Page 51 of Her Name in Red
“And now campus security is probably looking for you. Or worse, Harlow saw the whole thing and is adding 'violent tendencies' to whatever file he's keeping on me.” I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. “Jesus, Riggs. I don't need you fighting my battles.”
“No one talks about you like that,” he says, his voice hard as granite.
Something flutters in my chest—a dangerous, warm sensation I refuse to acknowledge.
“I've been dealing with this shit for a year,” I snap. “I don't need your bullshit making it worse.”
He steps closer, crowding me against a car. I can smell the gum on his breath, see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “It's not bullshit.”
“Whatever.” I duck under his arm, needing space, needing air. “I'm going home.”
My apartment is fifteen blocks from campus, not a bad walk on a normal day. But today feels anything but normal with Riggs Rhodes trailing me like a persistent shadow, his long legs easily keeping pace no matter how fast I walk.
“Go away,” I say without looking at him.
“No.”
“I'm serious, Riggs.”
“So am I.”
We reach the edge of the student parking lot, and he suddenly jogs ahead, blocking my path.
“Let me drive you,” he says, gesturing toward his beat-up old pickup truck a few spaces away.
“I'd rather walk barefoot through broken glass.”
“Not right now, Maren,” he growls, stepping directly into my path. “Get in the fucking truck and let me drive you home.”
I cross my arms, cocking one hip. “Or what?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble. “I don't have it in me to deal with your badass bitch routine at this moment.” He takes a deep breath, his broad chest expanding beneath his thin t-shirt. “For once, do what the fuck I'm asking without all this extra fucking shit.”
The raw frustration in his voice catches me off guard. It's not the cocky, self-assured Riggs I'm used to dealing with.
“Fine,” I say after a long moment, dropping my arms. “But only because I don't feel like ending up on another campus security camera today.”
Relief flashes across his features before he masks it with his usual smirk. “Smart choice.”
His truck is exactly what you'd expect—faded paint, a dent in the passenger door, and a cracked dashboard that's seen better days. The inside smells like him—like cinnamon gum and that cologne he wears that I refuse to admit does things to me. There's a coffee cup in the holder, a sweatshirt crumpled in the back seat, and what looks like a half-eaten protein bar and a small, worn hockey puck on the dash.
“Your chariot,” he says, unlocking the passenger door with an old-fashioned key. No fancy key fobs for Riggs Rhodes.
I slide onto the worn leather seat, dropping my bag at my feet. “When was the last time you cleaned this thing? The Jurassic period?”
He walks around to the driver's side, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. “I’ve seen your apartment. You have no room to fucking talk.”
Riggs backs out of the space with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the back of my seat. Something so masculine about that, but fuck if it doesn’t turn me on a bit.
We fall into silence as he drives. I stare out the window, watching the campus fade into the slightly shabbier off-campus housing area.
“You know,” Riggs says after a few minutes, his voice deceptively casual, “I was about ten seconds away from fucking throwing you over my shoulder and tying you to the dashboard, all just to fucking drive you home.” He glances over at me, his eyes dark. “Why must you make everything so fucking difficult?”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected and genuine. “You're such a fucking hockey caveman,” I say, shaking my head. “And if you tried that shit, I'd put a skate blade to your balls so fast your head would spin.”
Riggs' grin is slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving the road. “Maybe I'd like it.” His voice drops an octave. “You threatening my balls is probably the hottest thing I've heard all day.”
“You need therapy,” I mutter, but there's no heat behind it. I turn to look out the window, watching the blur of brick apartment buildings and student housing fly by.
