Page 58 of Keeper
“If you two can manage to peel yourselves off of each other”—Booker’s voice rips us apart, and I cover my mouth as if that will hide the evidence of what just happened—“they’re loading up for the limo ride.”
He’s standing five feet from us, his face looking equal parts infuriated, hurt, and tired. His dark eyes are a storm of pain as he shoots daggers at my kissing partner.
“Erm…right,” I stammer, moving Andrew’s hands off my cheeks and nervously fidgeting with my dress. “We’re ready.”
“Poppy,” Booker says my name with a sigh. “I need a word first.”
Andrew barely hides his victorious smile as he says, “Maybe I’ll nip off and keep Sidney company.” He leans in to whisper in my ear, “Yer a first choice keeper, Poppet. Never forget that.” With a parting wink, he walks past Booker, who stares him down the entire way.
Turning back to me, Booker’s brows lift. “Glad to see you and Andrew are hitting it off.” His tone is sharp as he unbuttons his jacket and steps into the darkness of the tunnel. The stadium lights cast shadows across his face, illuminating his beautiful features in an ominous way.
“Booker—” I start, ready to tell him everything.
“He’s a wanker, Poppy. Anyone can see that.” He slides his hands into his pockets, his eyes fierce on me.
“He’s not a wanker,” I argue, pushing myself off the tunnel wall and clenching my fists at my sides.
He lets out a haughty laugh. “Well he’s not good enough for you, I can tell you that much.”
I flinch. “And do you think you know who is?”
“I don’t know, but certainly not Mr. Fucking Winkie Face Gym Junkie.” He throws a hand in the general direction of the pitch.
“You’re an athlete,” I snap. “What do you have against guys who exercise a lot?”
“Nothing, all right! I just think you can do better. I think you deserve better.”
“Then tell me who I deserve, Booker!” I exclaim, stepping into his space so he has to look down at me, tower over me, feel me beneath him like pesky dirt under his fingernails.
His eyes flick back and forth on mine, heavy with anger and frustration. He leans in, staring at my lips like he wants to kiss me but thinks better of it. “I don’t know, but I can’t watch you with him,” he bites through clenched teeth.
“Why not?”
“Because he’s all wrong for you.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask, pulling my tone back so I don’t sound like I’m begging.
“Because he is! His hands on you don’t make sense.”
“What’s wrong with his hands?” I exclaim.
“The way they touch you is wrong…He doesn’t handle you with…”
“Yes?”
“He doesn’t touch you in the way that…”
“What the fuck is it, Booker?” I nearly sob.
“They’re not my hands!” he roars, his loud voice echoing through the tunnel. “It makes me crazy to see another man’s hands on you because they aren’t mine and I want them to be!”
Chills. Immediate chills all over my body. The silence that follows is deafening as my heart sings from hearing the words I’ve wanted to hear since I was eighteen years old. Maybe even longer. Maybe even my entire bloody life. The words that he’s been avoiding since the moment he touched me on night one.
His hands.
Keeper’s hands.
There’s nothing more valuable on his body.
