Page 2 of Hot Lap
I don't, and I don't care to.
"Thanks for coming."
Shit. Bad word choice. I know it the minute his smile widens.
He leans closer. "I'd love to come again. How about a private encore?"
"Sorry. No. We don't do private shows." I step back, meeting Eddie's watchful gaze across the bar.
Mr. Entitled isn't having it. He grabs my wrist and yanks me toward him. "Don't be like that, sweetie. I can make it worth your while."
My pulse hammers where his fingers dig into my skin.
"Please let go of me." He gets one nice warning. If I have to ask again, I'm gonna smack the mouth off this idiot's face.
"I'm not finished?—"
Another hand grips Douche Bag's wrist with such force that his fingers spring open. I stumble back a step and look up to find those same green eyes that had watched me from the audience.
"She said no."
Dickle's face contorts. "What the fuck, Reece?"
"Touch her again and you'll bloody well find out exactly what the fuck." His voice drops to the kind of quiet that makes people pay attention, then back away. Nothing in his expression changes, but something dangerous flickers behind those intense eyes. He strikes me as a man who doesn’t fear taking a hit.
The sullen guy — The brother? — materializes at ass-wipe's elbow. "Junior, mate, pack it in. No one’s got time for this shit." He seems equal parts annoyed and bored, like this is a regular occurrence. "Let's get another drink and blow some money on blackjack."
Eddie materializes beside us, all six-foot-four of tattooed bouncer. "Problem here?"
"No problem," says my defender, still holding Douche Bag’s wrist. "Myfriendis just leaving."
Asshole wrenches free, face flushed. "You've lost your fucking mind, Reece. Graham's not gonna like this."
"I don't give a damn what Graham likes." Reece turns to the third guy. "Get him back to the hotel, Wyn."
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t worry about me, little brother.”
Muttering in a way that means he’s pissed to be the babysitter, Wyn drags Junior What’s-His-Nuts away. Eddie dogs their asses right to the door.
Meanwhile, Reece turns to me, concern replacing the hardness in his expression. "Did he hurt you?"
His voice is different now, gentle, and a British accent registers with my brain.Fuuuck.Up close, he's even more striking — emerald eyes under dark brows, perfectly straight nose, lips that look like they know exactly what to do with a woman’s body. He’s a poster boy for the idealized male lifestyle.
"No. I'm fine." I rub my wrist. I’m gonna bruise for sure.Great."But I think you just made an enemy."
A smile ghosts across his face. "Don’t worry aboutthatguy." He extends his hand. "Reece Pritchard."
"Maiken Lange." I clasp his hand, and there it is — a spark of attraction.
Shit-shit-shit.
This is something I don’t need. Attraction equals distraction, and that’s a road this ho don’t wanna hoe again. Been there, done that too many times, and it never ended well.
"Sorry about Junior. He's..." Reece pulls a face and shrugs like he doesn’t have a nice way of finishing that sentence.
So I do. "An entitled jackass?"
