Page 67 of The Golden Boys

“Fuck you, West,” I say back, and the statement leaves my mouth with a rough edge.

There’s so much hatred in those words, mine and his. In his eyes, even. But, for some reason, amidst all this swirling tension and negative energy, this is the precise moment I lose the battle, glancing down the rolling hills of his abs, blinking droplets of water from my lashes as my gaze slips lower.

I only gawk for a moment, admittedly startled by his impressive size, but when I lift my eyes again, that wicked smirk of his is back. I’m already rolling my eyes before he speaks, at the mere idea of what his reaction will be to catching me in the act.

“See something you like?”

His deep voice is low and penetrating. I feel it everywhere when he leans in to speak.

The words, “Go to hell,” pass between my lips.

He’s close, staring down his nose at me, and I see the war. It rages inside him. He hates me, yes, just as much as I hate him. But there’s more to it than that.

More tousthan that.

It’s uncomfortable to even think that word—us—but it fits. Because thereisan us. Even if what we are is warped and ugly, lust wrapped in such intense loathing that it runs bone-deep.

But … it’s still real.

As real as the monster standing before me. The one who’s just brought me another step closer, making this space feel small and suffocating.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, his voice rumbling low. “Do you see something you like?”

My lips part, but no words come out.

“Or is‘like’the wrong word?” he questions. “Maybe you see something youwant.”

These words fall from his lips and I swear the water gets hotter as we stand beneath it. Unprepared for such a bold statement, I, again, don’t immediately have a response. The effect of being called out passes quickly, though, and I come up with a snide remark.

“I didn’t answer because there isn’t much to see, King Midas.” My brow quirks with the lie I’ve just told.

The cocky smirk that follows means he knows I was only protecting my pride.

“Come on, Southside,” he says against my ear, “just admit it. Youlovethis.”

I scoff, and with how he’s invaded my space, my mouth nearly touches his shoulder.

“What kind of sick person loves being tormented? Loves coming outside to find her car in pieces?”

A low, primal laugh vibrates in his chest and, for some reason, the sound of it sends a chill streaking down my spine.

“The kind of girl who’s just as fucked up as I am,” he answers. “The kind who always wants who and what she shouldn’t.”

I feel exposed, like he dug down to the core of who I am, found the strands of depraved DNA my mother marked me with, and forced me to own it. Only, his statement has the opposite effect I think he intends for it to have. It jars me out of the trance our bizarre energy always puts us in when we make the mistake of venturing too close to one another. For once, I’m the one who breaks the spell, putting distance between us.

I don’t miss the flash of disappointment that leaves his expression as quickly as it revealed itself. He’s a wizard at using that mask, the one that paints him as a one-dimensional jock, but it doesn’t fool me anymore. If there’s only bad blood between us, this wouldn’t keep happening. These moments of letting our guards down. These moments of craving something from one another neither of us is prepared to handle.

But I’m smart. I know my limit, and I’ve reached it. So, instead of lighting into him again with my fist to prove a point, I back off. His guard has lowered some since I first barged in here, but it’s far from being down. And because I know it’s in me to flock to other wounded birds, I don’t let myself get sucked back into his space.

I’m wise enough to acknowledge he’s got some small measure of power over me. More than I care to admit.

He stares at my feet as the space between us grows. His gaze flickers up to meet mine, and despite him wanting me to believe he’s all cold glares and a hot temper, I know better.

His chin tilts up confidently and he stands there, a godlike statue with water pelting his shoulders before streaming down his naked flesh.

“Guess you had better get going,” he teases. “You’ve got a little work to do on your car, don’t you?”

His teeth flash when he grins sinisterly, but I find it difficult to maintain the same level of anger I stormed in here carrying. Because, with one glance, I’ve suddenly got a clearer perspective of which one of us has the upper hand.

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