CHAPTER20
MAXINE
What the fuck kind of luck do I have that the only man who has made me feel anything other than disgust is a raging psycho with a white knight complex?
I’m so mad, I could scream, but I won’t give him the satisfaction, so instead, I throw myself onto the bed and bite the shit out of one of the pillows. He acts like I’m helpless. All the crap he brought up was just a run of bad luck, not a sign that I need a babysitter.
Seconds into my temper tantrum, I sit up and kick my shoes off before folding my legs underneath me. This will solve absolutely nothing. I need to be smart and use everything he told me to my advantage, but I don’t know how to do that yet.
I wish I had my phone or computer. I could write down the shit that’s fresh in my head and examine it later when I can think straight. A snort of disgust flies from my nose. He probably has both.
I really hope he didn’t get into my password protected note app. A groan of embarrassment works its way up my throat. I wrote down errant thoughts and observations about him, including his physical appearance. When I think about the tidbit I jotted down about how his scars actually added to his appeal, I want to crawl in a hole.
I vacillate between sulking and being pissed, until I finally come to some sort of acceptance that he’s had access to thoughts I never imagined anyone else would read. There’s a sense of violation I can’t scrub though.
Instead of dwelling on what I can’t control, I focus on the things I learned about Winger. He never denied being part of a criminal organization, and he also admitted to owning the club registered under Rex Holdings. Does that mean he’s the head cheese? He must have a lot of connections, even if he isn’t.
He got defensive when I mentioned Expensive Taste and the girl. I’m betting they are his family or close to it. Maybe I can use that and find a way to threaten them, so we both have equal stakes and he’ll be forced to let me go.
After hours of going over options and ideas, I come up with the only thing I think might work—I’ll pretend to play along and let him think he’s running the show, but I will spend every second looking for his weaknesses and finding a way to not only prove him wrong, but also make sure he doesn’t have any power over me.
* * *
I swallow my pride,telling myself this is all part of the plan, and try my doorknob. I didn’t hear him put the padlock on, but I was in the bathroom a few times and could have missed it.
It swings open, and my relief is instant. I scan the living room, expecting him to be on the couch, watching whatever show I can hear playing on the television, but he’s not there. The sound of a door closing draws my attention, and I see Winger stepping out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and another draped over his head.
He doesn’t notice me as he scrubs the towel over his hair, the tight muscles along his side flexing with the movement. My eyes roam over him, taking in the ink he keeps hidden under his clothes.
My heart rate picks up. I don’t know if it’s the prospect of getting caught watching him or just seeing him like this, but some part of me that I thought was long dead takes notice of him and how good he looks. I appreciate how physically different he is from all the men on my list. Most of them were soft in some way, and none of them would dare to be covered in tattoos, even ones that are hidden like Winger’s.
He heads straight into the other bedroom without so much as looking in my direction. I wait for the click of the door closing, but it never comes. He probably doesn’t want to risk me trying to sneak out, but I’m not worried about the exit door now, even though I am creeping closer to it.
There’s a part of me that knows this is wrong and that I shouldn’t be trying to catch sight of him again, but it’s not enough to stop me. I move a little farther into the living room, angling to see better and making the excuse that it’s where I would logically go to sit.
He streaks past the door, and both towels are gone. I catch sight of his ass cheeks and get a little jealous. I bet he has a better butt than I do. It’s also very clear he works out, and I just have some extra fluff in the right spots.
I bang into the coffee table in front of the sectional because I’m not paying a lick of attention to where I’m walking and curse while reaching to rub the front of my shin. Damn, that’s going to leave a bruise. My eyes dart back to the door, and Winger stands there naked, without an ounce of shame, as he watches me.
I look down below his waist on instinct, then slap my hands over my eyes, expressing shock. I don’t even have to fake it because my body’s reaction to him is alarming. “What the hell?”
He doesn’t acknowledge me, so I slit my fingers open just a little, hoping he won’t notice if he’s still there, but he’s not.
I slowly lower myself to the couch. My eyes are probably bugging out of my head. I’m pretty sure that glint of silver I saw was a piercing. I’ve never seen one before, but that’s the only thing it could be. Oh shit, why is my face so hot, and why am I squeezing my thighs together?
God, if he comes out now, I hope he buys that I’m just embarrassed I saw him.
I should have just gone and sat down after his little towel parade. That was his fault for not realizing I was there, but this? I clearly made the effort to see him in the room. My thoughts stray back to the metal at the tip of his dick.
I can’t imagine how much that would have hurt. Why would he want to do that? I have questions.
I notice him walking out of the bedroom from the corner of my eye but pretend not to as I stare at the TV. I don’t even know what’s on. I almost reach up and cover my cheek with my hand, but I don’t want to bring even more attention to it if it’s not as red as it feels.
Winger sits on the other end of the couch, giving me plenty of room, but it still feels like he’s too close. I have no idea how or if I should start a conversation, pretending I didn’t just see his dick. This is not how I imagined things going, and it’s his fault for making me feel all awkward and strange, not to mention I keep thinking about his dick. I don’t want to think about anyone’s dick.
When the silence gets too heavy, I blurt out, “You piss me off.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.” He’s so calm, while I feel all weird and uncomfortable.
