Page 83 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
Ryan says, “Bro!”
“You’re the one who brought it up, idiot.”
Bypassing all the spider talk, I turn to Ryan. “Have you seen a psychiatrist about your fear of bleeding women? That seems extremely Freudian.”
“Some deep-seated shit, for sure,” Connor agrees, nodding.
“When I lived at home before college, my sisters used to fuck with me by hiding their used pads and tampons in my stuff,” Ryan says on an aggravated exhalation. “I never knew when I was gonna stick my foot in a sock or put my hand in a coat pocket and have it come away covered in period blood.”
Connor and I make identical faces of disgust.
“What the hell?” Connor says.
“Oh, yeah, they thought it was hilarious. Meanwhile, I’m traumatized for the rest of my life. Every time I walk by the feminine products aisle in a grocery store, I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack.”
I picture him as a teenager, freaking out over a maxi pad he found in his sock drawer and shrieking every time he sees a spider, and I start to laugh.
Connor looks at me, and he’s laughing, too. “Can you believe this shit?”
“Unfortunately, yes, I can.”
“Glad to know my psychological wounds are so entertaining,” Ryan says drily, but I can tell he’s not really angry. I love it that he can take a joke at his own expense.
On impulse, I kiss his cheek.
His blinding grin comes on in full, megawatt voltage. “By the way, I know all I need to know about how the female body works.” He looks at Connor and waggles his eyebrows.
Connor’s sigh is the aggrieved but fond one of a mother whose favorite child is misbehaving again. Shaking his head, he turns and walks away. We follow like a pair of ducklings.
When we arrive at Connor’s office, there’s a welcome party waiting.
Darcy reclines in a big leather chair, her feet propped up on an even bigger black oak desk, her eyes closed as Kai, standing behind her, massages her shoulders. Judging by their outfits, they both got dressed in the dark this morning. Or lost a bet. Nothing matches, and it’s all eye-wateringly bright. Python cowboy boots are involved.
Tabby, pacing a three-foot section of floor in the corner, has her nose pressed against her cell phone screen. Her thumbs fly over it as she types. In comparison to Darcy and Kai, her outfit is almost normal—that is, if you have two part-time jobs at a theme park as a pirate and a slutty witch, and wore both costumes at the same time.
There’s a lot of black ruffles and pale skin, and heels that could double as kebab skewers. A knotted black bandana caps her red hair. Two enormous gold hoops swing from her earlobes.
Juanita is lying on the black leather sofa against the far wall in a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform of plaid, pleated skirt, white shirt, and knee socks. She’s watching something on a tablet propped on her stomach and feeding Cheetos to the fat black-and-white rat lounging contentedly on her chest.
When we walk in, everyone stops what they’re doing and looks up.
And for a moment, just a few stuttering beats of my heart, I allow myself to remember what it feels like to have a family.
Because it’s obvious they’re all happy to see me.
Darcy lets out a whoop and jerks upright, knocking over the desk phone and almost falling out of the chair in the process. Kai jumps up and down, maniacally clapping. Tabby’s grin is almost as huge as Ryan’s. Juanita is grinning, too, and even the damn rat looks happy, whiskers twitching like mad.
“Oh,” I say in a small voice, my heart thumping with surprise, my eyes wide.
Ryan slings his arm around my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze, as if he knows I’m in need of a little emotional fortification before I face the firing squad.
“Miss Thang!” bellows Darcy, finding her footing with the help of Kai. “You made it!”
She charges.
“This will only hurt a little,” Ryan says regretfully, before jumping out of the way.
Darcy throws her arms around me, engulfing me in her bosom.
