Page 49 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
Then there was a sharp knock on my window.
Trace leaned over and looked into the car. “Uh, Bianca? You gonna sit out here all night or are you coming in?”
I should’ve guessed Trace wouldn’t be threatened by the sight of me kissing another man. His ego was bigger than the state of Louisiana. I said, “It’s none of your business what I do, Trace Adams!”
Trace pouted. “I need to talk to you, bumble bee.”
Jackson asked me, “Do you want to talk to him, Bianca?”
“No! Not now, not ever!”
Trace said, “Of course you do. You’re just being stubborn.”
Jackson growled, opened his door, and exited the car.
I said to no one in particular, “Uh-oh.”
Across the top of the car, Jackson said to Trace, “You have ten seconds to get the fuck away from that window before I make you a fist sandwich and shove it down your throat, my friend.”
Slowly Trace straightened. All I could see on either side of me was half a man’s body, torsos and legs and muscular arms, hands curled to fists.
Trace said to Jackson, “I don’t know who you are, asshole, but nobody talks to me like that.”
Jackson said, “And nobody calls me ‘asshole.’”
“Oh,” said Trace, “ain’t you an asshole? Because from where I’m standing, you sure look like one.”
Deadly soft, Jackson replied, “And from where I’m standing, you’re looking like you’re one dumb remark away from a visit to the emergency room.”
Okay, I thought. Time to intervene before we’re on the morning news.
I unlocked my door and popped out of the car, missing Trace’s crotch by a hair as I swung the door open. I looked up at him and said crossly, “Excuse me, person who claims to have found God, but your ratty old soul is showing!”
Trace said cajolingly, “Bumble bee—”
“Don’t you ‘bumble bee’ me! I told you the last time I saw you to leave me alone! I never want to see you again!”
Trace folded his arms across his chest and looked down at me with a smug expression. Before he even said it, I knew what was going to come out of his mouth.
He drawled, “Your mama told me different.”
I’m not a violent person, but my palm sure did itch to make contact with the side of his pretty, self-satisfied face. I said, “Just because trash can be recycled doesn’t mean you deserve another chance.”
Behind me, Jackson snorted.
Trace flicked his gaze to Jackson, glared at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to me. “Fine,” he said. “I can see you’re not going to be reasonable in front the asshole. So why don’t you give me a call when he isn’t around.”
Then he dismissively jerked his chin at Jackson and turned around and sauntered away down the sidewalk.
Jackson watched him go with a tense, coiled readiness, dangerous as a cobra about to strike.
Trace hopped on a motorcycle parked at the curb two houses down, gunned it to life, then burned rubber and roared off down the street.
“Ooh,” I said, watching him go. “How manly.” I made a retching noise and headed for the house.
I retrieved my spare key from the hide-a-key that looked like a rock hidden under a shrub next to the patio, then climbed the steps and unlocked the front door. When I turned around, Jackson was slowly climbing the porch steps, flexing his hands like he was trying to release tension from them.
I said, “I’m sorry. That was embarrassing.”
