Page 1 of Wicked

1

Ryker

Idon’t profess to be a gentleman. I know damn well I’m a douchebag. Ask the women I’ve nailed. Nail and bail. That’s me, Ryker Conway.

Gripping the bottle’s neck, I take a slow sip of my beer and assess my surroundings. It’s Friday night, the last Friday I’ll be partying in a long time. After tonight, Fridays are for lying low, prepping for Saturday games.

Yeah, football season is in full swing.

A rock song blares from the speakers. Stuffing my hand in my pocket, I nod in time to the beat, turn, and see a lone girl in the kitchen with a dark brow raised, eyeing the contents of her red plastic cup.

Didn’t she get the message? The party isn’t in theboringkitchen.

Before I can look elsewhere, her eyes slide upward and catch mine. Her brow lowers. I check her out. Black combat boots, the laces untied. Skin-tight jeans shredded at the knees. Body-hugging T-shirt.

Her onyx hair falls in waves over her shoulders, brushing where tits should be, except hers are so small . . . I shake my head. All black. What’s with this girl?

I’m staring so long and hard, her eyes widen.

I give another shake of my head. Slower this time.Sorry, babe, you’re not my type, I say with a look alone, a smirk on my face. She doesn’t have enough curves to interest me. And she’s tiny, about five feet two inches. Under my muscular build, she’ll break.

Doom and Gloom doesn’t get my unspoken message. She shamelessly takes in all of me, her gaze trailing up my body, starting at my feet.

I see what she’s seeing. High-priced sneakers. Loose-fitting jeans. Sizeable package under them. Snickering, I slide my hand out of my pocket and adjust myunarousedpackage, lingering longer than is necessary as I “accidentally” touch myself. She doesn’t blink, gasp, or lick her lips in anticipation.

Damn.

A thrill goes through me. Enjoying myself, I grab the hem of my shirt and lift. Slow. High. Higher. Cool air hits my skin, and I trail my fingers over the ridges of my abs. She glances up like she lost something on the ceiling.

No appreciation of my washboard abs whatsoever.

What the—?

Her attention returns to where she left off—my crotch. Ah, here we go . . . Her eyes skate upward. Keeps going. Doesn’t stop on my broad chest or wide shoulders. But when she gets to my face, the intensity in her gaze, her laser focus on my scruff . . . Surprise ripples through me. Doom and Gloom digs my fucking beard.

I cradle my chin in my hand. Run my thumb over the coarse dark hair. Stroke along my full bottom lip. She follows my movements. I tip my head up and down. Smile. Wink.

“You like, don’t you?”Oh yeah. I don’t give her the chance to answer. We know she does.

“Sorry, babe, but you can’t have this.” I gesture from my head to my waist. “This body is out of your league. Above your pay grade.”

The force of her sigh hits me from across the room. I chuckle under my breath.Nowshe gets I’m not into her.

She marches out of my line of sight and disappears around the corner, toward the bathroom. I don’t recall her at our parties. Who invited Doom and Gloom?

“I see you’ve met Harper Garrix. No guy’s nailed her.”

Yet.

The word hangs in the air between us.

No chance I’ll be the one nailing her. I turn my back on where she disappeared and eye the coeds clumped on the couch, vying for my guys’ and my attention. Their flirty red-lipstick smiles and heavily made-up eyes promise a good time, drawing me and my guys in like moths to the light.

Then why the hell can’t I dismiss Doom and Gloom from my mind?

“Maybe she’s seeing a dude who doesn’t go here,” I say. Here is Prescott University in southern Oregon. “Or she bats for the other team.” There’s nothing wrong with that.

“No and no.”

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