Page 82 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Worse. Come on, the sooner we go in, the sooner it’ll be over with.”
When I balk, he adds, “I have one word for you, Angel.” He lowers his head and looks at me from under his brows.
Regretting I ever mentioned it, I exhale heavily. “Trust.”
“Bingo. Now loosen that Vulcan death grip you’ve got on my hand. You’re cuttin’ off the circulation in the right side of my body.”
He turns and drags me inside. As soon as we’re over the threshold, the steel door slides shut behind us. We’re swallowed in shadows. It’s cool and dim inside, the cement floor polished to a subtle sheen. As we walk farther, my eyes adjust. I glimpse black computer towers extending the length of one wall in blinking, softly humming rows. Dozens of cubicles on the east wall house hard-jawed men wearing headphones, staring at computer screens. Another wall has a huge collection of weaponry displayed behind glass cases.
“Wow,” I murmur.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Yes. There’s enough free-floating testosterone in this place to get a convent of nuns ovulating in sync.”
Ryan wrinkles his nose. “Don’t be sacrilegious. Nuns don’t ovulate.”
When he doesn’t smile, I say, “Please tell me that was a joke.”
“What do you mean?”
“God, you’re serious.”
“Why would they ovulate if they don’t ever have sex?” His voice rises. “Hey, Connor. Back me up, here, brother. Nuns don’t ovulate, right?”
A few steps in front of us, Connor stops short. He turns and looks first at Ryan, then at me. He points to his own face. “You see how I don’t look surprised by that question?”
“I’m guessing these little gems of his aren’t that unusual.”
“It’s not that he’s dumb, don’t get it wrong,” Connor says. “The man’s got an IQ of 156, which, by any standards, is way above genius level. Einstein himself clocked in at about 160.”
“Funny you should mention Einstein, I was just thinking about him on the way over.”
“Uh, guys? You realize I’m standin’ right here, right?”
We ignore him. “It’s just that he has no idea—literally, none—about the inner workings of the female body,” Connor says.
Ryan extravagantly rolls his eyes. “Excuse me for not bein’ a gynecologist!”
“Don’t they teach sex education in schools in the United States?” I ask Connor, genuinely curious.
“Oh yeah. But this one gets weirdly squeamish at any mention of menstruation, so his mother had to write him a note to get him out of the days in class where the teacher covered it.”
My brows lifted as high as they can go, I look at Ryan.
He’s glaring at Connor. “Bro,” he says accusingly.
Smiling, Connor replies, “It’s one of my favorite stories.”
“You’re not supposed to tell anyone!”
“She’s not anyone.” He glances at our clasped hands. “She’s your girl.”
Ryan is in a kerfuffle for a moment after that, unsure of how to respond. “Fine, but just don’t tell her I’m afraid of spiders!”
“You’re afraid of spiders?” I ask laughingly.
“Screams like a little girl when he sees one.”
