44 Chapters About 4 Men - BB Easton Page 0,43

my giant, naive, tenderhearted boyfriend and his cock.

Finally, I saw my in. I watched in suspended strike mode as Valtrex handed Hans a Sharpie, then hooked an index finger into the top of her tank top, as if she were about to expose her left tit for him to sign. Just as I reared back to launch myself at her, Hans caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, Bumblebee!”

The smile that illuminated his face was temporarily disarming, and I almost forgot how mad I was when he leaped from his seat with so much speed and enthusiasm that Valtrex had to grab handfuls of the cum-encrusted upholstery to keep from falling on her stupid fucking face.

Hans snatched me up in a lung-crushing bear hug, which was definitely not reciprocated. Feeling my resistance, he slowly set me back on my feet. Not releasing my arms, which were pinned to my sides by his gargantuan, calloused, bass playing hands, Hans held me in front of him at arm’s length, looking me over with a furrowed brow.

“What’s a matter, Bee?” His jovial mood turned sour in the blink of a black-rimmed eye. “Seriously, what’s wrong? Did something happen to you out there?”

Really? Really, Hans? You have no idea why I’m upset?

I huffed and shook him off, stomping out of the greenroom and back into the labyrinth. The halls were lit at random intervals by red party bulbs, ominous shadowy darkness filling the stretches in between. It looked underworldly.

Fitting, I thought, seeing as how I was already in hell.

I’d finally found the perfect man, and I was doomed to helplessly watch other women try to fuck him for the rest of eternity.

Following the exit signs, I eventually found an external door to thrust myself out of. Instead of being revived by a crisp, invigorating blast of cool night air, like I’d subconsciously expected, I barreled headlong into a hot, sticky viscous concoction that would have only passed for oxygen on a molecular level.

I don’t know why I had expected any different. If you’ve ever seen a movie where summertime in the South is depicted as a place where people move slowly, speak slowly, fan themselves incessantly, and are coated in a perpetual beading of sweat, that would be because the air here is exactly the same temperature and consistency as simmering gravy—boiling hot clear air gravy—for six months out of the year.

Choking down that first breath of molten-hot ectoplasm completely took the wind out of my sails. I leaned over and placed my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and psych myself up for the five-block swim I would have to make through this putrid liquid oxygen to the nearby neighborhood where my car was parked. I might not have been throwing up, but I probably looked like I was, and so did my purse, because when I leaned over, it effectively barfed its entire contents onto the finely ground bed of broken bottles and cigarette butts under my feet.

Nice.

Before I could rescue my assorted lip glosses, fake IDs, and cigarettes from the ground, five long, sinewy fingers reached out and grasped everything in one fell snatch. Without standing, I lifted my gaze just enough to capture Hans’s spiky-haired silhouette crouched down next to me. Although we were technically eye-to-eye, I couldn’t see his face at all, thanks to the backlighting from the club behind him, which only helped to keep the disconnection I felt from him intact.

Hans quietly asked me if I was okay in a tone that made me realize he must have thought I was sick.

Oh my God, with the way I ran away and how I was now doubled over in the parking lot­—Ugh! He still didn’t get it!

I snatched my shit out of his talented fingers, stood up as straight and tall as I could, and told him to “Fuck off, Hansel.”

Nobody but his German-American mutter called him that, and even she’d only do it when he was in trouble.

“I’m not sick, you dumbass. I’m pissed! Were you really going to sign that gash’s tit? Were you going to let her ride your cock a little, too, just until I got there? I can’t do this anymore. I guess I’m just too fucking jealous to be your girlfriend. I’m sorry.”

With those departing words, I was going to turn on my heel, whip my imaginary long hair over my shoulder, and march off in the direction of my loyal Mustang. I was