Page 11 of Kings of Sherwood

I don’t know much about love, but I know her. Want her. Can’t think about almost anything else almost any hour of the day. My blood still boils thinking about how these fuckers lied to her, and the only reason I don’t haul off and rip them to shreds is that she’s forgiven them, and what she wants, I want.

And she wants to be here, for some goddamned reason.

So I sip my whiskey and watch her.

She’s with Tuck, beaming, throwing that hair of hers around as she shimmies and shakes on what passes for a dance floor in the middle of this place and looking absolutely fucking delicious. The outfit she found doesn’t help me either, with jeans that hugthe curves of her ass and some kind of halter top thing that’s skimming a deep, tight V down her front—lots of skin on display. Too much for public, if you ask me. But she didn’t ask. And I may be a grumpy son of a bitch, but even I know better than to criticize a woman’s outfit.

As I watch, Tuck leans in, says something that’s probably all flirty, and she laughs, still moving to whatever pickups-and-guns song is pumping through the air. She’s having fun, I realize with a pang, the kind of fun that a beautiful girl like hershouldbe having. In a normal life. In a life where we weren’t complicating every fucking thing.

“You know what’s difficult, fellas?” comes a drawl from my right. Because no one knows whennotto talk like Robin fucking Locksley.

“Mm.” I sip my whiskey again, letting it burn down my throat as I keep my eyes locked on her.

“What’s difficult?” Scarlet says. Because no one encourages Rob like that silver-haired idiot. He leans in, resting a foot on the bottom of my barstool.

I stare at him. “You forget your socks there?

He looks at me like I spit in his martini. “Socks with boat shoes? Please.”

“Are weona fuckin’ boat?”

“I’ll tell you what’s difficult,” Rob interjects, leaning in from my right, probably to shut the two of us up. He points to the dance floor with his beer. “And that’s deciding which part about her is the prettiest.”

We all look at her.

“Legs,” Will says. “Not that hard.”

Rob squints, sips his beer. “Really, you think?”

I grit my teeth. “We are not doing this.”

“Because I’m a fan, sure, but if you ask me, nothing compares to the curves on that—”

“Jesus Christ.” I exhale hard. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“Not an ass man, I take it?” Scarlet quips.

“Fuck you,” I tell him.

I’m notnotan ass man. Not like it’s any of his fucking business, but sure. Shit, I’m aneverythingman as long as it’s Maren’s. There’s not an inch of her body that I don’t want to absolutely wreck. Especially the three-inch gap of pale skin between her shirt and her jeans that’s begging for my finger marks.

I gulp the rest of my glass.

“I thought we were here from some kind of reconnaissance,” I say, lowering my voice so I’m barely audible over the thumping music. “Not...this shit.”

“I hate to argue,” Scarlet says—

“Liar,” Rob interrupts. “Youloveto argue.”

“—but I believe we’re here to show our girl a good time,” Scarlet finishes. “Primarily, anyway.”

“Hear, hear,” Rob says, lifting his beer. “Besides, mon frère,” he adds, to me, “there’s no denying that we are, shall we say,bondedin a way few men are. I say we embrace it.”

I can’t believe these idiots. “What, like comparing fuckin’ notes?”

“Comparingfuckingnotes, more like—ow!” Scarlet yelps as my boot heel makes contact with his stupid boat shoe. He rubs his foot with a scowl, but doesn’t hit back. “Hey, okay. Take it easy, big guy. We’re all on the same team, remember?”

“Agreed. Although,” Rob says, “if youdowant to compare, I’ve got a little insight on where she likes to be—”

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