“Wow. Okay. Cheesy. Seriously.”
“Cheese for a little mouse.”
I slap my palms on his chest and shove him out of my path. “Go away, Jester.”
But I’m laughing. Hard. And so is he. Confusing. I’m supposed to be a cold bitch. Defensive. I shouldn’t be standing in Wraith’s living room joking around with a sarcastic, womanizing killer. But here I am, because life’s strange and this is Mayhem and normal rules don’t apply.
“Wait.” He captures my arm as I shove by him. “I gotta warn you.”
My brows slam together. “About?”
“Wraith’s trashed.”
A warning siren screams loud in my brain. “How trashed?”
Jester’s expression darkens. “Enough to help him forget what your prick of a husband did to him.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Did he leave any liquor for anyone else?”
That would require an entire bar’s worth of alcohol.
“Not much.” Shock rivets me to the spot when Jester plants a kiss on the top of my head. He props a finger beneath my chin and lifts my head. “Just want you to know, I may be an asshole, but I’m grateful for what you did.”
Note to self. Do not light a match around this man’s breath.
“Thanks, but dude, how much of that alcohol did you wreck alongside Wraith?”
He drops an arm around my shoulder. “Unfortunately, not enough to steal my best friend’s girl.”
I push away from him and give him a solid shot to the arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
As I march up the stairs, I feel him watch me, and by the time I make it to the landing, I don’t know if I’m shaking because I’m cold or if it’s because I’m scared to death to find out what Wraith is like when he’s drunk.
It’s a thing with me. Until I see someone’s drunk personality, I’m skittish around them when they drink. And yes, I’m aware it’s baggage from my father.
I shiver as I peek in on Wraith and find him sprawled across the bed, passed out fully clothed. My bags are neatly lined up near the closet, but I bypass them and go for old comfy underwear and one of Wraith’s T-shirts. Not to wake him for obvious reasons, I tiptoe down the hall to the guest bathroom for a hot shower. I get as far as peeling off my wet dress when Wraith yells my name like he’s in agony.
My heart freezes, and for a fraction of a second, my mind forgets where we are. It puts us back in Gomorrah. I dart out of the bathroom, but stop midstride and remember we’re safe. We’re in Mayhem. In Wraith’s house. Over a thousand miles separate us from the dungeon.
With a shake of my head, I turn to head back to the bathroom. Wraith’s drunk, not injured. He can wait until after my shower. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
But I hear the bed creak. Heavy, booted footfalls shuffle against the carpet. I turn to see Wraith’s massive body fill the hallway. My God, the man is incredible. His power is casual—a natural part of him, rather than something borrowed through wealth or connections. Take him out of Mayhem and lock him in a cage, and his arrogance and force flourished. Nothing had broken him, and seeing him now, I can’t stop the flood of heat that surges through me when I remember how he’d felt beneath my hands.
But Wraith looks different, and I realize his messy mop of hair is gone. In its place is a cut that showcases his sculpted face.
“What happened to your head?”
“Had one of the guys buzz it.” Wraith rubs a hand over his head. “Why are you naked?”
I meet his scowl with a defiant smirk. “I’m not naked.”
Naked would be better. Instead, I’m wearing the world’s most boring bra in the history of brassieres. In fact, “beige” is too exciting a color for what’s supporting my B-cups. I mean, really, my undergarments are so utterly mundane, they can’t even be classified as panties. They’re the functional cotton sort that comes in a multipack usually found hanging on the back wall of one of those big-box stores.
The sort a Mayhem woman would rather be dead than caught wearing.
But I don’t care about luxury.
Oh, for Christ’s sake. What a load of horse shit.
