“I need to know,” Emily admits.
“Why? You’ve lived your whole life not knowing. Why now?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I need to know if my mother is lying to me,” she shouts. “Because if my mother is lying to me then everything I know is wrong and that’s not okay.”
Emily’s eyes moisten and I lower my head. Just shit. I walk around the bar and stand by Emily’s side. My hands awkwardly move up then down because I don’t know how this comforting crap works. Isn’t this the part where the girl stumbles into me and I hug her?
But Emily doesn’t collapse into me. In fact, she seems to have forgotten I exist as she twists her fingers into her hair. “What does it mean if she lied to me? Because this...”
Emily scrutinizes her surroundings. “This scares me and I’ve lived my whole life thinking that she wasn’t a part of this so I need to know that she’s telling the truth and that I don’t belong here, so will you please tell me what you know?”
This. She refers to my life as this. As if we’re poison. “You really are quick to condemn all of this.”
Emily breathes in deep then straightens. Gotta respect that she’s refusing to cry in front of me. “In less than twenty-four hours I’ve been banned from my home and I’m hanging out in a place that uses bras as wall decorations. Find a way to justify all this to me and I’m game.”
I take a step and tower over her. She’s pissed. I’m pissed. Energy is building in the air. “If this is so disgusting to you, then leave.”
“Maybe I will.” She rises on her toes as if that will give her height.
“Then go,” I say.
Emily and I are so close that I can feel when she inhales and exhales. Her dark doe eyes search mine and there’s a spark of fear and lust. Dammit it all to hell. If she doesn’t move away, I’m going to be the one to kiss her.
Emily
MY ENTIRE BODY is warm and my skin is flushed. Oz’s head is close. So close. Close enough that my mouth waters with the idea of kissing him, tasting him, devouring him. This is crazy. This is insane. This is... “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Neither do I,” he responds. “But I’m not keeping you here.”
He isn’t and I don’t move. Oz stays still, as well. My breaths come in and they go out and my heart beats in time with my thoughts: kiss him, kiss him. Kiss him? But... “I don’t like you.”
I hate him...I think.
“I don’t like you, either.” Yet Oz tucks the wayward strands of hair that had fallen between us behind my ear and little goose bumps form along my neck. “But no one said that this had to do with liking.”
Oz slowly grazes his knuckles against my cheek. His skin is the perfect combination of rough and soft and I lean into his touch like a cat begging to be loved.
I inhale and I’m greeted by his dark scent that reminds me of wood burning and open flames. It’s an addictive aroma. One that calms me. One that encourages me to erase the gap between us. One that causes me to forget why I’m here and who he is.
Oz tilts his head and I mirror the motion. His breath heats my skin. My lips lightly part and a wave of desire runs through me. One kiss. Just one. Then it will be done. The craving satisfied.
Oz presses his forehead to mine, our mouths nearly touch, and...
The rumble of a motorcycle engine. My stomach jumps to my throat and I stumble back. The haze lifts and I drown in a rush of terror, excitement and this frustrated sense of loss.
“What was that?” I demand.
Oz drags both of his hands over his face. “A lack of control and thought—that’s what it was. It’s also nothing that will happen again. Stay here while I check this out.”
“Stay here?” We were seconds from kissing again and now he thinks he can tell me what to do?
He moves away from the bar, toward the door and when I follow, he freezes me with a hard glare. “I said, stay there.”
“You almost kissed me and so now you’re going to behave like an ass?”
“I didn’t hear you telling me to stop, and if you’re going to call me a name, get it right. I’m an asshole.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “My apologies. I forgot that you want me to own my opinions. You’re right. You are an asshole.”
Oz
FUCKIN’ A, I’M an asshole. I’m also a moron for almost letting that spiral out of control.
The windows of the clubhouse are blacked out so I stand by the door keeping an eye on the security monitor by the bar. The gun feels heavy on my back, but if trouble’s arrived I won’t necessarily have to pull it. There’s so much tension and anger built up in me, I’m practically shaking. A part of me wishes for the Riot to show so I can throw a punch in someone’s face.
But it’s not the Riot. It’s Chevy and when he gets close enough, I open the door.