Page 18 of Hex and the City
LEON
Istirred my cup of noodles. Maybe this time, the water and agitation would turn the dehydrated carrot pieces into something that tasted more edible than rubbery chunks of hot leather. Ideally, some day I might even get to afford proper ramen that came in a bowl, prepared by an actual person in a restaurant. No slow death by way of too much sodium, no more mummified vegetables.
The whole time, Max fussed over his side of the room, carefully laying out his clothes on his bed, smoothing out any creases. You know, like a serial killer. His leather jacket squeaked as he shrugged it off. I shoved a forkful of noodles into my mouth to stifle my reaction, suffering through the piping-hot broth.
See, I knew from our initial scrap that Max was hiding a good body under all those clothes. I just wasn’t quite prepared for how good it was. The man clearly had no shortage of protein in his diet, his white ribbed tank top hugging the curves of his torso in a ridiculously pornographic way.
The ends were tucked into his jeans, too. Broad shoulders, tiny waist, his torso tapering with the slope of those powerful muscles on his back, at his sides. Max was shaped like a slice of pizza, or a sexy corn chip. Very confusing imagery for me, really. Couldn’t decide if it made me hungry or horny. Both, probably.
How the hell was I supposed to survive a whole night in here with this stud?
The muscles in his arms bulged as he gave his leather jacket the same treatment, spreading it out over the sheets, smoothing out the wrinkles. He had to bend over slightly to do that, which gave me a clear view of his butt, now that the jacket was out of the way. My man did squats. Lots and lots of squats. Those jeans were entirely too tight. Not fair.
Max turned around. I blinked, then glanced away, slurping on another mouthful of noodles. The bulge in the back was appealing enough. I didn’t need him catching me studying whatever he was packing in the front. He cocked his eyebrow at me as he sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the strap of his watch.
“Fancy watch you got there,” I said, trying to change the subject, except that there was no subject. No prior conversation, either, just the awful, perverted thoughts running through my mind.
“I’ve got good taste,” he grumbled, unclasping the leather strap before gently placing it on the side table between our beds.
The watch face was large, as was the style with men’s accessories, the glass gleaming under the lamplight. But the metal rim looked so old and murky. Silvery and bright, once upon a time, now dirty from neglect. It reminded me of the native brass jewelry the Alcantara witches would sometimes use in rituals, of colonial-style candlesticks that served the same purpose, except those were kept polished and bright. To show the spirits respect, as my mother would say.
“Good taste?” I smirked, licking my lips, sweeping away the salty, allegedly chicken-flavored broth. “That thing looks like it’s a hundred years old. Kind of grungy, all that dark stuff. Maybe give it a good polish.”
Max stiffened, though his frown never changed. “Shows what you know. It’s called a patina, comes naturally when the metal is exposed to the elements. That’s the beauty of owning a watch with a platinum bezel. Every patina is different. The discoloration is part of the appeal.”
Patina? Bezel? He could have been speaking a completely different language, calling on the names of long-forgotten demons. I slurped up another mouthful of noodles, chewing slowly in thought.
“You know, if you’re too lazy, I could polish that right out for you.” I shrugged, stirring my cup. “Used to polish the candlesticks back home, one of my jobs when I was still too little to join the ceremonies. Lots of work in witchcraft. It’s not always about the spellcasting.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He bolted from the bed and grabbed the watch, cradling it to his chest as if I could have somehow sprung ten feet in a split-second to reach it first. I lifted my hands, fork upraised, feeling ridiculous about having to placate the man with the grubby watch.
“Whoa. Okay, big guy. I’m flattered that you think I’m speedy enough to steal it right from under you, but I’m not that good.”
Max scoffed as he laid the watch back down. “You couldn’t even secure the bag from the Smith house. But considering how unprepared you were, I’m hardly surprised.”
My hunger faded, replaced by anger. Hanger. I set my noodles down, stood up, and strode over. “I work my way,” I told him, the two of us meeting in the center of the room. “You work yours. Not that your method is any better. All that preparation and you couldn’t grab the bag, either.”
He jabbed a finger at the air right in front of my face. “Because you got in the way.”
“That bag would have been mine if you hadn’t interfered. You got in the way first, Max.Youdid.”
My finger jabbed at his chest before I could stop myself. He stared at me aghast, like he was shocked I was fighting back. What a jerk, this Maximilian Drake, so used to bullying others just because he was bigger, stronger, taller, darker, handsomer — damn it. I clenched my fists, sucked in a long breath.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” I told him. “I can use my words.”
He backed away a step, scowling. Good. Some part of him was still scared of me, of my unfamiliar foreign hexes. I could use my words, all right. I still regretted doing that, though, the chest jabbing. Not because of the retaliation that might follow, but because of how it confirmed that he truly was a walking slab of muscle.
I forced myself to glare him in the eye, too afraid of what I might do if I allowed my gaze to linger on that tempting groove in the middle of his chest. The one separating his perfect pectorals, the one that invited me to run a finger down the entire length of his torso, all the way to his —
“Just stay on your side of the room,” Max said. “And I can’t believe I just said that out loud, but you’re behaving like a brat, and you deserve to be treated like one.”
I bared my teeth at him, standing on the balls of my feet. “Oh, yeah? Well, you should stay on your side of the room, on that awful, squeaky bed, with all your stuff draped all over it. Are you unpacking or setting up for a yard sale?”
He raked a hand through his hair, gestured angrily at the general vicinity of my bed. “Says the guy with all the crap and junk food. Have fun sleeping in a pile of cookie crumbs, you whiny baby.”
“Fine!” I stomped my foot, proving his point, and thoroughly hating that I was proving his point. “I will. Iwillsleep in a pile of crumbs. God, you’re so annoying.”
