Page 3 of Wreck Me

The harsh demand of a voice caught my attention and I pocketed my phone, then spun around to see the guy who’d been feeling up the Ferrari now half-twisted my way, his eyes on me.

Actually, all eyes on me.

“Well? You hard of hearing or something, on account of being up close to that Harley of yours one too many times?” he persisted.

“I can hear you just fine. I merely wasn’t paying attention to whatever you were yelling my way. Although, you’re one to talk when it comes to the roar of an engine with that car of yours. It is yours, right? You’re not just polishing the hood with your palm for yearning’s sake?”

Gasps and whispers erupted from the people crowded around him.

He pushed off the car with an abrupt jerk. As if on cue, his fans drew back and hurried away across the lot, heading for class I was guessing.

He rounded the hood with slow, commanding strides that I figured were meant to be menacing, especially when combined with the dark look in his amber eyes. As it was, it merely served to amuse me.

I didn’t move an inch as he stopped just a foot from me, his hulking form, all muscle and broad shoulders and towering well over six-foot, getting in my space.

“I said you can’t park here.”

“The nature of it being an empty spot would say that I can.”

His nostrils flared as his gaze roamed over me, focusing on my vibrant-blue and silver hair, my loose curls cascading down past my shoulders, to my studded blue leather jacket. They lingered on my silver metallic tank beneath, then trailed down to the silver butterfly chain belt that looped through my black bootcut pants.

After taking a quick glance at my motorcycle boots, his gaze snapped back to my face and he was frowning. “I know you.”

“I don’t think so.”

He paused for a moment.

But then he was back to the parking spot thing and gesturing angrily behind me at my bike. “Move it to another spot. Nobody parks beside my car. It’s a known fact at Luxe.”

Who the shit was this douchebag?

“Well, for one, it’s my first day. And second, the lot is packed. I’m lucky I found this spot, so I’m not moving it.”

“That’s not up for debate.”

I waved him off with a flick of my hand. “We’re done with this.”

“The fuck we are.”

“What are you gonna do? Pick up a five-hundred-pound Harley and physically move it? Come on. While you’re jacked beyond belief, even if those aren’t merely show muscles, which they could very likely be, the max even a gym rat could lift is about three hundred. You’re dreaming, I’m afraid. So, how about you take a breath and calm down, then we can both get on with our days.”

Urgh. This was clearly my first test of trying to stick to normal, because going the diplomatic route really wasn’t my thing—or my favored way of handling confrontation. Especially not one as ridiculous as this.

“This is a lot more than show muscle, Bluebell.”

Bluebell. How original.

Dumbass.

“Yeah? So, have at it then,” I said, moving to step out of his path.

He snagged my arm, stopping me.

Don’t react. Don’t fucking react.

“You’re asking for a demonstration if you don’t shut that smart mouth of yours and fucking well submit.”

I glared up at him. “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

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