Page 32 of The Love You Hate
“Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll stop.” I can feel her words brush across my face. Her sweet breath luring me in like a deadly trap.
I have to work to swallow because my whole body is humming with anticipation. My libido is nearly completely defrosted after years of dormancy, and all I feel is fire. “I don’t want other men touching you,” I repeat. It’s the only safe statement that doesn’t blow this all to bits.
“Do you want to touch me?”
I nod, let my lids open, and meet her eyes—a mistake. “Yes.” Another mistake.
Presley bites her bottom lip. “I’m happy to report that it’s against the rules to touch the dancers at Spankies. It’s eyeballs only. No need to be jealous.” She raises one questioning brow. What reaction does she want?
I pull away enough to read her full expression. “What do you think happens in the back rooms?”
She raises one brow. “You’ve been inside Spankies to know they have back rooms?” Presley gasps. “You’ve been in the back rooms?” Ah, a spark of jealousy stokes the flames.
I roll my eyes, letting irritation tamp down the desire. “Of course not. That place is trashy. There are back rooms at all strip clubs. It’s basic knowledge. I can’t speak for Spankies, but many allow sex for money. A place of this caliber? I wouldn’t doubt they allow full-blown prostitution.” Rage boils when I realize she’s set on this, and her mind is made up. “You’re ready to fuck for cash just to live out your innocent, naked dancing fantasy?”
“Stripping is hardly innocent, and it won’t be a fantasy for much longer. I’m going tomorrow after work to audition.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and untangle myself from her hands. Sitting on the love seat, something hard hits me in the back. Reaching behind me, I pull up a handgun. When I balance it on my palm in front of me, extending it to Presley, she looks like she got caught.“For protection, obviously. The incident with Rayleen surely isn’t the last. I just moved here for God’s sake. I need to start conceal carrying.” An uneasy feeling washes over me when she grabs it from my hand. Unnatural. I am the protector, and I know damn well she shouldn’t have a weapon.
“Do you know how to use it?” I clear my throat. “You shouldn’t have itlyingaround. Conceal carry probably isn’t a good idea either.” Presley and weapons being in the same vicinity isn’t something I want as her bodyguard nor would my bosses appreciate.
She scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. “I know how to use it. I wish I didn’t. Before I moved here, I had security,” she says, gasping, and covering her mouth with her free hand. “I mean, my building had security, I didn’t have personal security. The apartment building I lived in had a security guard that buzzed people in.” She’s trying to fix her blunder. “I felt safe. I don’t feel safe in Gold Hawke.” Looking down at the gun she mumbles, “except when I’m with you.”
“Working at a strip club isn’t the picture of safety,” I hiss, clenching my hands into fists. “You must only care about being safe sometimes.” There’s something here, about her feeling safe with me and not knowing I’m her fucking bodyguard. I’d love to call her out on it, but it doesn’t serve my cause. Especially not now that I’m trying to conceal a boner and my temper at the same time.
“Now that I know you care about me in at least a small capacity, I was hoping you’d come with me when I worked at Spankies. You know, if I even get the dancing job. Even if it’s just for a week. I have to try it. It’s a raunchy pipedream. Be my protector,” she pleads, kneeling in front of me, placing her hands on my knees, looking up at me with big, beautiful eyes. “Please.” She clasps her hands together under her chin.
I groan, leaning back on the uncomfortable couch and locking my hands behind my head. “Why would you ask that of me? You do realize before we were friends, I had a life and other things to do.”
“If you’re too busy, that’s fine. I’m sure I’ll make another friend at Spankies. I just wanted to ask you because you’re the only person I trust.” The irony is I’m also lying to her the most as well.
Her face is close to my dick. Her hands are on my legs. I want her mouth on my cock. Fuck. Where did that thought come from? I stand and turn out of her grasp. “Whatever. Just because you feel safe when you’re with me doesn’t mean you’re actually safe,” I say, opening the front door and peering out. “I’m going to get going. Don’t shoot your eye out with that thing while I sleep, okay? I’ll let the garden die if you don’t make it.”
“How rude.” Presley pouts out her bottom lip. “You’re sure Rayleen isn’t coming back over here tonight? I don’t know why she thought I’d fuck her husband. It really is baffling.”
Grinning, I say, “Because she confused you with Verna. You guys do look the same.”
Her jaw drops. “The old woman who hangs around the General Store? That’s who is having sex with Rayleen’s husband?”
“Yep. You’re the spitting image, too. I get why she went after you.”
Presley picks up a pillow and tosses it at me with her free hand. “Get out,you big ogre. I hope she mistakes you for Frank on your walk back home.”
“She’d never shoot Frank. Don’t you know anything about these people? They play by a fucked-up set of rules.” I lick my lips. “But you know that. I mean, you’re going to be employed at Spankies. They’ll count you as one of the natives. I can’t wait until every man in Gold Hawke is talking about your pussy. Won’t that be fun?”
More wide mouth gaping. “If I didn’t want to kiss you so bad, I’d kill you, Nate Sullivan.” Presley sets the gun down on the counter nearest us. “That was crass,” she says, but I’m stuck on the first part.
Kiss me? Kiss me? Let me out. I need to get out. “I’ll see you in the morning. Lock the door behind me.” I give the last order without thinking. It’s a Charge Man demand, not a friendly request. Closing the door behind me, I don’t pause to even consider smoothing it over. It means at least part of my brain is still functioning in a bodyguard capacity. That’s something I shouldn’t take for granted when my dick is fucking up most everything else. My cell phone ringer startles me from my disjointed thoughts. It’s a work number.
“Sullivan,” I clip, ducking behind her neighbor’s trailer to cut the wind.
My boss clears his throat. “Everything okay?”
I crinkle my brow. “My report was on time,” I counter. “What do you mean?”
“Your tracker has you at the Principal’s place of residence. Late. After the reports over the past few days, and with the suspicious tracking device placed on your vehicle, the program wants even more oversight on your operations.” As if my stomach wasn’t in enough knots, this just adds to the stress. Worse still, I can’t talk to anyone about how I’m feeling without blowing the whole thing to bits.
“I was over at the Principal’s residence to check in. The Principal is safe.” We are trained to never use other descriptors. Only safe or not safe. That’s the only words that matter. “I did a short welfare check as she has expressed concern about being afraid at nighttime. Like I mentioned in my report.” Stick to the details they know and cold hard facts. Nothing extra.
