Page 83 of Burning Ember
“Well, you already know my vote, sweetheart. This place needs ya. Anything I can do to sway ya, you just let me know, yeah?” He pulls me into his side and squeezes his arm around me once then lets go.
“When are the old ladies coming? Um, so I can make myself scarce?” I ask.
Dozer leans back on his stool and pats his stomach. “Around five.”
Someone lets out a high-pitched whistle, like a catcall. Probably Bodie because he follows it up by saying, “Whew’weee, check out Mr. College Boy.”
I lean forward to get a glimpse of what they’re looking at, but I think deep down I already know.
Luce.
He’s exiting his office carrying an oversized briefcase in one hand, and a round cardboard tube under his arm. As I take in this new version of him, the rhythm of my heart wavers and low in my belly a small bird flutters its wings. He no longer looks like a bad-boy biker. If anything, he looks like the devil in red. Enticing and dripping with magnetism.
His crimson button up shirt is ironed to perfection. The color pops next to his tan skin and inky black hair. He’s also wearing black slacks, and expensive-looking shoes. And he’s shaved. Yes . . .shaved!
Maybe he’s trying to cause a massive epidemic of brain and heart failure.
I can’t help but lust and loathe simultaneously after him, although I know I need to find a way to shut off the attraction I feel.
As he gets closer, I see bruises marring his beautiful jaw, and his left eye. And it gives me some kind of sick satisfaction to think I’m not the only one who got abused last night. But the sad fact is, even banged up Mav’s still the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. More so now because his chiseled features are on full display for public consumption.
Closing my gaping mouth, I clench my teeth together then spin around and put my back to him. I need to tamp down my awkward heart palpitations caused by his appearance, and attempt to turn this river of warmth flowing through me into a cold wall I can put between us.
The staring. The attraction. The small bit of hope that I may have found more than a temporary pit stop. That’s all done with now. If I stay, I stay for the money and that’s it.
I pour a glass of juice. Very. Very. Slowly. Hoping he’ll be out of the room by the time I turn around.
No such luck.
I feel warmth at my back. It travels up my spine and the air in my little bubble charges. Heady cologne, both carnal and spicy, invades my senses and my legs feel unstable underneath me. My body starts to sing as his proximity sends bolts of heat and need coiling through me. He clears his throat and it’s as if he’s throwing static because the hairs rise on my arms and stand on end. And it pisses me off that I have absolutely no control over my reaction to him.
None.
I don’t understand it. The red flags and warning signs, telling me to stay clear of him are all there. But I’ll be damned if I can get my body to comply.
“We need to talk,” he breathes against my neck, his accent thicker than ever.
Um . . . no . . . no . . .We definitely do not need to talk. Talking is not staying away. Talking is face to face. In close quarters. Which is something my body and mind can’t handle right now. Not when my emotions are all over the place like this.
“No,” I say under my breath. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Doll?” he sighs. That name sends both irritation and shivers tumbling south.
I keep my head down so I don’t have to meet his gaze in the mirror. The mirror that was shattered sometime in the night.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I tell him.
“Last night—”
“Last night you were drunk.”
“Yeah I was, but. . . .”
“You were drunk and you thought I brought drugs into the clubhouse. Even though Itoldyou I’m not a druggie. And Ipromisednever to break your rules. But I can see how the red hair makes me aliar, anduntrustworthy. So no worries, I completely understand.” I sound like a bitter bitch, venom spewing out of my mouth as if I’m the girl on the exorcist. Just blaaaaah all over the place.
He exhales. “Jesus.” And out of my peripheral vision, I see him lifting his arm, probably to scrub his hand over his head, a habit of his. He’s quiet for a moment. When he reaches forward to touch me, I draw back. But it doesn’t deter him. He moves strands of my hair and lays them behind my shoulder so he can have a clear view of my neck. Then, with his thumb, he moves my chin up and away.
“This.” He strokes his thumb over the edge of the bandage sending an electric current straight to my core. “Won’t happen again.”
