“I’m not dancing,” Renae snaps, her hand on the doorknob. “It’s not in my job description, and you don’t pay me enough.”
“Fine.” I sigh. “Just get her a drink, and I’ll be right down.”
She jerks her chin. Then one corner of her mouth lifts into a smirk. “Tell Jordan I said hi.”
Before I can reply, she shuts the door, cutting off my girl Lizzo and leaving me in silence since the phone stopped ringing. But before I can move toward the door, it starts again.
“Dammit,” I growl, not even bothering to glance at the screen. I tap the answer button and press the cell to my ear. “What?”
My newest best friend—three-time NBA champion, all-star power forward of the Nuggets, resident pain in my ass, and onetime one-night stand, Jordan Ransom—laughs in my ear. The dark, filthy baritone rolls over me like sin wrapped in midnight, hiding sweaty secrets and dirty acts. Since no one is in here to witness it, I permit a shiver to ripple through me without hiding it. But that’s my only concession. Because friends don’t have orgasmic shivers over their friends.
But damn.
Jordan Ransom.
Whether a person is a basketball fan or not, most people recognize the inked, pierced Viking that is number forty-seven on the MileHigh City’s professional NBA team. Closer to seven feet than six, broad shouldered, slender hipped, with powerful thighs and calves, and with nearly every inch of him covered in tattoos and piercings. As if that weren’t enough, he possesses the face of a northern pagan god who requires sacrifices of mead, raucous celebration, and sex.
He’s more.
He’s living, electric art. And not just because of the vivid tattoos sprawled over his skin. He’s so ... vibrant. Drawn in broad, bold strokes that demand attention. Painted in screaming slashes of color that refuse to be ignored.
I don’t need him before me to picture those beautiful yet almost harshly sculpted features. They could’ve been carved from the rock of his Nordic ancestors’ homeland, the same ones who handed down those brilliant blue eyes, arrogant blade of nose with its thin nostrils, and wide, hard mouth that could be brutal and raw in one moment and hot and wild in another.
Not only does Jordan Ransom look like a pagan deity with his dark-blond mohawk; he also possesses the carnal appetite to match.
And I say that from experience. I know how it is to fuck a god.
“Why hello, my lil harpy-flavored gumdrop. I’ve missed you too.”
Again, since no one is here to witness it, I grin at the ridiculous nickname. And do my best to ignore the pitch and roll of my belly at the ever-present rumble in the low timbre of his voice. Friends. After that crazy, insanely hot night together, we agreed that we would never go there again and remain friends. Yet nothing about that syrupy warm coil and tumble in my stomach isfriendly.
Even though he’s on the phone and not in front of me, I roll my eyes. “You say that like I didn’t just see you three hours ago. What do you want?”
His heavy and Oscar-worthy sigh echoes in my ear. “This is what I get for being concerned about you. And women wonder why men are afraid to be emotional creatures. We get slapped down at every turn.”
I snort. “Yes, yes. It is our fault that men are emotionally constipated creatures. I accept the blame and apologize on behalf of all womankind. Now, really, Ragnar,” I drawl, dropping my own nickname, as he does resemble the Viking character from one of my favorite historical TV shows. Well, except for the whole pillaging, ransacking, and killing thing. According to his reputation, though, he has the whoring thing down. “I’m working; what do you want?”
“I’m checking in on you. Seeing how it’s going,” he says, all hints of teasing and humor evaporating from his voice. I swear, that ability of his—flipping the switch from laid-back, happy-go-lucky celebrity athlete to the serious man who radiates intensity—can be unnerving. “I know my boys can be fucking high maintenance, especially by insisting only you handle their breakups.”
“Yeah, well, fortunately, most of you stay true to form and do your fuck ’n’ flees. Because if I had to dump every one-night stand, I would be busy from the time I opened my eyes and had my morning caramel frap.”
A beat of silence reverberates down our connection like a staticky heartbeat. It’s thick and tangled with so much tension it’s almost audible. I frown. “Hey, are—”
“What’s this ‘most of you’ shit?” he asks.
The question is calm, even containing a faint hint of humor. Still, Monica Nelson didn’t raise an idiot—an emotionally repressed, socially inappropriate nerd, yes, but not an idiot. And I catch the steel threading through his tone like the finest wire.
My lips pop closed around my question, and that warm coil in my stomach? It tightens ... and heats. A normal person would heed that hard note and back off. Make excuses; switch the subject.
Me, though?
No one has ever accused me of being normal. Not when I was the only twelve-year-old in my ninth-grade class. Or when I sat in freshmen orientation at the University of Denver at the age of sixteen.
Not at seventeen, when I created my own special stink bomb for a certain campus football house that had the house and its tenants smelling like day-old shit for weeks.
Or when I crashed a matchmaking event and handed out BURNED business cards—y’know, juuuust in case. Almost got arrested for my trouble. And yeah, that was last year.
So no,normalusually isn’t connected with my name. Which is why I ignore the steel in his voice and forge ahead, convincing myself that the thrilling little tug pulling taut low in my belly isn’t anticipation or excitement. Friends don’t feel that for each other either ... not unless tacos are involved.
