Page 7 of Straightened Out

My brows pinch together as I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Again, the bastard remains silent. He may be sexy as sin, but he’s the biggest dick to ever walk the face of the earth.

“I don’t want to have this conversation in the back of a car,” he grunts, swiping a hand over his handsome face. The five o’clock shadow is a new look for him too. “Correction, I don’t want to have this fucking conversation at all, but I definitely don’t want to have it sober.”

“Well, what if I don’t want to have this conversation in a hotel room?”

He arches an eyebrow.

“Scared?”

“Of you?” I scoff, rolling my eyes. Changes and all, I would never be afraid of the man next to me. I may hate him right now, but I trust him explicitly. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or what, but it’s true. “I’m not scared of you, Rocco.”

“You should be.”

There’s truth to those words, I’m sure of it, but I don’t know what that truth is and I’m not sure I want to know. Still, I ask, “Why?”

He doesn’t respond right away and after a moment, he shakes his head, dismissing the conversation altogether.

“Move your ass, Bug, there is a fifth of vodka somewhere in that hotel with my name on it.”

Opening his door, he slides out of the car, leaving me reeling and all sorts of angry. I grab my duffle bag and sling it over my shoulder before stepping out of the car myself. Of course Rocco isn’t there to hold my hand and escort me into the building. He doesn’t even hold the door for me.

Bastard.

I stalk after him, following him to the bank of elevators. He pushes the button and I move to step around him, forcing him to look me in the eye.

“Last I checked, I didn’t answer to you Rocco, so I’m not really understanding why you’re acting like such a dick.” He doesn’t even fucking blink which only aggravates me more. Throwing my hands up, I continue, “So you saw me naked, big deal! I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of tits and ass—”

“You’re making a scene,” he growls.

“I don’t give a damn. You’re acting like an asshole.”

The elevator doors open, and he shakes his head, brushing past me to step inside the car. Holding the doors open with one hand, he jabs his thumb against the button and pierces me with a look.

“You done with your tantrum, yet?”

Glaring at him, I huff out a breath and step onto the elevator. The doors close and seconds later we’re padding across the fancy hallway, making our way to his room. I watch as he pats his pants in search of the keycard. Coming up short, he moves his hands to his back pockets. The hem of his jacket lifts as he pulls the keycard from his pocket and a flash of something shiny catches my eye. I inch forward and my eyes go wide when I realize he’s got a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. He brings the keycard around and the jacket falls back into place, shielding the gun from my eyes.

“You’re carrying a gun?” I blurt as he fits the card into the door and pushes it open. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. It’s no secret who his uncle is, and seeing as he does work for him, I suppose it goes hand in hand. Hell, Victor probably gives nine millimeters as Christmas presents. Still, I wasn’t expecting to see it firsthand and it makes me wonder what exactly he and Joaquin do for Victor. To my knowledge they run his night club in Miami, I hardly think that requires them to carry a weapon but what do I know?

Breaking the cardinal rule of the streets I ask, “Why do you have a gun?”

“Get inside, Bug,” he clips.

Ignoring his demand, I cross my arms against my chest and stare at him. He rolls his eyes and mutters a curse, before roughly grabbing my arm and pulling me inside the hotel room.

It was worth a shot.

“You’re still stubborn as hell,” he grinds out, kicking the door shut.

“At least one of us hasn’t changed,” I fire back, tossing my bag onto the bed.

“Oh, don’t kid yourself, Bug, you’re different too,” he scoffs, moving to the mini bar in the room. Without skipping a beat, he plucks a tiny bottle of vodka from the selection and unscrews the cap. Throwing his head back, he downs it in one gulp without flinching. “That’s good,” he mumbles, shrugging off his jacket. My eyes trail to the gun tucked into his pants, watching as he reaches behind him to pull it out. He gently sets it on top of the bar and reaches for another mini bottle of vodka. This one goes down even quicker than the first and I start to wonder why he’s even brought me back here.

“You know what, fuck this, I’m leaving.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls. “The bathroom is straight through those doors. Shower and wash that shit off your face and while you’re at it, lose the fucking attitude.”

Anger coils in my veins as I stare at his back.

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