Page 52 of Rooke
“Oh god,” she groans. “I just got off an IV drip. My leg was nearly broken recently and you’re going to make me climb four flights of stairs?”
“Nope. I’m going to carry you.”
“Like hell you—”
I cut her off when I bend and pick her up quickly, lifting her into my arms.
“Rooke!Put me down!”
“Quit. Let’s just get inside. You can pummel me to death with your girly fists then. Right now I’d appreciate it if you’d stop hitting me.” She stops slapping her hand against my chest long enough for me to fish my keys out of my pocket one-handed.
“Take them. Open it,” I tell her.
She reaches down and takes the keys from me, and then she’s opening the door, pushing it open, and I’m taking her inside. The house is warm. For a second I consider sinking down onto the bottom step of the stairs and just holding her in my arms while we both thaw out. She’s shaking, my leather jacket half draped over her body, her shirt plastered to her chest. Her jeans are drenched too. It would be better to get her into a hot shower and fast.
I climb up to the first floor, and that’s where Jacob meets us. He’s hurrying out of the living room carrying his guitar case and a mountain of sheet music, a bagel stuffed into his mouth. When he sees us, he puts down the guitar case, pins the sheet music under his arm, and he removes the bagel from between his teeth.
“We’ve talked about this,” he says, pointing at Sasha. “No roofied girls in the house, Blackheath.”
“Shut up, asshole. This is Sasha.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s Sasha. Who else would it be?” Holding out a hand, he gives her one of his super awkward, super shy smiles. “I’m not going to ask why he’s carrying you like that,” he says. “I probably don’t want to know.”
“You definitely don’t,” she says quietly, shaking his hand. I’m glad Jake hasn’t put his foot in it. I texted him and told him I was going to be at the hospital, and I also explained why. He’s a smart fucker. He knows I’d kick his ass if he embarrassed her.
“I have a gig tonight. I won’t be back until late. It was nice to meet you.” He gives me a strained look as he slips by us and jogs down the stairs. He hasn’t said anything about how impractical my relationship with Sasha is since the shit that went down at the museum. He’s a stubborn guy, though. He probably thinks this is crazy. He probably thinks I should have dropped Sasha off at home and left her ass there, never to speak to her again.
******
SASHA
He carries me up the next flight of stairs, bypassing the living room, straight to the bedroom. He takes me inside and places me carefully down on the bed. I look around, surprised.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I just…I figured your place would be…”
“A disgusting frat house?”
“Yeah. I guess. I definitely didn’t think it would be this clean.”
“I’m twenty-three, not a barbarian.”
“Actually, you are kind of a barbarian.”
He smirks, that terrible, reckless “fuck me” smile of his that makes my toes curl inside my shoes. “You fuckingloveme this way,” he informs me. “You love the danger. If I didn’t scare you a little, you wouldn’t be interested. You can’t deny that.”
He’s right; I can’t. I don’t like to admit to something like that, though. It makes me seem as though I’m not quite right in the head. After all, what kind of woman willingly wants to be a little afraid of the guy she’s sleeping with? What kind of woman wants to feel like her entire life might spiral out of control any second now because the guy she continually allows into her bed is a criminal and a thief?
“Now that you have me here, trapped in your bachelor pad, what are you planning on doing with me?” I ask.
Rooke arches his left eyebrow, his head turned to one side. “You know exactly what I’m planning on doing, Sasha. You know, there will come a time when I fuck you and you aren’t fresh out of the hospital, though, right?”
His comment is like a punch in the gut. I have been hospitalized more than any one person should be over the past couple of weeks. I want to defend myself, to explain to him that this isn’t normal for me. I went five years without seeing the inside of a hospital before the incident in the museum. I hadn’t even been to see a general practitioner in all that time. I plan on saying all of this, but Rooke’s phone buzzes in his pocket before I can form the words. He pulls out his cell and quickly reads the message he obviously just received. Frowning, he puts his cell back into his pocket.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Just work.”
