Page 74 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
To which Ryan barks back, “Yes!”
He listens for a moment, shifting his weight from foot to foot, then thunders, “You better fuckin’ believe it!”
I drop my face into my hands and groan.
A pissing contest. Divine.
After a moment, when I don’t hear any more barking, I peek through my fingers. Frowning furiously, Ryan listens to whatever Reynard is saying. He nods, says a curt, “Mmhmm,” huffs out a breath, looks at the ceiling with his nostrils flared, then nods again. Then he proceeds to answer what must be a series of rapid-fire questions with a series of rapid-fire answers, punctuated by jaw-clenching pauses.
“None. Yeah. Yep. I do. I will. I know.” Then, more irritated, “Despite what you think, dickhead, I didn’t fall off the back of a fuckin’ turnip truck!”
Then, just to bake my brain completely, he breaks into a grin. “Okay, man. Will do. Good talk, brother.” He ends the call and looks at me.
After a while, I manage to speak. “What the hell was that all about?”
Ryan shrugs. “He doesn’t like me much, but we’re workin’ it out.”
I stare at him in blank disbelief, all the cogs of my brain frozen.
“Okay, look. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not perfect. Don’t make that face, it’s true. I’m fuckin’ stubborn, and I’ve got a hair-trigger temper. I curse too much, I don’t exactly have finishing school manners, and I can be overbearing. And overconfident. And a bunch of other unflatterin’ words that start with ‘over.’ I’m also opinionated, sarcastic, easily frustrated, more than a little conceited—”
“This is quite the list,” I say.
“I could go on for days. My point is that I’m aware of my shortcomings. Because I know I’m not perfect, I don’t expect other people to be perfect, either. The only thing I demand from anyone—whether they like me or not—is that they’re real. Whatever and whoever they are, they own it. They don’t make fuckin’ excuses. I hate excuses.”
When it becomes evident he’s done speaking, I venture a hesitant, “Okay?”
“Reynard is worried about you. More worried about you than he is about himself, which I dig. Means he loves you, which is good, ’cause I know you love him. So no matter how much he doesn’t like me, I’m gonna respect him because he’s bein’ real with me. Understand?”
I squint at him, hoping it might make things clearer. “Um…”
Ryan reaches out and gathers me in his arms. He lifts my chin with a knuckle so I’m forced to meet his level, serious gaze. “Chalk it up to another one of those things about me you’ll eventually understand. The more important update here is that you told him you decided to trust me.”
He waits for me to answer, his eyes glowing bright blue with emotion, like a pair of sapphires held up to the sun.
I flatten my hands over his chest, loving how hard it is, how wide and warm, how his heart thumps strong and steady beneath his sternum like it’s confident it will never fail. I run through a dozen different explanations in my mind before distilling my decision down to its essence.
“You’re worth the risk.”
For this, I’m rewarded by the sight of a big, badass Marine getting all choked up.
“Angel.”
His voice is raw. His eyes glimmer. He wears the euphoric expression of someone who’s just been granted his dying wish.
This is how I know my gut is on the right track, even if my brain is trying to stomp on the emergency brakes. I smile at him and stand on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the lips.
“I keep telling you my name is Mariana.”
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “But you’re my angel, so that’s what you’re gonna get called.”
Now I’m the one getting choked up. “I’m no angel, Ryan. I’m trouble with a capital T. You have to know that. However this all turns out with the diamond…I’m no good.”
“You’re not trouble, you’re in trouble. Two different things.”
“I’m a fugitive from the law.”
Unimpressed with my evidence, he lifts a shoulder. “The law’s overrated.”
