Page 27 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
“I don’t know what this is,” Dominic half growled with an accusatory glance in my direction, “but you have exactly ten seconds to get the fuck off my property before I?—”
I gasped again.Loudly. And this time, it wasn’t accompanied by a laugh.
The burly man who’d waved at me earlier—the one whose tattoos were peeking out from the frilly collar his thick neck was stuffed through—had made a split-second decision that would haunt my every thought, dream, and decision from now until the end of time.
He’d spat on Dominic.
Right on his face.
For one shocked, breathless second, Dom took a step back and touched his cheek in utter disbelief. Right before the man said, in his horrendously awful Mrs. Doubtfire voice, “You don’t tell me what to do. Get on your knees and beg me to come inside like the little bitch you are.”
I’d inadvertently damned my own soul with this one.
The decisions I’d made leading up to this specific moment in time had all but guaranteed me a lifetime of karmic punishment.
Dominic snapped, charging forward with nothing short of murderous intent, his hands bunched into white-knuckled fists. “Thefuckdid you just say to me?”
I moved without thinking, inserting myself between my shirtless nemesis and his upcoming murder trial. “Dom. DomDomDomDom.”
But he couldn’t hear me. His eyes were pinned to his target, who thankfully had enough sense to realize something was very, very wrong and was now backing up.
“Sorry, man,” he sputtered in his natural baritone, palms raised. “I thought starting off in character would give me an advantage over the group?—”
“You fucking spat on me, asshole! The fuck’s the matter with you!”
Oh, shit. Okay. Yeah. There was a very real chance the situation was about to escalate and spiral out of control.
With no time to think and acting purely on instinct and self-preservation, I placed my hand on his chest. Then, in a tone so soothing it felt like I’d slipped into someone else’s skin, I said, “Dominic. Please stop.”
Three things happened at once.
Despite my fears that he’d simply reach over me and snatch his victim by the throat, Dominic did, in fact, stop. His eyes snapped down to mine. His pulse tapped my palm.
“Don’t,” I pleaded quietly. “It’s just a prank. My fault.” I wet my rapidly drying lips as I braced myself, silently hoping he wasn’t about to push past me.
He didn’t. Instead, his gaze dipped down and traced the nervous flick of my tongue.
One by one, the other sensations started to register.
The hard, smooth feel of marble against my fingers.
The buzzing warmth radiating off his skin.
The harsh, irregular rhythm of his breathing.
And the faint scent of his soap, or cologne, or, um…
“Get off my property.” His chest vibrated with the low, gravelly command. His eyes were still pinned to mine.
Honestly, fair.
I lifted my hand and stepped back. But just as I was about to turn around, Dominic snatched hold of my wrist. His grip wasn’t rough, nor did it hurt. But it was firm enough to let me know he hadn’t been talking to me.
“Now,” he said. Again, while looking directly at me.
“Can I just say,” the tall, lanky one of the group interjected, hands fiddling with the dull chain of his kiss-lock purse. “Some of us got up at three in the morning to dress up and drove out here from out of town. All we’re asking for is a chance to audition.”
He turned to his left and grabbed something out of a large tote bag slung over the bearded one’s shoulder. “Look. We evenbrought our own toilet brushes. We figured whoever can get you off the fastest wins. What do you think?”
