Page 63 of The Devil's Scars

“Alright.”

Scars unlocked the door, and waved Zoe inside. She looked around, curious despite herself about where Scars spent so many of his working hours. She suspected that even though lots of the bar staff used this space, the majority of its usage fell on the man standing in front of her right now, turning on lights and bustling around a bit, moving stacks of paper and what looked like boxes of alcohol.

It was a good-sized office, much bigger than hers over at Blue Dragon. It was better laid-out too, although it didn’t have a window. Zoe needed natural light to think straight, loved the skylight above her desk, so she wouldn’t ever trade her cramped office for the extra square footage of this one. She’d kill for that massive leather sofa, though, and for the sprawling desk. Her own desk was maybe half the size, and Zoe was big into spreading out when she was working.

“OK.” He locked the door out of habit, then walked over and sat behind the desk, indicated at the chair in front of it. “What’s up?”

“Uh, well.” Zoe sat down, trying hard not to fidget as he stared at her in that totally disarming, stripping-flesh-off-her-bones way that he had. “I just – I wanted to tell you that I’m – that I feel really bad. About that kind of… well. That kind of judgmental and mean thing that I said to you.”

“Which time?” he asked wryly, but not in a nasty or asshole way, more in a ‘gathering the facts’ way. “You’ve had a few choice words for me, on a few separate occasions.”

“Uh… yeah. I – I guess that’s true.” Zoe blinked, suddenly realizing just how much of a thunderbitch she’d actually been to the man. Well, high time to make it right, and the fact that he was still sitting here and listening to her babbling was a minor miracle. “So, I’m sorry for every time, but mostly, for the last time. In the kitchen… what I said in the kitchen.”

“Ah. Yeah. The kitchen.” He grinned, and she relaxed a bit at his good humor. “Not the bar back room or the tattoo place. The kitchen. That occasion of a few choice words.”

“That one, yes. I – oh, shit, Scars. I was way out of line. I’m sorry.” Zoe struggled to find the words, surprised how much it mattered to her that she get this right. Suddenly stopping at ‘I’m sorry’ just didn’t feel like enough. “I’m – I’m horrified at how I behaved, and I’m embarrassed. You were so great with Keira and bringing me dinner, and I just… I was rude. I was more than rude. I was – what I said was unforgivable, but I still want to ask you to forgive me. If you can, I mean. I’d like to ask – I’d like to ask if you could please forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven.”

Zoe blinked. “You just… just like that? Just… forgiven?”

“Sure. Why not?” Scars shrugged, got to his feet, glanced at the clock on his cell, fiddled with some papers on the desk. “Life’s too short for grudges, right? We’re good.”

“Uh.” Zoe stood up too, though she felt unbalanced. She thought he’d make her crawl, if he didn’t just tell her to drop dead. This easy grace, this automatic kindness, it took her aback, and quite a bit. Then again, his refusal to be a dickhead about her being a thunderbitch made the next part a bit easier, too. “So… then we can be friends?”

Scars stopped dead, and stared at her like she’d sprouted a second head, right there in front of him. “Friends?”

“Uh, yeah.” She watched him walk around to her side, his steps slow, measured, deliberate. He advanced on her, and she almost backed up, then she remembered that he’d never hurt her. So despite being wary, nervous, uncertain, she stood her ground. “Is that OK with you?”

“Uh, no.” Scars was looming over her now, all six-foot-four of him, every muscle in that mountain of a body rigid with anger. “Like hell it’s OK with me.”

“But you just said –”

“I said all was forgiven. I never said I wanted to be your goddamn friend.”

“So, you mean…” Zoe’s voice trailed off as she stood there, totally lost. “So… what do you mean?”

Scars gave her that smile now – the dangerous one. The one that she loved, even if she refused to admit it to anyone. Not even herself.

“I mean, baby, that I have exactly zero fucking interest in being your friend.” His voice was pure molten growl, and it hit all her soft, sweet spots. “We’re not friends, you and me, because I don’t want to do with my friends what I want to do with you, and to you.”

“What?” she whispered, lost in those eyes, eyes so deep and blue, she wanted to dive in and forget the world. “Scars…”

“Nuh-uh. You shut that hot little mouth, and I mean now. You talked, said what was on your mind, so it’s my turn.” He paused, nodded when Zoe stayed quiet. “Good girl. You’re learning, at long goddamn last, to listen up and do what you’re told.”

Her eyes flashed with rage, and she actually growled right back at him, deep in her chest. He waited, knowing that he’d pushed a button pretty damn hard – stomped on it with his motorcycle boots, to be more precise – and he wanted to see if she’d listen to him for the first time, ever. He gave her time to decide if she was going to open those pouty rosebud lips, and say anything.

She didn’t. She glowered, she glared, she looked like she wanted to knock his head off his shoulders… but Zoe didn’t say a single word. He grinned.

That’s so much fucking better.

“Now,” he said in a conversational tone. “As I was saying, I don’t want to be your friend, beautiful, so don’t bother asking again. It’s not happening, and that’s it, end of fucking discussion. What I do want is for you to open your goddamn eyes and see that we’re good together. No… we’re great together. We want each other, and not just to fuck like wild animals, as good as that was and I won’t be turning down a repeat performance if it’s on offer. Besides the hot sex, we also have chemistry, and we like each other, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s all enough to at least try to make a go of it.”

Scars paused again, cocked his head at her. She was silent, though, just staring up at him, all wide-eyed shock and awe in those gorgeous green eyes. He smiled again, suddenly realizing that as much as he adored fiery, feisty Zoe, he was finding newly-compliant Zoe a serious turn-on.

“You’re fighting me, you’re fighting us, and you’re fighting yourself.” He raised a hand slowly, watching her reaction. When she didn’t flinch or move away, he rested it against her delicate throat. He didn’t wrap it around, or press hard… he just laid it there, felt her heart rate speed up, pulse, pound against his knuckles. “Now you can fight, if that’s what you need to do right now, but hear me when I say this, beautiful: I won’t be your friend. I won’t fucking sit with you at a table out there in the bar, and chat about sports or the weather or last night’s episode of CSI. I won’t act like you’re a work colleague and nothing more. I sure as hell won’t watch you flirt with other guys and my brothers, and pretend I’m cool with that, ‘cause I’m not. Never will be.”

His fingers curled now, and he twisted his hand around. He was holding her neck, just a bit, not hard, but he was making a point. And the point was you’re fucking mine. Face it when you’re ready, but don’t pretend it’s not true.

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