Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

“What the hell are you doing home?!!” I scream into the darkness. “I thought you had a business meeting!”

“I did. I listened to their pitch and decided to come home for lunch.”

Met Life Stadium is a good hour away, at the very least. What did he do, take the Bat Mobile here? “How long have you been standing there?!!”

I hear a deep, dark chuckle and my already bruised and battered pride, the little I had left, takes another hit. “Not long. I got here when you started twerking. Or if you prefer––” He snorts. “Throwing ass.”

“Agghhhhhhh!”

I grab the first thing I find on a hanger, put it on, and step out of the closet with my face flashing a particularly florescent shade of red. Only then do I realize I have Cal’s ginormous track jacket on.

Hugging the fabric tightly to my body, I walk across the kitchen, gaze averted, chin held high. If he wants what’s left of my dignity, he can pry it away from my dead cold hands.

Blocking my path out of the room, the perv is leaning, arms crossed, against the kitchen counter. As much as he tries to stifle a smug smile, his mouth betrays him, turning up at the ends.

For a moment I flirt with the notion of elbowing him in the ribs on my way out. Except that would require me to touch him and if I do that I may not stop and then I’ll be booked on assault and battery charges and that would not be good.

I head to my bedroom and dive face-first onto the bed, screaming into the luxurious Italian covers. He saw my boobs flopping around. I was twerking. There’s no use in denying it. Worse than that, I was going full-out. And I mean I was goin’ fuuull-out. My life has officially become a joke, a bunch of humiliating moments strung together.

Stay positive, Amanda. Get yo shit together, bitch!

At the two-beat knock on my door, I groan. He better not think we’re going to talk about it. “Go away.”

“You left your iPhone in the doc.”

“Go awaaaay, pest.”

“Let me in.”

“No.”

“We have to talk about it.”

“The hell we do.”

The sound of the door opening has me jerking my head up and looking over my shoulder. “Are you completely absent of manners?”

“You have Beastie Boys Sabotage on here.” He holds up my phone and points to it. “I was impressed…then I found DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince.”

“I’m not in the mood for any more of your crap, Hendricks. You saw my boobs. Get out.”

With his suit jacket discarded, the pale blue shirt contrasting his deep tan makes his eyes look positively aflame. The handsome jerk places my phone down on the fireplace mantle and shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He exhales tiredly, mouth drawn tight. Whatever, it’s not like it could get any worse.

“I’ve already seen them. Before today, I mean.”

I stand corrected. It just got worse.

My mind races up and down, scrolling through my entire history, searching for a way to discredit this claim until––ping, ping, ping––an alarm bell sounds. The spread I did at nineteen for the French edition of Elle.

“You’re stalking me online?” It’s not a question, only a confirmation that more embarrassment will inevitably follow. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out the entire Titans organization has seen those pictures.

“You’ve seen my dick and I’m not hiding under the bed.” He shrugs.

My head sinks back onto the mattress, where I hide the burning flush covering my face. “That’s because you have a grossly overinflated ego. Are we done? Can you leave now?”

The edge of my bed sinks under the metric ton also known as Hendricks. “I didn’t say it to embarrass you. I was just pointing out that it’s not as big a deal as you think it is because I’ve seen them already.”

“Are you trying to make me cry? Stop talking. Please stop talking.”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.”

At the genuine confusion I hear in his voice, a maniacal burst of laughter explodes out of me.

“What I’m trying to say––” he persists, his tone gentle, comforting. “Is that it was nice to see you like that––”

“Make a fool out of myself?” I finish for him. “Yeah, I’m sure it was loads of fun for you.”

“Free––having fun,” he instantly corrects. “You’re always so self-conscious that it was nice to see you having fun for a change.”

His words hit me in the solar plexus and migrate, needling all my sore spots and stuffing my throat with a bunch of uncomfortable emotions. I didn’t think anybody noticed and for it to be this guy, of all people, seems unfair. My chin trembles and I almost bite a hole in my cheek to stop it.

Lock it down, Amanda.

“I don’t hate you,” he repeats, his deep voice dipping even lower. “I could never hate you.”