by his body as the sizzling of our combined heat begins to spark. ‘Damn you, Eleanor,’ Becker hisses. ‘Just fucking leave.’
He’s not just pissed off. He’s fuming.
And with just a second to talk some sense into my tattered mind, I’m right there with him. Long gone are the sparks of pleasure. Acid is coursing through my veins.
How dare he?
My hands come up, my palms slap into his chest, and I throw my weight into shoving him back. ‘You came down to check that I was going?’ I yell, my anger unleashed. ‘It’s not pathetic enough that you told me to and I fucking did? You had to check?’ The blood is rushing to my head, making me dizzy. Pathetic. That’s what I am. Fucking pathetic.
‘Yes, I fucking did,’ Becker bellows, making me physically recoil. ‘And you were on your way back up to the club. To him.’
Fucking hell. I’m vibrating with fury. ‘You had no right to tell me to leave.’
‘I know!’
‘Then why?’ I scream.
He swings away from me and pulls at his hair, roughing it up and looking up to the night sky. Then he shouts at the blackness, a long roar of frustration. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He’s quickly facing me again, breathing heavily, his chest pulsing with each laboured inhale. I’m suddenly wary of his volatile reaction, and I have no clue what to do with it. This isn’t simply anger. This is Becker out of control.
‘I’ll tell you why.’ He sounds hostile, his eyes wild. ‘Because there’s only one reason you went for dinner with Brent Wilson.’ He comes closer, and I push myself back into the wall some more. ‘To piss me off. You don’t want him. You want me.’
When I should be denying it, I say nothing, strengthening his claim. But he feels it, too. The conflict. What if she’s different?
He wants me, and it’s driving him mad. Making him angry. Frustrated. Why? Because he struggles with affection? Because I’m putting up a fight? Because all he knows is seducing women and having them lick his feet, beg him for it? Because I’m not falling all over myself to please him?
But I don’t voice my questions, which leaves a long, difficult time with no words, just loud breathing.
When I can’t watch Becker Hunt shaking with rage before me any longer, and my brain is tired out from trying to evaluate this situation, I push him away, peel my back from the wall, and start to walk away from him on shaky legs.
‘Yes, go home,’ he shouts after me, his words laced with fake conviction. I can hear his voice trembling. He’s not fooling me, but I ignore his apparent uncertainty and keep up my pace. ‘And don’t be late for work.’
I clench my eyes closed, determined not to cave and retaliate. I need to stock up on self-control, locate the willpower I need to keep strong, whether his goading is weirdly playful, or deadly serious. Right now, he’s deadly serious. I don’t like either, but I’m missing the roguish, arsehole Becker, and I never dreamed I’d think that. The guy behind me seems unhinged. It’s like he’s winding me in, tempting me, and then pushing me away when I get too close. I can’t fathom him at all. He’s mercurial, not a maverick.
Never in my life has my mobile ringtone been such a delight to hear. I don’t care who it is, but their timing is impeccable. I grab it and connect the call. ‘Hello.’ My greeting is clearly strained as I continue marching on my way.
‘Eleanor?’
The familiar voice brings my dogged marching to a halt. ‘Brent?’ I only manage a surprised wheeze of his name.
‘Are you okay?’ He sounds genuinely concerned, but then I remember the game. ‘Where are you?’
‘On my way home.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes, on my own.’ And it’s going to stay that way. ‘Just grabbing a cab.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. Stay where you are. I’ll come and get you.’
‘No, Brent,’ I argue quickly. The last thing I need is Brent adding another dimension to this spiky mix. ‘I can get myself—’ I don’t get to finish. Because my hand is suddenly missing my phone. ‘What the hell?’ I shout, turning fast and coming face to face with Becker. He doesn’t look any less pissed off, which only serves to heighten my own anger. ‘What are you doing?’ I make a grab for my phone, missing by a mile when he dodges my swiping hand. ‘Give me my fucking phone, Becker.’
‘Dream on,