Page 89 of Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games 2)
We get in the elevator. The doors slide shut. Connor presses the button for the ground floor. We stand beside each other, subjected to a truly hideous Muzak rendition of the Rolling Stone’s song “Under My Thumb” as the car descends.
I try not to read any significance into it.
When the doors open, Connor asks, “Where to?”
His assumption that wherever I’m going, he’s going doesn’t irk me as much as it should. In fact, I’m grateful for it.
I don’t want to be alone with my brain right now. I can’t trust it. I don’t know what tricks it might play on me, what rabid-dog memories it might decide to unleash.
“A bar,” I decide in a flash of inspiration. I look at Connor. “Take me to a bar.”
He slow blinks, rubs his hand over the stubble darkening his jaw. “Thought you didn’t drink alcohol, princess.”
I shoulder past him on my way toward the lobby doors, and freedom. “Yeah, well, that was then and this is now.”
“Sure thing,” he calls from behind me, his voice wry. “Let me just put on my neck brace, and I’ll catch up.”
For the first time in hours—days?—a smile lights my face. It’s faint, but it’s there, and it’s because of Connor.
My good “friend” Connor, who I might actually like, need, and want a hell of a lot more than I’ll ever admit.
Because if anything goes wrong with O’Doul’s plan to capture Søren, I’ll have to intervene.
And then I’ll never be seeing my “friend” again.
I stare in utter disgust at the shot glass in my hand. It’s half full of a vile, black substance called Jäegermeister, the aftertaste of which is still searing my nostrils and throat with a bitter, cough-syrup flavor more suited to poison than a food product.
“That is absolutely the most revolting thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. How do people drink this shit? And why would you pay for it? Yuck!”
Sitting across from me in the booth at the trendy bar he chose, Connor chuckles. “You’re not supposed to sip it. You’re supposed to shoot it, like an oyster. Down the hatch in one swallow.”
I shake my head and gulp water from the glass the waitress brought with the drinks. “Holy crispy pork belly Christ. It’s beyond foul. It tastes like melted crayon and mint mouthwash. With some licorice and funky barnyard herbs mixed in just to make it even more disgusting. How can they sell this to the public? I bet it causes cancer!”
Connor leans back, swirls his whiskey around in the glass, sniffs it, and then takes a swig. “Guess it’s an acquired taste,” he drawls, sounding suspiciously like he’s holding back laughter.
I glance sharply at him. He stares back at me with a bland expression but brightly twinkling eyes.
“You…oh my God. You dick.”
He blinks innocently. “What?”
“You picked the worst drink for me, didn’t you?”
A dent forms in his cheek.
I recognize that fucking dent. And now I want to slap him…although part of me also thinks it’s funny. I can absolutely see myself doing the same thing to him if the situation were reversed.
“You could make a girl schizophrenic, you know that?” I mutter, glaring at him.
“Me?” He snorts. “Uh, hello pot, meet kettle.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“Don’t tempt me. Seriously, I’ll lay you flat on your back on the floor in front of all these pretty yuppies before you can say ‘steroids are my soul mate.’”
He snorts again, louder. “I don’t take steroids, Tabby. These muscles?” He makes a show of flexing his arms so his biceps pop out, big as boulders. “These babies are one hundred percent bonafide. I’m just genetically blessed.”
