Page 18 of Shade
He nods to Shade and crosses his arms, my eyes landing on his elaborately tattooed hands in the process. “Says him. You need to get the fuckin’ hint.” His tone is so matter-of-fact that I’m surprised she didn’t. She’s the definition of a “pro ho” for sure.
If you’re asking yourself, Scar, what’s a pro ho?
It’s a slut who hangs all over a professional athlete. I learned this by all my research. Thank you, Urban Dictionary. And just so we’re clear, I may be in love with Shade, but I’m most certainlynota pro ho. I can tell you who’s leading the X Fighters points. Shade. I can also tell you how many gold medals he’s won and every event he’s won in the last two years. Thank you, ESPN. I’m definitely no pro ho. Or “moto ho” as some call them.
Worming herself closer to him, she clings to Shade’s side like a monkey attaching itself to its mother.
I’m completely and utterly jealous she’s feeling the heat of his body against hers.
And then she whispers, or rather purrs, “I can convince him otherwise.” To his surprise, and mine, she grabs his phone from his hand and shoves it down the front of her dress where most women store their cell phones. Their bras. Only she’s not wearing one. I have no idea how it stays put, other than the fact that she has huge tits, which by the way, I’m totally jealous of.
That’s not what’s concerning to me. It’s thewayTiller’s watching his brother now. Something about the way he’s fixated on his phone bothers Tiller and holds my attention as well. Shade raises his sunglasses, just enough for her to see his eyes and shoots the Doublemint twin wrapped around him a murderous glare. “Knock it off,” he grits out of nowhere and then he rips his arm from hers, reaches for his cell phone and steps away from her two feet. Aloofness bleeds from his words and my heart drums wilder.
Whoa.
I can’t imagine how the dark-haired bimbo felt being dismissed so easily.
She bites her lip, probably attempting not to cry. Silence falls in the elevator with his demand, the sharpness of his tone echoing through the small space. It’s as if the air vanishes and I find it hard to breathe.
Damn, he can be scary.
Do you hear the way my heart skips a beat and the way my breath catches in my throat suddenly?
His reaction to someone taking his phone is yet another reasonwhyI like him. I dig the intense motherfuckers who aren’t afraid to tell you off.
And guess what? He side-stepped the pro ho and is now standing next to me. As in there’s maybe six inches separating the two of us.
Be cool, Scar. Be cool. Oh, and breathe.
I do. One carefully controlled breath. Or was that a sigh?
Tiller chuckles, giving a slow shake of his head and a pointed glance at the pro ho. “Told you.”
Righting his sunglasses, Shade obsessively rubs the stubble along his jaw, and I’m about to whisper something to him, what I don’t know. That I love him? That he should ditch the Doublemint twins and I can play naughty maid with him?
His head drops between his shoulders, and he shakes it back and forth.
The elevator then dings for the penthouse suite and they all shuffle into the hall, except Shade.
My treacherous eyes drift to his. He stands there for a moment, typing on his phone and I’m about to hit the close door button and lock us in the elevator together, but Tiller yells after him.
“Bro, let’s go.”
Shade’s head snaps up and then he looks down at his phone that chirps with a message, his brow furrowing as he examines it. His jaw clenches, obviously not happy with what’s on his phone. He also has a death grip on it.
And here’s whereourcontact happens. His shoulder brushes mine and a warm blast of heat hits me at the brief contact. A shiver rolls down my spine, sending electricity through me.
I tilt my head in his direction. A waft of his scent—clean, earthy, masculine—fills my nose and I inhale and shiver once more. He slides his sunglasses to the brim of his nose, his eyes meeting mine, and my stomach knots like a pretzel. My heart flutters in my chest as his beauty slams into me.
How can a man be so pretty? It’s not fair to women.
Though the only contact is our shoulders, Ifeelthe contact we make through my entire body.
He arches a thick devilish eyebrow at me, as if to ask what I’m staring at.
What am I staring at? Is he inviting me to his room? Is that an arch for “Hey, baby, follow me?”
Sadly, I don’t think it is.
