Page 32 of Kings Against the World

I busy myself with picking at the skin of my nail bed. “I don’t know what to tell you. I like men. All types.”

“You like White guys?”

It’s such a blunt question that comes out of nowhere, I look up at him and laugh.

Ozzie being Ozzie, he grins. “It’s a valid question. Lots of Black chicks don’t... which is understandable. Some of us are fucking lame.”

I’m so thrown, I’m still smiling as I shake my head and answer, “I just told you all types.”

“I bet you like the gym rats. Big, muscly dudes.”

He’s not entirely wrong. If I did have a type, it would be the kind of man who’s often spending hours in the gym working out.

But that’s mostly because that’s where I’ve usually been during my free time. I don’t have many friends or any hobbies and my family’s so fucked up that I lose myself in working out. I have so much energy, even by the end of my grueling workday, that I have to go to the gym to expend some of it or I’d go insane.

There was a point in time when I’d leave the gym more often than not with a guy I’d met that evening. We’d go back to one ofour places—or maybe even a hotel in some rare cases—and then fuck.

Just another way for me to get all the energy out of my system.

“I’m taking your silence as a yes,” Ozzie goes on.

“How would you know what I like?”

“You’re one of those alpha type chicks. You might act all take charge and strong, but I bet you like the kinda guy who’s willing to toss you around. A guy who can handle you.”

My cheeks are warm. If not for my dark complexion, I’d be red all over. I’m grateful for the melanin protection as I clear my throat. “And you? You frequent strip clubs, so let me guess. You’re attracted to filler lips and plastic titties the size of my head.”

He flicks the lighter shut and sits up from where he’s laid back on the bed. Both run-of-the-mill moves that shouldn’t mean anything, yet they feel like a precursor coming from him. He leans closer ’til we’re only a few inches apart. I find myself taking in a breath and holding it.

“I find all kind of women attractive,” he tells me. “And tits don’t need to be fake or the size of anybody’s head—you’ve got a very nice pair, Special Agent.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

His gaze dips to my chest only briefly before returning to my face. “Definitely fucking with you,” he admits. “But also… what’s that saying? There’s truth in jest?”

I’m left speechless as he winks at me and then gets up from the bed. The mattress shifts from his movement, though I remain shocked and wooden.

“Anyway,” he says, tugging off his V-neck shirt. “I’m gonna jump in the shower. It’s getting late and something tells me Boone’s about to be on some shit tomorrow.”

I spend the fifteen minutes he’s in the bathroom inhaling deep breaths and forcing myself to calm down.

It’s been a while since I’ve been around someone who so easily gets under my skin. Ozzie knows exactly what he’s doing flirting and teasing me. He seems to enjoy the reactions he’s able to draw out of me. Even better if he gets to invade my personal space as he does it.

I wait another half hour before I head into the bathroom for my shower and nighttime routine. I’m not sure what I expect walking in after him, but it’s not a damn near perfect bathroom. His trailer had been amess.

Yet he’s taken care to use only one bath towel and even neatly folded it over the towel rack to dry. There’s no water spilled on the floor or the counter. The shower’s squeaky clean and almost untouched if not for his scent lingering in the air.

Something fresh and clean like soap and pine.

The smell is such a contrast to the man in a mohawk and dozens of tattoos that the wires in my brain become crossed.

I’m confused breathing in his scent and then finding it… pleasant.

I take my time in the bathroom. Stalling. Doing things like shaving my armpits and legs and then oiling my scalp. I unscrew the cap of my meds and wash them down with a paper cup filled with water. Anything to drag out the time before I have to go back out there.

Ozzie’s already in bed when I finally emerge in a tank top and sleep shorts. He’s got nothing but his boxers on, one arm curled under his head, the other relaxed at his side as he grips the remote. His eyes immediately dart from the TV to me, doing a quick once over.

In reality, it lasts less than a second.

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