Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Got a live one there, boss,” one of them says. The rest chuckle.
“Looks that way,” I tell them as I stride out the door with my hands full. “You hit me one more time, Maren, and I’m gonna spank your ass.”
“Don’t you dare! Ugh, I’m gonna upchuck.”
I slap her ass twice and she screams. “Don’t you dare,” I warn her. My face breaks in two with a smile that refuses to stay down. I’m getting way too much pleasure from holding her like this.
“Can y’all save the Fifty Shades cosplay for later?” Annabelle announces from somewhere behind me.
“Where’s my truck?”
“Over there.” Annabelle points to my baby parked at the edge of the lot.
“Your truck?” my unwilling passenger shrieks.
“Whose did you think it was, Rowdy’s?”
Dead silence is all I get in return. At least that shut her up. Annabelle hits the alarm and unlocks it.
“I’m gonna put you on your feet, Mare. Do not do anything stupid.” When I don’t get another verbal ass kicking, I do just that.
Swaying, Maren grips my bicep for leverage and I wrap my arm around her waist to steady her. She falls against me, my chest bearing the full brunt of her dead weight and my grip tightens.
She looks up at me through her lashes and I just about come undone. So much anger in those dark green eyes of hers. I didn’t anticipate her still being this mad at me. Hurt? Yes. Distrustful? Certainly. But not this mad.
“You okay, winner?” I murmur. Her face inches from mine, the temptation to kiss her is almost too much. And I would if I wasn’t absolutely sure I’d end up with a black eye to show for it.
“Winner?” Eyes narrowed, she raises her palm to my face. “You don’t get to call me vat.” I chuckle. Her eyes lose their spark, going flat, and my amusement fades. Her indifference worries me more than her anger. “You don’t get to call me anyfing ’cept someone you used to know.”
I’ll do anything to keep the fire burning because as long as she’s mad I know I still have a chance. Once that’s gone…
“Baby, I’ll call you anything I want.”
“You don’t get to call me that eifer!” She pushes against my chest but I keep a steady hold on her. “Asshole!”
“As entertaining as y’all are, I’d like to get home before this show turns X-rated, or somebody gets dead.”
Annabelle opens the passenger side door and holds it open for me. I push Maren toward the cab of the truck, to put her inside, and she swats at my hands.
“I can do it myself.”
“You can barely stand.” I shove her onto the bench seat and Annabelle gets in after her. With the door shut, I round the truck, slide into the driver’s seat, and start the engine. The truck roars alive then settles into a low purr.
“Jesus, Noah. I thought you’d cut her off quicker,” Annabelle scolds, sounding more than a little irritated with me.
I look over to find Maren’s head tipped back on the headrest, her eyes closed. “She’s a big girl.”
Annabelle shakes her head. “You two give me a headache.”
By the time I pull up to the Murphy house, Maren’s asleep.
“You got this?” Bebe asks, tipping her head at her sister. I nod and she slips out of the truck. I watch her make her way to the front door. “Thanks,” Annabelle throws over her shoulder.
“Nothing to thank me for.”
She gives me a look that says I should know what she means even though I haven’t a clue. Then she unlocks the door and steps inside.
A mumble comes from the sleeping woman to my right. I pull a U-turn and head for Rowdy’s house. Her head falls onto my shoulder and she snuggles closer, wrapping her hand around my bicep.
“So mad at you.” It’s low but distinct––and a punch to the gut. I curl my left hand around her jaw and stroke, push the hair that has fallen over her face aside.
“I know, baby. I know.”
A minute later I’m parking in her driveway.
Chapter Eight
Maren
Why is a car parked on my head? I try to lift it. Try is the operative word because I can barely move a pinky, let alone my head. Add the ache behind my eyeballs––like they’re being pushed out from within––and you’ve got solid evidence that something went seriously squirrelly last night.
The AC is off, the air stale. It finally clicks on and I send up a silent thank you to the AC gods for this small kindness. With the blankets drawn up to my nose, I crack an eye open then the other. As soon as I smack my lips together, I’m punished by the nasty tang of morning-after tequila now known to me as the devil’s sauce with a chaser of…tastes like vomit. I have a feeling I deserve it too.