Page 2 of Memphis

“Yeah, so…what are your plans for the rest of the night?” he asked.

Before I could provide an answer, my phone buzzed with a text alert. Glancing at it sitting on the bar, I had to fight not toroll my eyes when I saw who the message was from. Of course, I ignored it.

“I have no plans, unless you intend to make some for me…and you,” I replied.

Evan lifted a brow, an amused grin adorning his handsome face. “Oh, straight to the point, huh?”

I shrugged. “I’m too old for unnecessary detours.”

“Too old? I don’t believe that.”

“Okay, let’s just say I’m old enough.”

My phone buzzed again, this time with a call from the texter.

Ignored.

Again.

Evan leaned in close to me, his musky cologne filling my nose. “Old enough to let me get us a room upstairs for the night?”

“Exactly,” I affirmed.

I left the bar with Evan, was standing in the Royale’s lobby waiting for him to get our room when I felt a heavy presence I was all too familiar with.

My first thought?

Fuck.

“Why you tryna get that motherfucker killed?” The voice came from behind me—deep, gruff, inducing a chaotic mixture of dread and desire inside me.

When I didn’t turn around or verbalize a response, he added, “Because I will shoot that nigga dead, right here and right now. Him and any witnesses. Try me if you want to, King.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hissed over my shoulder. “You’re having me followedagain?”

“Iabsolutelyhad you followed since your ass doesn’t know how to come home.”

“That’s not my home, and by the way, fuck you!” I gritted.

“That’s what your ass is supposed to be doing right now.” Placing his hands on my shoulders, he leaned in close to my ear. “Or are you reneging on our deal?”

I tried to spin around to face him, but he tightened his grip on my shoulders. Still, I said, “I fucking hate you.”

“I know, baby. I know. Now, let’s go. I need some of that hateful pussy.”

“Uh, Dana? Everything okay?” Evan said, approaching me with a key card in hand. Lifting it, he advised, “I got the room.”

The asshole behind me reached around my body, snatching the key card from Evan. “You got us a room? Thanks,” Mr. Asshole said, his voice dripping with snark.

“What the fuck—" Evan was cut off by a big hand connecting with his chest. The owner of said hand, a huge man I knew as Moody, warned, “You don’t want this, not with him,” as he opened his old ass Bulls starter jacket—a wardrobe staple for him—revealing a holstered Glock.

Evan wore a look that was somewhere between confusion and anger as his eyes dropped to meet mine.

I could admit that this was fucked up and that I realized the probability of this happening was astronomical, so I felt bad for Evan. I really did; hence, I offered him a sincere, “Sorry.”

Then a hand grasped mine and I was led to an elevator while asking, “Damn, are you going to at least reimburse the man for the room?”

Asshole stopped in his tracks and stared at me. At first glance, this man I’d known and hated for more than half my life appeared unremarkable. Was he handsome? Absolutely, but in an understated way—glasses, salt and pepper beard, average build, not particularly tall—but his aura? His presence? It was suffocating and overwhelming and utterly irresistible. When this man walked in a room, the walls vibrated. Hell, I knew he would show up tonight because I could feel him from kilometers away.Nevertheless, I hated him, but I wanted to hate him more. Ineededto hate him more.

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