I’m holding onto my towel for dear life but moaning softly into Bronx’s mouth when my cell phone suddenly vibrates against the marble of the bathroom counter.
“Don’t fucking answer it,” he says with a gritty voice into my mouth.
My heart pounds.
A part of me doesn’t want to stop, but common sense prevails. This shouldn’t go any further. Bronx feels like a blustery winter storm ready to leave complete damage in his wake as he rolls through my life.
“But it could be Ruby,” I say.
“It is Ruby.”
“Then why shouldn’t I answer it?”
“Because she’s calling to tell you that there’s a piece of shit laying unconscious on her lawn, but I’m telling you not to answer the call because there ain’t shit you can do about it.”
“What did you do?” I ask, backing away from him, petrified of the hell that I may have just unleashed in the life of the only person who’s ever tried to look out for me–Ruby.
He trains his stormy pupils on me.
“What did I do?”
“Yes,” I say firmly.
“I handled Ray.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know what it fucking means.”
“No, I don’t.”
I take another step back.
“Why do you continue with this act as if you’re Dorothy from the Wizard Of Oz who doesn’t know her ass from her elbow?” He practically spits the rhetorical question at me.
“I don’t know what your problem is, but I never asked you to go to Ruby’s to handle Ray. You insisted. I would have gladly taken care of it.”
“That’s fucking funny because it seems like when you take care of things, you get black eyes and thrown out of your own damn house.”
“I wasn’t thrown out; I left!”
“If that’s what you want to believe.”
I wipe away any trace of the kiss we just had with the back of my hand. I never asked Bronx to do me any favors but find my brother, and I’m willing to pay for that. In fact, at this point, I think I should.
I suck my teeth in defiance and try reaching for my phone again when this time he grabs the edge of my towel to stop me.
I wasn’t expecting it so the heavy piece of cotton lands with a thud to the floor, and before I know it Bronx’s hands are gripping the backs of my bare thighs, pulling me closer to him.
A better woman would knee him in the chin so he’d bite his own tongue. But clearly there’s something wrong with me. A defect. Which explains why I constantly attract the wrong men and why I’m so inexplicably attracted to this jackass right now.
“I told you not to answer the phone,” he says softly this time, his lips ever-so-slightly brushing against the skin of my abdomen.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m calming down,” he responds.
“I need my towel,” I say, to remind him and myself that once again I’m inappropriately nude.
