Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)
“Who wouldn’t be tempted by a hundred thousand…I could pay back my parents,” I say wistfully. “But how long would I have lasted, really?”
“I wish you would’ve let me have a little chat with him.” The devious look on her face makes me chuckle…and gives me pause. Amber knows no reasonable boundaries when it comes to protecting the people she loves.
At the street corner, Amber raises her arm to hail a cab. I’m about to walk in the opposite direction, to the bus stop, when a white Range Rover with black tinted windows pulls up in front of us. After exchanging curious glances, we both fish the pepper spray out of our purses. The black window slides down and my suspicion is confirmed.
“Can I give you a ride?” Shaw’s laser focused stare is directed straight at me, which feels like he’s digging into my brain with an icepick. I want to glare back. I really, really do. But I can’t hold the eye contact. Like the coward I am, I look away first.
“No,” I snap, bristling with irritation. “I told your boyfriend I need a few days to think about it.” With more courage than I’m feeling, my narrowed-eyed gaze returns to him. He looks confused. Whatever I just said seems to have gone straight over his head––too many concussions, obviously.
“I’ll give you a ride. It’s cold.”
As if I haven’t noticed the snotcicles hanging from my nose. Amber’s golden eyebrows nearly reach her hairline.
“Hey fucknugget, the cow said no.” Amber spits this out while hooking a thumb at me. I have to give him credit, I really do. While my eyes are as big as dinner plates, he doesn’t even blink.
I can see the momentum of where this is headed and it may or may not involve me bailing Amber out of jail, so I grab her arm and pull her closer to the corner. Cupping her face, I fight to keep her eyes on me while she tries to crane her neck in Shaw’s direction. “Amb––Ambs look at me. It’s fine. You did great. Now get in a cab before this gets ugly.”
“I can’t leave you at the bus stop with this guy lurking around.” She steals another suspicious, furtive glance at him. “I’m getting a murdery vibe from him.”
“He’s not dangerous, just annoying. I have my pepper spray and phone,” I assure her even though I know they won’t be necessary. Reluctantly, she nods and turns to glare one more time at the bearded man watching us intently from his car. He rubs his chin and does a little four finger wave at Amber that is sure to set her off. Just then, by some stroke of luck, a cab stops before us. As soon as the last passenger exits, I shove her in.
“Text me when you get home so I know he hasn’t cut you up into little pieces and stuffed you in his wall,” she shouts for all of Seventh Avenue to hear. I wave as the cab pulls away. Then I take a deep breath and walk over to the open driver’s side window of the Range Rover.
He’s removed his ball cap and his black hair is back up in that ridiculous bun again. Everything about this guy is a total turn off. I can feel a frown developing on my face as I stare at it.
“What do you want?” I do nothing to hide my exasperation. “It’s two a.m. I’ve been running around all night, and I’m tired.”
“I apologized three times,” he says, his jaw in danger of shattering. Yeah, real genuine. Somebody needs to tell this guy he’s not the injured party in this scenario.
“Because you want me to work for you. Because you’ve already run off every other qualified applicant in the Tristate area, and now I’m your last hope. Well tough noogies, Mr. Shaw. This time you don’t win. I win and you lose.” And I realize I’m beginning to shout. His eyebrows, two black slashes making his eyes look even paler, rise up. Then the most unexpected thing happens. Those cold, unforgiving eyes turn into crescents and a burst of laughter explodes out of him.
“Tough noogies?” His laughter is deep and rich and it bothers the hell out of me, one more slight to my already bruised ego that I refuse to tolerate. My patience has officially run out.
Through clenched teeth, I grind out, “I don’t mean to be critical––but you’re an insufferable a-hole!” and walk away. I take three steps and feel a huge, warm hand grip my upper arm. In a knee jerk reaction, I wheel around and whisper-hiss, “Don’t you dare touch me.”
He instantly releases his grip and holds up his hands in surrender. Then he stuffs them in the front pockets of his jeans, and shrugs up his massive shoulders in a posture I’ve seen him assume when he’s uncomfortable.