Page 28 of Wicked

“Friend?” He laughs. “You think Harper and I arefriends?” He shakes his head.

Behind him, Harper is quiet. He jerks his head toward the weight room.

“Everyone leave. You.” He points his finger at me. “You stay. Harper, get the fuck over here.”

I grit my teeth. From what I remember of our talks, Harper doesn’t have jerks for friends. So why is the motherload of all jerks a friend of hers?

The room goes from sweltering hot, choked with testosterone, to arctic as men bolt, making it clear who the big man is in this gym. Harper walks over with her head held high and her boxing gloves clamped against her sides.

Shephard yanks off her gloves and strips the wraps from her hands.

“Was he at your place Friday night? Is he the reason you didn’t return my calls and messages? When Mike Ramirez makes a point of contacting me, you pick up. You got that?”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child, Shephard. I’m grown now. You have no right. And in front of my friend.”

Oblivious to me seething on the other side of the boxing ring, he grabs her by the jaw and tugs until they’re nose to nose.

“The fuck I can’t. Don’t you ever forget who saved your life.”

Her arm shoots out. She clutches at the wrist that’s attached to the hand that has a firm hold on her jaw.

“Let her go,” I ground out.

“Or else what?” He lets go and yanks her to him. Her back hits his chest. His arm clamps over her stomach. “She’s mine. She will always be mine. You want her, you fight for her.”

Why do I suspect he’s not talking about duking it out in the ring, but life in general?

“Bring it,” I answer his challenge.

A ruthless glint in his eyes. With his free hand, he grabs her by the hair, and cranking her neck to the side, he slides his mouth down the column of Harper’s neck, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Or we share her.”

Harper gasps. “Shephard. You go too far.”

He jerks his head my way.

“This is the best you can do, Harper? There are stronger men. Have your pick of the guys in the weight room. Choose, and I’ll let you go. But choose him, and he’ll have to prove his worth. Personally, he’s not up for the challenge. I get his type, a pansy-ass motherfucker who’s only looking out for number one.”

Shit, he’s right. I should drop the idea of spending time with Harper. I don’t need this kind of drama messing with how I play the game that matters, that will get me far in life—the game of football and playing in the NFL. Harper? Harper is a dead end.

There are prettier girls. Easier lays. I don’t need the bet. Don’t need to nail Harper to get me some backdoor action. Or to get with a coed like Missy.

“He’s wavering already, love.”

“Shephard.”

A warning in her tone.

He lets her go. “Go home, Harper. Forget him.” He points at me, not being shy with his middle finger. “He’s not strong enough.”

“Shephard,” she pleads.

“I said go the fuck home, Harper!”

He shoves her away and turns his back on her.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t tremble. Not even her bottom lip quivers. What she does next surprises the hell out of me. She wraps her arms around him from behind, pulls his hulking body to hers with her palms on his chest, and speaks as though I’m not standing right here.

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