Pike (The Pawn Duet #1) - T.M. Frazier Page 0,61
to life.
It figures that the shit storm of my life now includes an actual fucking storm.
Chapter Twenty-One
Pike
After I finish preparations for the hurricane––installing the shutters and making sure we have enough water, flashlights, and batteries to get us through the storm––I finally go in search of Mickey. Needing to know why she ran off in the bar.
And wanting to explore the jealousy thing.
The door to my apartment is open. Thorne is standing in the doorway, with arms crossed in amusement, watching as Mickey dances around the living room singing to a pop song on the radio, hiccupping between each line.
“This your doing?” I ask, pointing to the bottle of vodka in Mickey’s hand.
Thorne raises her hands in self-defense and shakes her head. “Noooo. She was like this when I found her. Although, she is pretty amusing. I should have gotten her drunk earlier. She’s much more tolerable when she’s shit-faced.”
I glare at Thorne who rolls her eyes and leaves with a middle finger salute over her head.
I close the door and lean back on it, watching the scene before me. Mickey is dancing with her eyes closed, bumping into furniture that sends her dancing back to the other side of the room. When she bumps against the wall, she starts all over again like a game of human ping-pong.
Drunken human ping-pong.
Her eyes snap open, and her smile falls as well as the lyrics on her lips. “You get those tattoos in the prison?” she asks, pointing at my neck with the hand still holding the bottle.
“Some of them. The others in juvie. Some of them King did.”
“I hate them.”
Nice to know.
She shakes her head, her hair swaying into her eyes. She pushes it away, and when that doesn’t work, she blows at it. “I hate them because you still look beautifuls, and I nevers thought anyones was so beautifuls before, but I thinks you is. I mean. Good looking, for your sort. If you like that kind of thing and stuff. I most certainly dooooos not. Nopers. You are not sexy. I do not want to make sex with you. Not at all. Yes I do.”
She’s staggering, and I can’t help but smile at the little drunken thief.
“You think I’m sexy?” I ask, wrapping my hand around hers, the one clutching the neck of the bottle.
She wrinkles her nose. “I thinks I just told you that I most certainly do not. Yes.”
I move my hand up her arm and she doesn’t try to hide her reaction. Thanks to the booze. Her lips part and her skin breaks out in thousands of little bumps. I whisper in her ear. “You want me to fuck you, Mic?”
Her face reddens, matching her already red nose. Her eyes spring open. She places a palm against my chest. Then begins to move it around cautiously at first and then a full exploration of the ridges of muscles that run down my stomach. She stills her hand than snatches it back. “I thought I was broken,” she says. “I mean. I am broken. Never before. Never anyone but you. But now, I know I’m broken because I think you are sexaaaay when I’ve never found anyone sexaaay before. I mean,” she laughs and stumbles. I reach out to catch her. “Why you? Why you and all of your angry hard muscles and chiseled angry jaw line and beautiful angry eyes and kissable angry lips? Why do I want you?”
I stare at her for a few seconds because I can’t find the words to reply to her admission because I have the same fucking question. “I can ask you the same thing,” I finally manage to say. It helps that she’s drunk and probably won’t remember, so I take the opportunity to be honest and add, “Because I want you more than I’ve ever wanted someone in my entire fucking life.”
She stares at me like she’s waiting for me to say more, but there’s nothing else to say. I’m confused and very aroused by the way her shirt rides up, exposing her flat toned stomach and the bottom roundness of her braless tits. I’m not going to take advantage of a drunk girl. I’m a fucking degenerate for sure, but I’m not a fucking monster.
“I don’t know why you,” she says and I’m not sure if it’s even a question. Her eyes are wild with drunken thought and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know if it’s a question.
She shrugs casually and takes another swig, as if