Wylde (Arizona Vengeance 7)

More assholish.

Aaron does his best to stick by my side when he can, but he’s constantly called away by other teammates and fans wanting him to pose for pictures or reminisce over miraculous plays. And, God love him, he’s in his element. He’s an outgoing and gregarious guy. He may not thrive on the attention, but he is certainly more than comfortable with it.

I fend off drunk men who try to hit on me while Aaron has more than his share of women coming on to him. The only thing that makes it all better is the brief moments of attention he can spare for me, and the way in which he dotes for those few seconds. It might be sweet words or maybe a soft kiss. Regardless, he makes it clear I’m with him and vice versa.

The shame of it is, as the evening progresses, the women seem to care less and less the drunker they get.

Puck bunnies are what I’d heard them called. I think the name is ridiculous.

What’s even more ridiculous is how many are super-model gorgeous, tall, and big breasted with very little clothing on. When Aaron poses for pictures, they practically drape themselves over him like fucking curtains.

What’s even worse is I get stared at a lot. I’m sure it’s just because I’m with Aaron and he’s such a star for the team, but it makes me uncomfortable. And maybe I’m being paranoid, but I swear it, too, gets worse as the evening goes on. I even catch people whispering while they stare. Clearly talking about me. I hate every bit of this.

I check my watch for about the hundredth time, not sure what arbitrary number I’m looking for. It’s barely eleven o’clock, and the party here at The Sneaky Saguaro is still raging.

Aaron left my line of vision to head to the bathroom, assuring me with a kiss that was way more than a brief peck—it had left me seeing stars—that he’d be right back. The other couples we’d hung with in St. John—the women who took me into their group—they’ve all left and gone home. It’s what I want to do as well, and I resolve to ask Aaron if we can leave when he comes back.

I see the top of his head before I can see the rest of him. He winds his way back through the crowd toward me. Some people try to stop him, but he makes quick apologies and sidesteps them. Finally catching my gaze, he mouths a question as he walks toward me. “Ready to go?”

I beam a smile back, nodding my head so vigorously I’m surprised I don’t give myself whiplash.

Aaron returns my grin, and for a moment, we’re tightly connected.

And then… his face is blocked, because a tall, beautiful woman with sunny-yellow hair and curves for days in a strapless dress that barely covers her ass steps in front of him. She’s wearing platform sandals and her breasts are so big they’re practically popping out of the front of her dress.

Her hands go to his chest as she leans in to whisper something in Aaron’s ear. My blood pressure spikes, and I feel my ears get hot with anger and shame that this is happening right in front of me.

To Aaron’s credit, he shakes his head and tries to step around her.

She moves to cut him off, elegantly holding up a small piece of paper between her first and middle fingers. Boldly, she reaches down and tucks it into his front pocket, whispering something else to him.

I’m so pissed I see red, knowing without a doubt she just tucked her name and number in my boyfriend’s pocket.

She just fucking touched him intimately to do it, too.

Aaron’s face clouds with anger. Quickly, he moves around her, immediately searching me out. He knows I saw every bit of it.

All I can do is offer him a disappointed look.

Not disappointed in him. Just disappointed that we have to put up with crap like this.

Aaron strides past the woman, not sparing her a glance as he approaches me.

“Can we go?” I ask tiredly. “Or if you want to stay, I can Uber it home.”

“Of course, we’re going,” he replies, taking my purse and sliding it on my shoulder. He grabs my hand, then starts leading me down the staircase toward the exit.

People try to stop him, but he blows them off, shoulder turned slightly to push his way through the crowd while pulling me along behind him.

When we get out in the parking lot, Aaron cuts left toward his truck. He offers me an apology. “I’m sorry that happened.”

“I can never compete with that,” I mutter.

Aaron stops dead in his tracks, then whips around on me. “Why would you think you’d need to?”

I shrug, staring hard at the asphalt parking lot. I’m being lame. I know it.