Page 74 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
“Well, deal with it,” she says, dragging her T-shirt over her head. She stops and looks down at herself, mutters, “Fuck,” and tears the T-shirt off. She storms over to her suitcase lying open on a folding luggage rack against the wall. She rummages through it, tossing clothes aside, and then pulls out a pair of black leather pants I recognize.
I sit up in bed and drag a hand through my hair. “Not the armor again,” I say wearily, watching her get dressed.
She barely glances at me. In less time than I’ve seen some bullets hit a target, she’s dressed and pulling on her combat boots.
And I know our little oasis of happiness has vanished like the mirage it was.
I rise, and dress quickly and silently. Then I hear a small electronic alarm chirping somewhere in the room and cock an ear toward the sound. “What’s that?”
Tabby pulls up short. “It’s my phone.” She bolts over to the dresser, snatches up her cell, and stares down at it. When she looks at me, there’s something wild in her eyes. “The traceback program,” she whispers. “It’s compiled its report.”
“Well then,” I say, a brick inside my stomach. “I guess it’s time to go.”
We stare at each other silently across the room, until Tabby nods.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
She turns to leave. I have no choice but to follow.
Twenty-One
Tabby
After a tense elevator ride during which we both said nothing and tried to pretend nothing had happened, we come downstairs to find Ryan doing pushups in the middle of the lobby floor.
Connor stops several feet away and crosses his arms over his chest. “Working off some steam, brother?”
“Fifty,” Ryan grunts. He’s breathing a little harder than normal but doesn’t look as if he’s exerting himself all that much. I’d bet good money he could easily do another fifty more without breaking a sweat. With a pointed look at Connor, he says, “I could ask you the same question, brother.”
He glances at me and then goes back to his pushups.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I say, aggravated because we’re so obvious. I set my hands on my hips and huff out a breath.
Ryan stops at the top of a pushup and gives me some major side-eye. “Exactly,” he drawls.
I throw my hands in the air. “That’s it. He’s your problem,” I say to Connor, and storm off.
Yes, I’m acting nuts. You would be too, if you’d just had the best sex of your life and accidentally said the “L” word to your enemy/fuck buddy in the middle of an FBI investigation into the man who wrecked your trust in humanity and murdered your last living relative.
I really need to rethink this whole no-drinking thing.
I go outside to the valet stand and bark orders at the poor guy on duty to get our Escalade from the garage. When he asks me for my ticket, I snap at him just to bring whichever black Cadillac he finds first.
Then, from behind me, Ryan patiently says, “Here you go.” He presents his parking ticket to the valet guy, who scurries off in search of saner people.
Connor isn’t with Ryan. “Where is he?” I jerk my chin toward the sliding doors.
“Dunno.” Ryan folds his arms over his chest and looks down his nose at me. “Probably in there breakin’ a few heads to make himself feel better about whatever happened between you two upstairs over the last few hours.”
“I slept!”
Ryan snorts. “Yeah? Was that before or after you gutted him like a fish?”
I stare at him, feeling the blood pounding in my cheeks, wishing I had it in me to poke his eyes out with my thumbs.
But I don’t. I actually like the guy.
So damn inconvenient.
