Page 23 of Ryder: Shadows and Desires
“Don’t fucking know. Don’twantto know. Like I said—the more space between all of us, the better.”
I shake my head. “Well, I’m definitely not following you around for the interesting conversations.”
He shifts his posture, some of the scowl lightly fading—even if for a second. “Almost like that’s the point.”
I stare at my hand as if it might hold the answers for dealing with Ryder; I would haveneverimagined this much attitude when I had a raging crush on him. Something’s lodged so far up his ass that it’s messing with his brain, and I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of feeling like the bad guy.
“Alright, fine, well, asenthrallingas you are to talk to, Ryder, I think I’m probably gonna head out. I’ve got places to be. See you around” —I look at my imaginary watch— “whenever the fuck I plan to run into you next. I’m sure I’ve got it written down in my planner.”
I swear I see a corner of his lips actually twitchupthis timeat my snarky comment, but then the backdoor opens, and we both look to see who it is.
Andrew strides into the living room, dressed in gray shorts and a black polo. “I was wondering where you two went—the fuck is this? You two watching abakingshow?”
“Oh no, I was just leaving. But it’s a good show, you know,” I answer as Ryder pauses the TV.
Andrew snorts. “It’s just a bunch of people cooking shit. Can’t believe you two were actually watching this.”
“Whatever you say,” I reply, taking a few steps toward the door. I desperately want to avoid getting into a fight with Andrew while Ryder is our audience.
Andrew waves a hand in my direction. “Oh, and make sure to wear make-up tomorrow. Gotta take some pictures, and Wes said he’s bringing his equipment. Turns out he is a part-time photographer.”
I frown, really hating the way “wear some make-up” comes out of Andrew’s mouth.
“Fine,” I concede through tight lips, staring at a fake plant on the coffee table.
I don’t dare a glance at Ryder, despite the way his gaze burns into me. And for some reason, eventhatconfusinglysends unwanted stirrings through my navel.
All the more reason to leave.
Andrew’s dark eyes harden, and in that, I know I’ve failed to avoid him. “And also, since you’re in such a hurry to leave, block out a good fifteen minutes to discuss the future of this gym, piggybacking on our earlier conversation. We need to iron that out before Warlord goes live, which is in two weeks, in case you forgot. You’re not being discreet about avoiding me, which just eggs it on.”
I flick my gaze up the head coach. “Really, Andrew?”
He slowly shrugs a shoulder, a marginal, almost vicious gleam in his eyes. He is such avindictiveman. “Yeah, really, Stevens. Here I am, hosting a gym gathering atmyhouse, giving upmyprivate space to prepare for Warlord, which will launch the gym into recognition if we go far. And if you’re going to leave early and not eventryto socialize, then yeah, we’re going to talk about changing the name to something that I want.”
My nostrils flare, breathing heavily as I nearly chew a hole inside my lip. Ryder, ever silent, watches on.
It’s not fair that I’m not ready to move on or that the gym isn’tmydream. Why can’t Andrew honor Jeremy in death, the man who gave him the damned job in the first place?
“We can have the conversation tomorrow,” I grind out.Doesn’t mean I’ll agree to anything. I just want to leave.
Andrew’s eyes glint with glory, something that makes him a horrible co-worker but a good fighter in his days. “Good. And next cookout, actuallymingleif you insist on keeping the gym’s name instead of watching this useless shit on TV.”
Rather than respond, I turn to leave, anger searing my veins. There’s nothing more for me to say.
To my surprise, Ryder’s distractingly masculine voice chimes in as he says, “This show ain’t useless, Andrew.”
Dread sweeps through me, worried he’ll dump fuel onto the fire, especially since I’m onhisbad side, too.
I nearly bolt out of the door, but instead close my eyes and grip the strap of my purse. I’m not a coward, and I don’t run. I pivot to partially face the men behind me.
Ryder points to the TV, extending that thick arm of his. “That right there? That thing we’re paused on? That’s a Dampfnudel. Nanna used to make those.”
Andrew and I mirror expressions of what can only be classified as flabbergast. Andrew even hesitates in his reply, “The hell you talking about?”
With a deadpan face and muscles flexing from the rising tension, Ryder glares at the head coach. “That’s a motherfucking Dampfnudel if I’ve ever seen one. And I really like Dampfnudels, so don’t call it useless.”
Somehow, that had been entirely threatening, even if it’s aboutDampfnudels.
