His face is a fractured mess of swollenness, blood-tinged saliva swinging from his bottom lip before he sloshes it to the floor in a pissed-off hurl. Before I can blink, his demeanor changes. As though unaffected by the damage, he buffers out a malevolent laugh, something akin to hysteria sparking in his eyes as he catches me staring. Glare darkening with revenge, he sends me a smirk, his teeth curling over his cracked lip before he spits in my direction.
My stomach knots, needles pricking their lethal sting along my suddenly frigid skin.
The bouncer—who’d have most NFL linebackers huddled in fear—swings a beefy arm over the man’s shoulder and, with waning patience, escorts him out of the bar. I sigh in relief, my nerves settling some. The crowd thins and scatters, leaving me an open view of Ryder, who’s perched on a stool. Though he’s talking to Lee and Madeline, his blue eyes are zeroed in on mine, their lost, lonely gaze causing my heart to pang in response as I try to take a breath.
No, no, no, I furiously chant to myself. I tilt my head back and look into Brock’s eyes, guilt sinking its fangs into my gut. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“What are you talking about?” He lifts his hand to wipe the blood off his lip.
I grab his wrist, halting the motion. He stares at me, confusion thick in his mossy irises. I press onto my tiptoes and brush my lips against his, my tongue collecting his blood in a deep kiss. Salty copper—like a penny rescued from the warm waters of the ocean, the viscous taste lingers in my mouth, further fueling my guilt. I kiss him harder, feeling nauseated for what I did, for what I caused, for what . . . I’m doing.
Brock takes my face between his hands, his eyes searching mine. “What’s bothering that head of yours?”
“You fought him for me. You’re hurt because I told you to do it.” I touch my lips to his, every cell aware that I’m unworthy of his love, his trust. “If I would’ve just kept my mouth shut, this wouldn’t have happened.”
He pulls me closer, the fusion of his sweat and aftershave rushing up my nostrils. “You honestly think I wasn’t gonna take him out if you didn’t say something?” I attempt to respond, but his finger covers my lips, silencing me. “Wrong, baby girl. He was already on his way down, but after he said that shit to you, he wasn’t walking out of this motherfucking place without experiencing what six days a week of hard-core training could do to his face.”
He kisses me, and I close my eyes, wrapping my arms around his neck. I feel a smirk curl his lips as he slides them to my ear and whispers, “You made me hard when you poured that drink over his head. You’re aware of this, right?”
A soft laugh tumbles from my mouth as I kiss his nose. “No. But I can’t say I’m shocked.”
“Well, you did, and I’m fucking positive I have blue balls because of it.” He grabs his crotch, his smirk stretching into a wide smile. “Yup. Blue as berries.”
“Such a naughty, naughty boy.” I slip my fingers through his sweaty hair. “Very naughty.”
He nips my lip. “Well, since you’re feeling shitty about what happened, this naughty boy’s willing to accept your apology in the form of you fixing my . . . problem in whatever way you deem necessary. Fair?”
“Fair,” I purr. Brock’s well aware of my sexual dependency issue, and he uses it to both of our advantages, fucking the numbness right out of my mind as he fucks his own social-pressured thoughts and family bullshit right out of his body.
“You two gonna do the dirty right here?” Madeline dangles a shot of tequila in my face. She digs a palm into her waist, her fiery red strands of hair falling over her shoulder as she tilts her head. “Or can you wait until after we’re finished partying?”
“That’s a tough one.” Brock swipes the shot from her and tosses it down his throat. “Actually, it’s worse than tough. It’s like asking a kid not to peek at his Christmas presents.”
“That shot was for Amber.” Madeline frowns, snatching the glass from him. “You best plan on refilling her, Cunningham.”
“Yeah.” I lift my chin in playful defiance. “You better refill me.”
Brock’s hand swallows mine, and he leads me toward the bar. “Ah, you have no idea how many times I’m filling you after we bounce outta here.”
“Sounds hostile,” Ryder deadpans, twirling an empty bottle of Sam Adams on the bar. He cranks back a shot of whatever’s in front of him, the dimple on his cheek deepening as he studies me. “Just make sure you don’t hurt her while you’re at it. That is, unless she’s into pain. Then, by all means, light it the fuck up.”
I narrow my eyes at Ryder, and mirth flashes in his as he twirls his stupid bottle. He loves dissecting the mechanics of my brain.
Ugh! I’m about to take that bottle and show him the copious number of ways I’d use it to inflict pain. On his ass in particular.
“Still,” Ryder continues, swinging his attention to Brock, “you might piss off Amy. You know how she gets, bro. That’s one jealous gal. The worst you’ve ever dealt with, and you’ve dealt with your share of them. She wants all of you to herself. Definitely not the sharing type.”
I glance at Brock, my heart pulling. “Who’s Amy?”
“She’s . . .” Hesitation smothers his face. “Well, she’s kind of . . .”
My heart pulls again, the viciousness in it making it difficult to breathe.
“He’s never told you about Amy?” Shock tinges Lee’s voice. “Wow. Not cool, dude.”