I fake a smile as I admit to myself that if Max weren’t here, I would have left this loser in my wake an hour ago. But something small and vicious in me gets satisfaction in making Max believe I’d still consider taking Brick home.
Despite my souring mood, Brick keeps me occupied for a few more songs, and when Hound Dog comes on, he forces me into the world’s most awkward jive. He dances like a drunk guy trying to appear sober, and his terrible technique makes me laugh when he spins me out before pulling me back. It’s a wonder I stay upright, considering how tipsy I am.
“Jump,” he says to me, as he grips my waist.
“Oh, no, don’t think that’s –”
“Come on, babe! The song’s almost over. Jump!”
He hoists me off the floor, and I don’t have much choice but to place my legs on either side of his hips as he dips me down then pushes me up into the air. I feel something go in my back and make a noise.
“Shit.” I grip his shoulders as I start my descent. “Brick, don’t –”
“I got you, babe. Chill!” The words are barely out of his mouth when he overbalances, and before I know it, the dance floor is rushing up to meet me.
“Miss Tate!”
I’m vaguely aware of Max’s concerned voice as I land heavily on my back, and a sharp pain makes me say several words that would make my Nan blush.
“Oh, shit, babe. You okay?” I wince and roll onto my side as Brick hovers over me, the stench of tequila on him making it hard for me to breathe.
“Move, asshole!” Brick is hauled backwards as Max appears. Strong hands that just shoved Brick halfway across the room are gentle as they touch my shoulder. “Where does it hurt?”
“My back. Not from the fall. I think I pulled a muscle when he dipped me.”
“Can you move everything?”
“Yes.”
“I should call an ambulance.”
“No, really, I’m fine.” I let out a breath and glance up at him.
Whoa.
Never in my life have I seen a man look at me like that. As if the pain I’m feeling is being felt twice over by him.
“Miss Tate, you shouldn’t move.”
I wave him off and sit up. “I’m not paralyzed, Max. I just have an owie. I need some aspirin and an ice pack.”
He helps me to my feet before wrapping his arm around my waist to support me as we move off the dance floor.
“I’ll take you home.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Brick steps in front of us. “That’s my job, pal. I haven’t been hanging around this smoking-hot ginger all night just to lose her at the last minute. If anyone’s taking her home, it’s going to be me.
Max’s body tightens like razor wire, and even though he doesn’t raise his voice, the intensity he radiates through his glare makes Brick take a step back. “She’s not a toy you get to buy with your time, pal. Have some fucking respect. You injured her, and if you don’t get the fuck out of my way this second, I’m going to injure you. Understand?”
I don’t know if I’ve heard Max use the “F” word before, but even with my back pain, my body reacts positively.
By now, Brick has had enough booze to forget how Max crushed his hand earlier, and when he belligerently grabs my arm, Max gives him a look that’s truly terrifying before grabbing his wrist and squeezing. Brick sinks to the floor with a strangled cry.
“Brick, I know you’re not an intelligent man, so I’m going to use small words. If I ever see you lay your hands on Miss Tate, or any woman, ever again without permission, I’m going to shatter your arm in three places.”
Having been on the receiving end of Max’s brutal sincerity, I know Brick believes every word. That would explain why he looks like he’s about to pee himself as Max towers over him. When Max releases him, he skulks back to his frat-boy brat-pack, red faced and not willing to even look back at me.
Max doesn’t spare him another glance. He just scoops me into his arms and heads toward the exit.
“What was thing you said earlier about resorting to violence at the slightest provocation?” I say, struggling to deal with both the pain in my back and the vicious arousal that comes from being in his arms.
His face still looks like thunder. “That wasn’t violence. It was restraint. And there was definite provocation. Brick was an asshole who needed to be taught that women aren’t vending machines that trade attention for sex. I hope the little shit bruises easily.”
I notice how everyone stares and smiles as he carries me down the street toward my apartment. “I feel like you should be wearing a white Navy uniform right now.”
“I have one of those. If you play your cards right, I’ll bust it out someday.” He shoots me a look, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch as he begins to hum, Up Where We Belong.
TWELVE
Shirtless Houseboy
Twenty minutes and two muscle relaxants later, and I’m feeling nooooo pain. Max has set me up on my couch with an ice pack nestled on my lower back, and now he’s in my kitchen making tea. I told him I don’t drink tea, but he didn’t listen. He’s opening and closing cupboards as he searches for stuff, and I’m pretending that he’s my sexy houseboy. I’ve always wanted one of those. It would be so useful to have one around in case I needed to ... well ... you know, get stuff off high shelves. Or ... I don’t know ... open jars. His only real job would be to walk around without a shirt and occasionally flex. Oh, and provide orgasms on request.
“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever just take off your shirt and flex in front of a mirror? You know, to perv on your own hotness?”
“No. Do you ever take off your shirt and caress your breasts, just for the hell of it?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. When I get stressed, I cup my boobs and give them a reassuring squeeze.”
“Good information. Next time you’re stressing I’ll have to try that.”
I flop back into the cushions. My boobs are now tingling. Great.
More doors open and close, and I hear him mutter. “Jesus.”
“Everything okay?”
“There’s zero logic to your cupboard contents. I’ve now found tea in three separate places.”
“Yeah, if only I had a decent shirtless houseboy to take care of me and rearrange everything.”
He walks over and stands above me, all tall and broad-shouldered, with those long legs and a butt I’d like to sink my teeth into. “Are you suggesting I should take off my shirt?”
I blink up at him. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s pretty warm in here. You can if you want. Okay, fine, stop hassling me. I won’t stop you.”
He stares me down as he grabs the bottom of his T-shirt. “You want this?”
He pulls up his shirt to reveal a crazy-impressive six-pack, but as I try to sit up to get a better look, my wince of pain makes him drop to his knees in concern.
“Relax,” he says, pushing me back down and readjusting my ice pack. “If you behave yourself and stay still, I’ll take off my shirt later.”
“Really?”