Page 41 of Broken Lines

He grunts as he takes a swig of his whiskey.

“How about you make yourself useful, girl who couldn’t get a job at Rolling Stone.”

I glare at him.

“Who says I couldn’t—”

“You mean aside from the fact that you’re working fornotthe biggest music magazine, but one of their way-less-popular competitors? Yeah, lucky guess.”

My lips purse.

“May I continue?”

I roll my eyes. “Why not.”

“As I was saying, why don’t you make yourself useful—”

“If this is your way of asking for sexual favors again, this is going to get ugly for you real fast, asshole.”

“That was my way of segueing into the suggestion that you clean up the kitchen or do the dishes or something. But the way you seem so eager to always bring it back to the realm of sex has me gettingverycozy with the idea of fucking that mouth instead.”

I couldn’t contain the way my face heats like a furnace or stop my jaw from dropping at his utter audacity even if I tried.

Which, I apparently can’t do around him, at all. Contain myself, that is. Myself, or the way my pulse races. Or the way even being in the same room as this man poisons my very thoughts to inky black filth.

I have no answer to the sexual part—as in I literally don’t know how to respond to it without embarrassing myself or flubbing over my words. So, I skip that and delve into the first part.

“You want me to clean your kitchen?”

“It was one of two suggestions. Don’t forget you have options.”

I swallow thickly as my skin tingles with a forbidden, scandalized heat. Completely stepping over the invitation to blow him, of course, I want to lash out at Jackson for the absurdity of wanting me to be his maid.

And yet, as much as it boils my blood to even admit it to myself, he’s notwrong. I’m not a guest here. Actually, being that I showed up unannounced, I’m not even a journalistic interviewer right now. More like paparazzi just showing up at some famous person’s house. And I need to actually recognize that.

Yes, Jackson is a royal dickhead—King Asshole. But, to his credit, Ididshow up announced to demand an interview with a man who clearly doesn’t even want to be found. And I’m here for the night because I screwed up.I’mthe one that lost the boat.

So yes, while he’s an annoying prick, I am putting him out a little bit. The least I can do is clean up or something, right?

I clear my throat smiling as I turn away from the heap of dirty dishes in the sink, back to him.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

He lifts one single, hungry brow, and my core throbs.

“The dishes, asshole,” I mutter.

Jackson smirks, saying nothing. At least, nothing audible.

The predatory glint in his eyes says enough.

He finishes off the last of his steak and stands, bringing his plate to the sink and adding it to the pile with a flourish—for me, I’m sure.

He turns to lean against the counter as his gaze settles on me. My eyes slip over the way his t-shirt clings around bulging biceps covered in tattoo ink; his arms folded over his broad chest. I shiver quietly.

Sweet Jesus, it’s impossible to even be in the same room as this man without feeling his effects. And once again, all I can think of is how fuckingunfairit is that a dark power like Jackson was unleashed on the masses across TV and airwaves.

The public never stood achancewith him.

---