Page 15 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
“Nope, I’m just fucking peachy. I’ll call you when I’m in town tomorrow.”
“Becks, wait! I don’t unders—”
“Your rules. I sure hope they’re clear to you. Good night.”
When I hang up the phone, a mixture of anger and relief sits unsettled in my gut. Whatever. Bygones. I toss the phone on the counter and take a long pull on my beer.
“‘Peachy’?” I cringe at the sound of Walker’s voice. The eavesdropping little fucker. “Who was that?”
“Shut the fuck up, dude.” I toss my bottle cap at him. “None of your business.”
Chapter 6
Just fucking peachy?
If there’s supposed to be no strings—which was my own rule, for God’s sake—then why am I standing here staring at Becks’ phone, upset at his nonchalance about last night?
Shit, he has every right to be an asshole to me. I groan at the irony that today of all days Dante would show up and then answer my damn phone.
Beckett’s damn phone.
I rest a hip against the kitchen counter, and as much as I tell my head not to go there, I can’t help the thoughts and images playing in a loop from last night. I remember looking up at him as his arms flexed on either side of my body, filling me, challenging me, satisfying me.
I groan again, trying to shake both the ache from my core and the disquiet, knowing Becks is pissed off. I clench my jaw and shake my head. I shouldn’t care that he’s upset, shouldn’t give a flying fuck that he was snide with me. Whatever. This is exactly what I feared was going to happen. Weirdness between us.
I shake my head in frustration. Can’t a girl get a guy to give her a little dick without thinking that he deserves more?
I sigh out loud, the snarkiness starting to abate and the guilt starting to walk over the well-worn welcome mat laid out for today.
Dante laughs at something he’s watching on the TV in the other room, and I immediately roll my eyes.
Fuck.
I can’t imagine what Becks is thinking right now. I glance down at his phone in my hand and can see how I made the mistake of grabbing the wrong one. I look over to the kitchen counter, where my jeweled phone case rests. The one I took off yesterday so that I could slip my phone into my bra under my dress undetected.
My internal debate over whether to call him back and explain Dante’s presence is almost decided, finger ready to dial, when Dante himself asks the question I’m trying to figure out myself.
“Who was that?”
I look over to him leaning against the doorframe into the kitchen. Hands shoved into his pockets, pushing them to ride low on his hips, a hint of the toned and inked abs beneath showing. He smirks when he sees my eyes dart down to the span of skin. Confidence is something he most definitely doesn’t lack.
“Good question,” I murmur mostly to myself as I try to figure out the answer as well as why I have so many unsettled feelings.
Dante snorts out in amusement. “Babe, you have his fucking phone, so it’s kind of obvious he is somebody.”
What exactly he is to me though, is the damn question. I pull my head from the land of orgasms and what-ifs and tell myself I must be too damn close to my period if I’m this wishy-washy over sex that’s just supposed to be sex.
Head straight, libido on lock down, Montgomery. I look back and focus on Dante—a hot but royal pain in my ass—trying to dig for information and, by the look in his eyes, possibly wanting something more. Dante may see a vacancy sign flashing above my head, but he’d better think again because I’ve grown from the mesmerized girl he once dated. I might have once thrived on the reckless nature of who we were together—living on the edge, sharp words followed by hotter than hell makeup sex. Explosive emotions calmed momentarily for the coveted few days of peace before the cycle started all over again.
I break our connection and glance away; my mind immediately moves back to Becks and the hint of things I don’t deserve. I push all thoughts away and toss the phone on the counter, the thud of it echoing into the emptiness I feel inside of me. “Nah, he’s nothing. Just a mistake.”
“I do believe you used those same words to describe me once,” he says, suggestion in his tone as he makes his way across the kitchen.
“Ha. Exactly. And look where that got me.” I know that look in his eyes, know exactly what that predatory purpose in his walk means, and I grip the edge of the counter, uncertain what I’m holding on for.
I suck in an anticipatory breath as he steps in front of me and places his hands on the counter between my hips and my own hands resting there. “Care for me to show you just how good of a mistake I can be again?” The tenor of his voice washes over me. The pure maleness he exudes tugs momentarily, tempting me to use him as a means to quiet the riot of confusion I’m feeling over Becks.
Use one to forget the other. Yeah, that’s real classy. What is my problem?
