Page 89 of Lace 'em Up

Blegh.

“Don’t be like that, gorgeous,” he says, his other hand lifting and tugging lightly at a strand of my hair. “I’m a nice guy.”

A nice guy.

Double blegh.

It’s always the ones who say they’re nice guys who are creeps.

“Don’t touch me,” I order, slapping his hand away.

And it has absolutely no effect on him. In fact, it seems to urge him on. He settles that hand on my waist, draws even closer. “We could be so good together,” he drawls, bending his head and nearly succeeding in pressing our mouths together.

Luckily, I turn in time to avoid him then shove at his chest, blurt out the only thing I can think of, “I don’t think my fiancé will like that very much.”

Pat stills, brows shooting up. “I heard the wedding was off.”

I don’t even know this man, other than that he plays for the team and he’s a total asshole, but he somehow knows that Phillip and I broke up?

I don’t like that.

Not even a little bit.

“No,” I lie. “It’s not.”

A shrug, those big shoulders lifting and falling indolently, like me telling him I’m engaged doesn’t matter. And I guess, to him, it doesn’t. “Come on, gorgeous,” he cajoles, “your fiancé isn’t here. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him?—”

“But this will hurt you.”

I barely have the chance to feel the relief coursing through me at the sound of King’s voice.

Because then he’s between me and Pat.

And his fist is flying.

The silence in the car is deafening.

And uncomfortable.

And…deafening.

“Is your…” I begin as we wait at a signal, the red light interminably long. Especially when his head whips in my direction, those eyes locking with mine, pinning me in place. Those blue irises are flints of ice, cold enough to make me shiver, but somehow I manage to push out, “Is your hand okay?”

Said hand flexes on the steering wheel, the quiet groan it makes drawing my gaze to those knuckles standing out in sharp relief, the tight grip on the leather, the tension ratcheting up in his body. But all he replies with is a terse, “Yeah.”

Then the light turns green and he looks forward again.

And…

Right.

That’s clear indication that he’s done talking, I suppose.

Cool. Cool.

I’ll just stare out the window and pretend this terse silence doesn’t exist.

Pretend that he didn’t clock a man for cornering me, for scaring me, that he didn’t lay the asshole known at Pat Buchanan flat on his ass with just one punch.

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