Page 6 of Bedding Rose
"She's not even home yet, I don't think," Quique responds as he sets the bag on the counter and opens the fridge, pulling out a gallon of milk. "You want?"
"Yeah, just gonna wash my hands." I stride down the hallway, head thrumming from the fact that he doesn’t even know or care where his sister is. Annoyance makes the air in my lungs feel as though it's been snagged on a hook, and I’m glad I’m walking away from him right now because there’s no chance I’d be able to hide the look of disgust on my face right now.
Rose's door is closed. She's either still sleeping or out. Or ...
The finalormakes me turn the knob without knocking, invading her privacy. "Lil reina?" I call out in a hushed tone. My eyes scan her bedroom, which is all done up in shades of pink and red—her mother’s choices for what a girl named Rose should have. There's a lump amongst the floral bedding, and it moves at the sound of my voice.
I take a quick step inside and see a foot protruding from the covers. A foot, followed by a curved calf, and then a thigh.
My throat constricts—I didn't come in here to creep but damn if my eyes aren't plastered to the gap in the covers.
"Angelo? What are you doing here?" Rose's froggy voice is so deep that it startles me.
My gaze darts up guiltily and lands on her eyes. They’re still rimmed in makeup, giving her the appearance of a rabid raccoon. Her hair is a wild swirl around her head, her black curls turned feral as she slept, and I realize I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s always got her curls tamed. Herself tamed.
Strangely enough, I kind of enjoy seeing this side of her.
“I brought burritos.” My excuse for waking her doesn’t impress her at all. She raises one of those dark, arched brows of hers.
“Ever heard of a fridge? You could put mine in there.”
“Ever heard of a thank you? You could give one.”
She simply rolls her eyes and yanks the covers over her head. “Go away and let me sleep.” Her dismissal is muffled by the comforter, which still hasn’t covered up that very distracting length of leg.
I take a step closer, irritated now. I couldn’t sleep all night because of this girl. I did something nice, brought breakfast, so we can have a civil conversation about all of this.
“You’re forcing me to take drastic measures,” I warn her, as my fingers dip down to her exposed foot. I slowly drag the pad of my index finger lightly over the sole.
Immediately, her leg contracts, and she kicks out. “Fucker!” Her entire torso pops up then, pissed as hell, those light green eyes narrowed on me as if she wishes she could shoot lasers out of them. “Get out.”
“I want to talk.”
“I don’t.”
“I want to know who made you do that—”
“It’s none of your business,” she growls defensively, wrapping her comforter around herself and standing. It’s so huge that it swallows her up like a poofy winter cape, dragging on the floor behind her. One of her hands sneaks out and a flash of red bra appears before she shoves roughly at me. Her push is nothing, but I let her edge me out of her room because she clearly needs another hour or two of sleep before she tells me what I want to know. And she will, I’ll make sure of that.
* * *
Three Hours and Six Rounds of Call of Duty Later
She toldme to get fucked.
* * *
The Next Day
I feel like a goddamned mummy,dehydrated, dragging ass, and cursing every dick that crosses my path at work. I still can’t sleep. I saw Rose crying in my dreams again and my mind keeps cycling back to that burning question about why she did this. Who made her hurt.
I’m so distracted, I nearly miss the fact that Dane has rigged his crane wrong and I have to run across the yard screaming and waving my arms like a maniac so the idiot doesn’t drop a beam on someone.
My dad chews my ass for that.
“Where the fuck is your head?” He paces his office in the trailer we’ve hauled onsite, pulling his jeans over his paunchy belly and adjusting the bolo tie he wears. Paul Walker is a white guy who dresses like a stereotypical New Mexican cowboy, but it’s all part of his ploy. He likes when people underestimate him. His gray brows furrow as he stops walking and turns to stare up at me. I’ve got at least four inches on him, but the man has a fury that can fill a room as quickly and brutally as any dirt devil. He speaks slowly and methodically when he says, “We need this job to go right. It’s our ticket to the ski resort in Colorado—do you know what kind of pockets these people have?”
“I’ve got this.”
