Use Me (Caldwell Brothers)

“Damn it, woman.” I walk after her. “I have your bag.”

She stops and wipes her eyes. Then she turns around, sighs, and holds out her hand. “I won’t bother you anymore.” When she looks in her bag, relief crosses her face. “It’s all there.”

I shake my head, not sure what she expected. I’m a criminal, not a thief.

“Thanks. You’re a true gentleman.” She then turns and begins walking away again.

“You have no idea who I am,” I call behind her. Gentleman is the last thing anyone should call me. Regardless, I have no clue why those words came out of my mouth, but they damn sure did.

She stops again and looks over her shoulder. “And you have no idea who I am or what courage it took for me to even—” She shakes her head before continuing, “Thanks for the bag.”

I let her walk away, but I don’t turn around. Instead, I follow her.

Three blocks away, she looks back, and I stop.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“To know that you aren’t walking the damn streets alone; to know that man, or whomever else you’ve turned on, isn’t waiting to take you in the fucking alley. Do you have any idea what could happen to you? Do you have a fucking clue!”

My anger is getting the best of me. Watching her ass sway seductively as she walks ahead of me, and the words—those fucking words she wrote—have me in a much different type of rage. I’m ready to combust.

This is a rage I have never experienced.

I close my eyes, not wanting to see sadness, or anger, or lust, or... her. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to give a damn if she is walking the streets. Giving a damn made me lose control back then. I won’t lose my power over my emotions again.

“I’m here.” She points at the hotel she’s standing in front of. “Would you like me to get you a cab?”

“I’d like you to get your ass inside and go to sleep. I’d like that a whole hell of a lot.”

She doesn’t move, so I do, grabbing her elbow and walking her through the door and toward the elevator, where I hit the button to take her up.

“What floor?” I ask as I shove her inside.

“Eighteen,” she answers, and I hit the corresponding button.

The door closes quickly, and I am forced to stay on the damn thing.

I stand with my back toward her, facing the door and focusing on it and not her shaky breath, her sweet scent, her fucking teeth chattering, and the fact I’m in a fucking elevator. I feel anxiety rise inside of me. Albeit dull from the drinks I had, I know it’s there. I decide the stairs are a far better idea than getting into this fucking thing again.

The metal box stops every fucking second or third floor, and it’s midnight. Why the hell aren’t these people in bed? And why the hell are they going up?

As it fills up, I am forced back until I’m finally standing in front of her in the corner. Our proximity is too damn much. So is the closed-in area and the ten people shoved into a tin box smaller than a cell.

When we finally stop at the eighteenth floor, I have to push to get through the crowded elevator to get her out and onto her floor, to safety.

When I turn to look at her, she looks away. “Thank you.”

“What room is yours?” I ask.

“Eighteen twenty-four. I’m capable.” She shoves her hand into her pocket, and then sighs before looking in the black bag.

When she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, her body trembles slightly in a silent sob. “I lost my key card.”

“You sure?” I start to reach for the bag to look for myself, but she steps back.

“You should go.” Her face heats with embarrassment as she begins walking toward the elevator.

I see a card sticking out of her pocket. “Check your back pocket, Tatum.”

Chapter Six

I spent the entire day drinking away my sorrows, my insecurities, and my reserve. Now I am face to face with them, with him. I shouldn’t be so contorted over him. This isn’t what coming to Detroit was about.

I had it all once before. Then it was gone. Every moment he comes around, my muse, something changes in me. Suddenly, writing this romance isn’t about my job, a story, or even the city of Detroit. It’s all twisted between Johnathon and Annie, and me and the man in front of me.

The way his raw, gruff voice says my name is purely sexual. The confidence in the way he carries himself, the way he focuses in the cage, while he runs, and on... me is sexy.

The fact that a woman like me—self-sufficient, educated, lets nothing stop her—is tipped upside down and turned inside out by a man they call Kid is unexplainable, illogical, and unmistakably sexual.