Page 2 of Pretty Broken Doll

The angel—uh, the man, Ryann…whatever—huffs in annoyance before grabbing the oh-shit handle. His legs spread to brace himself, and I catch a glimpse of his thighs stretching his pants. Jeez, they’re like tree trunks. Bet he could squeeze my head with those bad boys and pop me like a watermelon.

“Watch the fucking road!” He snarls as the car bounces, and I jerk us back on track just before hitting a mailbox.

Ah, shit.

“Sorry!” I squeak again, my voice still sounding like my balls have retreated into my body, and I slap my chest to get a grip. It’s suddenly way too hot, so I tug on the front of my hoodie to fan myself. From the corner of my eye, I see him watching me like I’m one step away from a nervous breakdown.

Which... might be true.

I’ve found guys attractive before—hell, I’ve watched more gay porn than is probably healthy—but I’ve never actually been with one. I wasn’t exactly popular in high school, and I haven’t left the house much since the Great Graduation Disaster three years ago. Hence the ‘socializing’ therapy homework.

But this man? This...beautiful specimen of masculinity sitting in my dad’s Subaru? I’m fighting the instinct to hump the steering wheel right now. How embarrassing.

I blame the meds. They say SSRIs affect the sex drive, so that’s probably it. I’ll have to call Doctor Iskar tomorrow and inquire further because my virgin ass has never felt this way before.

Eventually, he looks away, and I let out a breath. Weirdly, I kinda want him to look back at me, which is nuts because I’m usually trying to blend into the background. Contradictory to the purple hair, but you can blame my older sister for that.

As he pulls out his phone, I find myself talking without actually hearing the words. “So what’s with the bar you were at?”

Am I hoarse? Why do I sound like a forty-year-old chain smoker?

He doesn’t even look up from his screen as he responds. “What about it?”

Clipped tone. Baritone voice, smooth like honey. A hint of an accent. So frickin’ hot.

“I mean...kind of a sketchy place for someone dressed as nice as you.”

“Sketchy places are good for sketchy activities.”

Well, that’s... not ominous at all.

Cutting him a sideways glance, I lick my lips at his inked forearm. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

There’s a beat of silence, rain pelting the windshield, and I feel his gaze slide to my face again. “No.”

“Oh.” I nod like a bobblehead. “Well, there’s always next time.”

Don’t even know what the hell I’m saying, but look at me, Doc. An entire conversation with someone who isn’t related to me. That’s progress.

He doesn’t reply, only drops his head back with a heavy sigh, and I force myself to keep from ogling. “So, Ryann, huh? Interesting. I’ve never seen it spelled that way before.”

“It’s Irish.”

“Ah, that explains the accent.” Glancing over to switch lanes, I fan myself again. His lap is just the perfect size to crawl into. Curl right up and make a home there, like a house cat. “Did you come from Ireland?”

“Obviously.”

Wow, not much of a talker. I’m not usually one either, but I’m nervous as hell right now, and I turn into a real chatterbox when I’m anxious. Honestly, I hate it. It used to make things worse for me in high school because my brain doesn’t know how to shut up. So I just bite my lip and nod.

After a few quiet minutes, though, he speaks, running a hand through his dark strands. “My family came stateside when I was a kid. We go back every few years to visit.”

“Very cool,” I give him a crooked smile. “My favorite actor is Irish. You know Cillian Murphy?”

He blinks those hazel eyes at me, unimpressed, and the sweat on my neck spreads to my palms.

I try again. “Uh, from the show Peaky Blinders? Inception? Batman Begins?”

Nope, not a single reaction other than a twitch of his lips.