Do You Dare (Truth And Dare Duet 1)

Jealous… boyfriend?

Jealous… me? Ha.

“I’m acting like a caring friend,” I amended.

She snorted, quite unladylike. I loved that about Lila. She wasn’t fake around me, and she wasn’t vying for my attention. Lila didn’t mold herself to fit my standards. She stayed true to herself and gave whoever dared to douse her fire the middle finger.

Lila fixed up her winged eyeliner and glanced at me through the floor length mirror. “No, you’re being a child. A petulant, bratty child. You went on a date last week, and I didn’t stop you. Does that make me any less caring?”

“I didn’t go on a date,” I mumbled, fighting back a grimace. She didn’t need to know the details.

Her eyes hardened. “No, you’re right. You don’t date. You fucked her.”

I rubbed my forehead and sighed. This was getting us nowhere, and I was only growing more agitated as the seconds ticked by. Dickass-ren or whatever his name was, was about to pop up any minute now, and Lila would be on her way… to her date…

Jealous?

No, that wasn’t it.

Lila and my relationship was clear–there were no hidden feelings and no secrets. We cared for each other, deeply, but that was it. The mere thought of us being anything more was a forbidden idea, and my stomach churned.

I’d rather have Lila like this, than risk losing her later because our feelings were fucked up. There was no going back if we crossed that line.

“He’ll hurt you,” I said one last time, hoping it’d change her mind.

It was just the idea of her being with another guy, as close as she was with me, that didn’t sit well with me. I wasn’t jealous.

I was just a bit territorial of my best friend.

Lila stared at me for a moment, the expression on her face unreadable. Her gaze was unflinching, and her small fists clenched at her side. She looked like she was having an inner debate with herself.

She swallowed, her throat bobbing with the small action. Then she did something I least expected and sure as fuck wasn’t ready for it. Not at all.

My eyes widened as Lila dragged her tank top over her head, letting it slide through her fingers. She stood in front of me in her jeans, boots and bra. Lila wasn’t shy, never was. In fact, she could be as crass as me if she wanted to, and most days, she was. She had always been bold and confident.

The determined look on her face should have warned me, but I was too focused on her… chest.

I inhaled, and my dick twitched, straining against my jeans. Shit. “What the fuck?”

“What do you see?” she asked calmly.

I see… tits. Titties I could fuck. “What are you doing?” I groaned. “Lila?”

She took several steps forward until we were standing toe-to-toe. Lila was my little midget, so tiny that the top of her head barely came to my shoulders. She had to nudge her head back to stare up at me because I basically towered over her.

Her gaze was somber as she waited. “Maddox, look at me.”

My fists clenched and unclenched. I kept my eyes on hers, refusing to let my gaze wander… down. I’d probably bust a nut if I did. “I am.”

“No, you’re not. Look. At. Me. Look closer,” she persisted in that same soft voice.

I did… and I finally saw what she wanted me to see.

“Do you see now?” she breathed.

My heart stuttered, and I lost my breath as my stomach tightened. My eyes fell to her chest, where her breasts were clad in a lacy, black bra.

And I saw…

Pink and white jagged lines… scars…on her beautiful pale skin. Right at the center of her chest and between the two heavy mounds.

“No,” I choked. Jesus Christ, sweet Lila.

Before I could stop myself, my hand came up as if to touch her. When I realized what I was about to do, I stopped an inch away from her skin.

Lila took my hand in hers and placed it on her chest, right in the middle, where her scars laid. She let out a shuddering breath the moment I touched her. Her heart thudded hard against my palm.

“Is this–?” I couldn’t finish my sentence.

Lila nodded. “From the accident.”

My shaking fingers brushed over her scars, feeling the slight bumpiness on her skin, whereas the rest of her was soft and smooth. “It’s ugly,” she whispered, trying to hide a grimace, but her face said it all.

“You’re beautiful,” I confessed, my voice strained.

And she truly was.

Lila had been through hell and back. That was the most beautiful part of her; she was a woman who wore her pain like a diamond choker around her neck. Strong, unyielding… a survivor. Lila Garcia straightened her own crooked crown because she didn’t need anyone else to do it for her.

Lila let me in, not because she needed me.