Caveman (Wild Men 1)

“Says you,” I counter because I won’t let him have the last word.

“Says I,” he agrees and steps closer. Too close. “Got a problem with that, B-Slut?”

Oh joy. Ross’s favorite nickname for me. Short for Bastard Slut. I guess since I took out the braces he has nothing else to work with.

“Look, Jack Martinez at the gas station said Jasper might have a job for me.” This is true, by the way. I wouldn’t be standing here otherwise. He said Jasper mentioned needing a secretary for a temporary stint.

If not, Jack said he could find me a job in Springfield.

So this is it. My last chance.

“Jack knows jack shit,” Ross says smugly, preening at his cleverness. “We ain’t got no jobs. And especially not for you, you little—”

A growly voice rumbles, “Ross.” A dark, tall shadow falls over us, and Ross lurches sideways as if shoved from the back. “Leave.”

“What the fuck?” Ross mumbles, shoving blond hair out of his face and puffing out his chest. “What the hell’s your problem, man?”

I open my mouth but no words come, because right there, in front of me, stands Mr. Jerk himself.

Matt Hansen. Most unlikely hero ever, although I suddenly remember how he saved me from falling in the drugstore the other day, and wasn’t that something.

In any case, he’s really here, scowling, mouth flat behind his beard, hands clenched at his sides.

Standing between the blond creep and myself.

Tension hums in the air.

And I can’t keep my gaze off him.

His dark eyes have narrowed to slits, and his broad shoulders are hunched up, his biceps bulging, stretching the short sleeves of his T-shirt until they look about to burst at the seams. The dark lines of tattoos are barely visible on his chest and shoulders under the thin cotton.

He looks ready to fight. He looks… dangerous.

And frigging sexy.

Jeez, I should really stop thinking these kinds of stupid thoughts. The kinds of thoughts that get good girls into bad trouble.

“You’re that new guy, aren’t you?” Ross says, his stance subtly relaxing, a disdainful smirk curling a side of his mouth. “Hansen. You’re a fucking newbie. The order of hierarchy—”

“Shut your pie-hole.”

The growl seems to catch Ross by surprise. Or maybe it’s the fact that Matt—and since when he’s Matt to me?—hasn’t relaxed, or backed away, or acknowledged anything Ross has said.

Hasn’t given him one inch.

Ross chuckles like there’s something funny, then the smile slips off his face. “Back the hell off. This ain’t your turf, motherfucker.”

Matt doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move a muscle.

“Jasper will have your balls on a spit if you think you can throw your weight around here,” Ross goes on, hissing out the words. “This ain’t your backyard, you fucking—”

“Cool your guns,” a familiar voice says, and Jasper Jones walks out of his garage, wearing a scowl to match the one on Matt’s face, seeming to fill the whole street with his big-boned, muscular bulk. “What’s going on here?”

“This son of a bitch,” Ross stabs a finger at Matt, “thinks he owns this place.”

“I own this place,” Jasper says coolly, his pale gaze, so similar to Ross’s, settling on Matt. “What’s the problem?”

Matt glares.