He groans. “You can keep the hat. Don’t touch my bike again. Or I will fuck you senseless.”
I arch back and smack the tank.
“Delilah,” he warns. “I’m not what you want.”
“You are exactly what I…” I start.
“Jett,” Chad says.
Jett helps me off the bike.
While he’s still straddling the bike I walk straight up to Chad and smack him full on open palm.
“Leash her,” Chad says, walking off like a man who just realized he’s the beta in someone else’s porn.
“You shouldn’t hit him. He’s keen on charges and…” Jett says sounding soft again.
Jett’s not supposed to be soft. He’s rage. It kind of panics me. “Fuck off, Jett. I’m not a stranger to charges and assholes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jett
The lobby’s dead except for the receptionist, the one with eyebrows that look like they lost a fight with a Sharpie and a stare like she’s wondering if I bite. I do, sweetheart. Keep looking.
What the actual fuck just happened?
Why am I staring at the door like it might explode open and spit out a glitter-caked sex demon with pink lipstick and no issues with hate fucking.
I didn’t kill Chad. That’s progress I can report to Dr. Hartwell.
The door to Hartwell’s office clicks open. Smooth. Like the man himself. “Mr. Ryker. Good to see you.”
He says it like he wasn’t the one who watched me stalk around this office last week like a caged animal, eyes wild, fists tighter than a virgin’s asshole. And now he’s pretending this is casual?
He knows who the fuck I am. Mr.? Eat my whole ass.
“Jett’ll do,” I say, pushing off the wall and following him into his crypt of an office. It’s darker than it needs to be. He’s trying to create intimacy by way of mood lighting.
I drop into the chair, not the couch. Fuck your trap couch, doc. I don’t lie down around men in cardigans who ask about my childhood. Didn’t last time, won’t this time.
Though my eyes flick to it and I wonder if she lays there when she has her sessions. Does she taunt him too? Stretch out on the couch and… shit.
“How was your week?” he asks, like we’re gonna chat about smoothies and sleep hygiene.
“Been a weird one,” I say.
“Let’s talk about weird,” he says, pen already moving.
I stretch, crack my knuckles. “You might get a call from Chad’s lawyer.”
His pen stops. Just a beat. “Oh?”
“He showed up at the gym. I had a client. He was a dick. I didn’t hit him. Didn’t even threaten him.” That’s growth, right? “That feels relevant.”
Hartwell raises an eyebrow. “And yet?”
He’s not a bad looking man. I bet Delilah does flirt with him.
