Page 95 of Jace
“Goddamn,” Grant mutters, “you two are gonna fuck like rabid rabbits in heat when you finally get the chance.”
He wants to die tonight. He’s being nosy and reading over my shoulder.
I huff. “Says the man who wears a cock cage for his queen.”
“Hey,” Grant boasts as I text Vivian, “don’t knock a caged cock ’til you’ve tried it.”
My friend will be waiting outside in a black Tahoe
You can’t miss him
He looks like Brad Pitt
Only younger and without morals
Vivian replies with a laughing emoji. She thinks I’m joking.
I wish.
As soon as I’m free I’ll meet you
He’ll keep you safe until then
And
Fuck, how do I say this without making her want to run away from me like her hair is on fire?
Ignore every fucking word he says
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
VIVIAN
The tall strangerby the black Tahoe holding up the arrivals pick-up line crows, “See, officer, there’s my little buttercup.”
Grinning from ear to ear, he clamps his hand down on the irate airport officer’s shoulder. “Told you my missus would be right out. And look at her pretty smile; yep, shesuremissed me.”
Shit, now I’m forced to smile as the officer fumes at Jace’s friend—I sure hope he’s Jace’s friend.
Taking the handle of my suitcase while opening the passenger door for me, he gestures like a footman to a queen. “Hop in, darlin’. Daddy needs to get you home so you can unzip his big welcome gift for ya.”
I halt. About to give him a piece of my mind and my ass turning right around, but he winks, assuring me with his honey whisper, “I know who your real daddy is, darlin’. Now, play nice and get in so Jace won’t kill my ass.”
I grab the passenger assist handle to hoist myself up. The frisky friend attempts to help me by palming my ass, but I swat his hand away, hissing, “Touch me and die.”
He grins, closing my door.
In a rush, he throws my bag in the back and jumps into the driver’s seat.
“Keep smiling.” He grits through his pearly whites, waving at the cop. “Don’t need that officer realizing I’m a wanted man. The trick is to approachthem. Overwhelm ’em with charm, and my good looks, and it’s all they see, not the outlaw.”
“Wanted?” I whip my glare to him as he merges into the airport traffic.
“Look at me.” He gestures to his ripped white T-shirt with more holes than Swiss cheese, his tattered jeans, and his tarnished belt buckle with a skeleton riding a motorcycle. “Darlin’, who doesn’twantall this?”
He is muscular. He is sexy. He is a younger Brad Pitt, all cute in a he-knows-he-is-arrogant way. His looks could let him get away with murder, and he acts like he already has.
Silently, we take the interstate toward historic downtown Charleston.
