she says.
One word and it lands sharp enough to make my jaw lock.
“She’s busy,” I tell Marcus.
It’s simple. Possessive. A dick move wrapped in two words.
Translation: Marcus, fuck right off and find somewhere else to put your cock, because it is not going anywhere near Willow Hart tonight.
She turns back to him and something hot and vicious claws under my ribs.
She thinks lifting my arm off her means she won. Thinks one quiet “don't" is enough to make me tuck my tail, take the hint, and crawl back to the brunette still waiting on the couch with lipstick on her mouth and my name probably wet behind her teeth.
Cute. Eleven years and Willow Hart still doesn’t know what kind of dick she is dealing with.
A better man would step back. A decent man would respect the line. And a man with morals would let her walk into that hallway with Marcus and his soft voice and his noble, paltry offer of air.
It’s a shame, I have never been one of those things.
Her “don’t” doesn’t make me fold. It makes me mean. It makes me glare at Marcus and smile, with every bad thing in me showing its teeth.
“I could go for air,” she says.
For a second, the whole green room narrows. The music. The laughter. The women. Cruz at the bar. Jax running his mouth. Jett doing whatever the fuck Jet does. Damon counting money through his teeth.
All of it fades away until all I see is Willow looking at another man as if I have not made myself crystal fucking clear.
As if Marcus and his steady hands get to stand there and offer her air while I am standing right here with every ugly part of me awake and ready to bite.
“Go get your air somewhere else,” I tell him.
Willow turns her head slowly. “Phoenix.”
I keep my eyes on Marcus. “Now.”
Marcus straightens, and for one hilarious second, the fucker looks as if he might say something.
Good. I almost want him to.
I want him to give me one clean excuse to let my hands do what they are itching to do. I want him to square his shoulders, lift his chin, play decent man defending the pretty songwriter, because then I can stop pretending this is a conversation and introduce his face to my fist.
Preferably hard enough that he forgets every hallway he ever planned to take her into.
He glances at Willow. “Maybe another time.”
“No,” I say, my voice coming out low and mean. “Not another fucking time. Not tomorrow or later. Not when I’m drunk, distracted, or balls-deep in someone else. You want air, Marcus? Breathe somewhere that isn’t fucking near her.”
Willow’s whole body goes still as Marcus eyes me before turning and leaving.
I don’t watch him go because I don’t give a fuck where he goes. Down the hall. Into traffic. Straight into a wall. Not my fucking problem.
The only part that matters is that he is moving away from her.
Willow watches him for one second before she turns on me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I lift one shoulder. “Long list, Wills.”
“I'm serious, Phoenix.”
Her voice cuts sharp. Her green eyes flash and her cheeks carry the slightest hint of color, the kind that tells me I have shoved my hand straight into the wire and made it spark.
I have been doing that to her since we were kids.
Poking. Pushing. Saying shit I shouldn’t say just to watch her stop pretending she doesn’t feel anything.
Angry Willow is a dangerous thing. Fucking beautiful, too.
Willow’s beauty hits different because she never offers it. She just stands there with those brown eyes cutting into me, honey-brown hair falling around her face, cheeks flushed from fury, and somehow looks more untouchable than every woman in this room trying to be touched.
I hate how beautiful she is when she is mad. Detest how it gets under my skin and makes every other girl in the room appear temporary. Disposable. Easy to forget.
Willow looks at me as if she would rather stab me than kiss me, and the sickest part is, both options sound rather amusing.
“Then stop asking easy questions,” I say.
Her eyes burn harder. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Pretty sure I just did.”
“You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”
“I didn’t.”
“You told him to leave.”
“Because he was done talking.”
“No, Phoenix. You decided he was fucking done.”
“Some men need help knowing when they are finished. I protected you from making a stupid choice, Willow.”
Her laugh cuts hard. “Protected me?”
“Yeah.”
“From Marcus?” She folds her arms across her chest and tips her head, looking me up and down as if the stupidest thing in this room is wearing my face. “The man asked if I wanted air, Phoenix. He didn’t drag me into a van.”
My jaw ticks. “From men.”
“From men,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“You mean men like you?”
I smile. It’s slow and filthy. All teeth and bad intentions, because if she wants to call me the problem, I might as well act the part.
“Baby, there are no men like me.”
The second the words leave my mouth, her eyes sharpen.
Baby. Fuck, I didn’t mean to call her that.
I call other women whose names I can forget before morning baby. Women who crawl into my lap and regard me as if my cock comes with a halo.
Those easy fucks who have no idea of where I came from, what I sound like when I’m not performing, or how many ugly pieces of myself I have hidden inside Willow’s songs.
But I don’t call Willow “baby”.
The room seems to catch it at the same time I do. The laughter thins.
The music keeps thumping from the corner, but everything else goes still around it.
Jax stops with a pretzel halfway to his mouth.
Cruz’s grin fades just enough to prove he heard it.
Jett looks over from the drinks table, quiet as always, eyes too sharp for my comfort.
Even the brunette on the couch stops pretending not to watch.
Willow doesn’t move. She just stares at me with those furious eyes, and for once, I have no fucking clue whether she wants to slap me.
“Don’t you fucking call me that,” she says. Her voice is low, but it cuts clean.
Willow knows exactly what that word is. She has been around long enough to hear me throw it at women with lip gloss on their mouths, hands in my hair, and no interest in the parts of me that do not come with a stage light.
Baby is easy and disposable.
I lean closer. “What should I call you then?”
She stares me down.
Fuck, she is beautiful when she hates me.
“Marcus wanted one thing,” I say.
Willow stares at me. “That’s fucking hilarious coming from you.”
“He did.”
“Of course he did. Men always want one thing, don’t they?” says Willow.
“Yes.”
“And you would know.”
“I would,” I tell her.
Her eyes sweep over me and I let her look.
“So you can have women touching you in front of everyone,” she says. “But I can’t talk to Marcus?”
“You can talk to whoever you want.”
“Clearly.”
“You just can’t be stupid about it.”
“Stupid,” she says.
“Don’t twist it.”
“No, say it.” Her chin lifts. “You think I’m stupid because I almost said yes to getting air with someone who looked at me without his ego getting in the fucking way.”
I recover with a smirk because there is always one more mask if you dig deep enough.
“You think Marcus looked at you because he wanted air?” I step in closer—close enough that she has to tip her head back to keep her eyes on mine. I should back up and let her have the space I just accused another man of wanting.
I don’t.
“He wanted you outside,” I say, my voice dropping. “He wanted you looking at him with those big brown eyes while he pretended to be decent long enough to get close.”
I lean in another inch, mean enough to say it and stupid enough to want her to react.
“He wanted to know what your mouth tastes like when you’re not using it to tear men apart. He was curious about how beautiful you sound when you fucking come. That’s the whole trick, Wills. Soft voice. Safe hands. Gentleman bullshit wrapped around a hard cock and a bad idea.”
“Phoenix.”
“He wasn’t thinking about air,” I continue. “He was thinking about your mouth. Your legs. And your pussy.”
Her eyes flash.
I smile because I’m already bleeding somewhere ugly, so I might as well cut deeper. “Don’t act shocked, Wills. Marcus is still a man. He wanted to fuck you. He just had the sense to dress it up prettier than I would have.”
Her hand cracks across my face before the last word has finished burning between us. It’s hard, sharp, and fucking perfect.
No one says a word.