Page 34 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
“Dude, if I wasn’t happy with Aubrey, the empty space I’m worried about is between her thighs and not in her head. I mean …”
Walker’s words are drowned out by the noise of the club because I’m on the move without any further thought. The slick-haired bastard is back, and his hands are on her. He has her positioned perfectly against a wall where she can’t escape, and all I can see is fucking red as I move across the crowded space between us.
I don’t even pay attention to whether she’s fighting him off. Can’t tell if she’s kissing him back when his mouth takes hers because all I can think about is that she’s mine. And I don’t even flinch this time as the thought crosses my mind because somewhere in that space of time I’ve determined that I don’t care how fucking long it takes to prove otherwise, but Haddie Montgomery is not going to walk away from me again without a fight.
I immediately know I’m going to regret that personal decree, but I don’t have time to argue with myself because I see her head trying to twist from side to side, her hands shove against Slick’s chest, and I see her knee lift up.
But I have him by the shoulders, and I’m pulling him backward before she gets the chance to even connect. I move on instinct, alcohol fueling my irrationality, and I really don’t give a crap. I’m blinded with anger and disgust, and I shove Slick back up against a wall, the strobe lights making everything seem like it’s happening in slow motion.
“What the fuck?” I shout at the guy, forearm against hi
s chest, other hand gripped firmly in his shirt so that the buttons are popping off. “The lady said no.”
And the goddamn asshole just laughs at me. He has the gall to smirk and chuckle without even coming off like I’ve scared him at all. “Fuck you. I don’t believe more is her saying no, asshole.”
His words shock me somewhat sober. What? Was Haddie wanting this asshole to kiss her?
It’s my name I hear now. Haddie yelling my name over and over breaks through the rush of white noise that’s filling my ears. Her hands on my biceps, holding my cocked arm from propelling forward and into his nose.
And I’m so confused. From him. With her. My mind undergoes a sudden assault—dredging up every one of the five senses of mine that she has marked somehow with her presence—and so I react in the only way that makes sense to my alcohol-influenced mind.
Slick is forgotten in a second. I hear him gasp in a breath, but it’s drowned out by the one that Haddie sucks in as I turn from him and face her. Without even thinking, I have her lifted up and tossed over my shoulder.
I don’t think about her ass hanging out beneath her tiny skirt for the world to see. I don’t care about the event she’s supposed to be managing because frankly it’s well under way, and it seems to me like she’s caring a little too much about the patrons for my liking. I couldn’t care less about her fists pounding on my back, demanding that I put her down or the looks from half-drunk clubgoers that tell me I’m crazy. I don’t care about any of it.
None of it.
Because all I can focus on is the thought of her hands on him and how I want them to be on me instead.
I readjust the grip of my arms over her hips, her fight growing stronger as I wait for the crowd to disperse so that I can walk through without her kicking somebody. The music is so loud, I can’t really hear the curse words I know she’s calling me right now, or maybe I choose not to because I sure as hell hear Walker say, “So much for slow and steady, huh?” as I walk past him.
I just raise my eyebrows and keep moving out the side exit of the club, where a bouncer approaches me and then steps back when I say, “She’s gonna throw up. Watch out.”
And that just makes Haddie struggle more, fists pound harder, and me laugh louder. When I clear the exit, I keep on walking though. Down the sidewalk, the whole two blocks to my conveniently and centrally located condo.
I hear her say Bastard and Put me down and How dare you? I get puzzled looks from passersby, and I am actually quite shocked that not a single one of them tries to stop me to make sure she’s all right and that I’m not some random psycho kidnapping her. Either the crazy-ass grin on my face tells them all is okay or that I am a lunatic and to back the fuck off. Regardless, I’m so busy trying to concentrate on not dropping her squirrely body that I don’t have a moment to think about this narrative on our society as I normally would.
Of course, by the time I walk up the front steps to my building, Haddie’s skirt has inched up so handily that my arm is touching bare flesh, meaning my only line of sight is toned legs and four-inch heels.
I work a swallow down my throat as I wait for the elevator. I debate taking the stairs—think it might be best to work off some of this pent-up lust, which makes me want to take her up against the elevator wall right now—but I know that she’s going to put up a damn good fight—already has—and I’m going to need my strength to make sure she hears me this time around.
Because I’m not letting her go until she hears what I need to say.
And I need to say a whole helluva lot.
Chapter 13
I can’t focus on much. But the few things I take in between my rage and my incessant pounding on his back is Becks being the ever-consummate gentleman as he carries me down the streets of Los Angeles.
Over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
All the while saying, “Good evening,” to people like he’s on a goddamn Sunday stroll.
I’m seething. Fucking bastard.
I’m tired—my head feels like it weighs fifty pounds as I try to lift it up again to work out where we are—and I’m about to succumb to the exhaustion and sag over him from the mixture of too many shots and expending too much energy when all of a sudden, I’m being thrown through the air.
I’m shocked into what I’d like to think is semisobriety—but really is probably far from it—when I land with a loud oof on the softness of a couch beneath me. But soft or not, the impact of my weary muscles against the cushions is jarring. The moment I hit it, though—the minute my mind catches up with my body—I’m scrambling to get up, to get in his face and ask him how dare he treat me like this.
