Betrayed By Beauty - Ashley Lane Page 0,60

spasms, warning me that if I don’t get my ass up and do the walk of shame outta here, I’ll soon find myself wetting my bosses bed. Since I’ll die before I let that happen, I gingerly pull the covers away from my—oh thank god—still clothed body and stand from the bed.

I tiptoe through the room, only pausing slightly when my eyes land on a small pile on the floor. There’s nothing special or significant about the pile. It’s no different from any other pile one might expect to see littering a bedroom floor. But for some reason, I can’t pull my eyes away from the sight. Two shirts, both black and both large, are crumpled up and half covered by three pairs of shoes.

Two shirts on the floor, completely normal. We’re all guilty of dubbing the floor a makeshift laundry basket from time to time.

Three pairs of shoes. Again, completely normal. Or at least it would be if they all belonged to the same person… but as I stand here staring at the two pairs laying amongst mine, I can’t help but love how unnaturally natural it feels to see all of our shoes there together.

Oh my god. I’m daydreaming while staring at a pile of shoes. I knew it. I’m losing my mind. What the hell did Rhys put in those drinks? Mermaid Tears? I think not. More like liquid tricks from the devil himself.

Even though my last plea to the big guy went unanswered, I throw out another one as I wrap my fingers around the doorknob and pull it open. When it opens silently, I glance up at the ceiling. “I would have preferred the Angels,” I grumble.

I peek around the door frame and relax slightly when I’m met with an empty hall. Voices coming from the kitchen assure me that the guys are probably both there, but I still hold my breath as I cross the hall into the bathroom, which is thankfully already open.

My bladder sings in sweet relief when I make it to the toilet in time. When I’m finished with my business, I wash my hands and dry them on the hand towel hanging from the hook. I spot a tube of toothpaste and decide that a finger brush is better than nothing.

I scrub my teeth longer than needed and I’m woman enough to admit it was a vain attempt at prolonging the inevitable. With one last rinse, I tidy the bathroom and turn the light off as I leave.

Back in the hall, my stomach grumbles loudly as the scent of greasy bacon floods my senses. I follow my nose—and the sound of suppressed laughter and deep murmurs—and stop in the doorway of the kitchen.

Jax is standing at the stove in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. Every inch of tanned, tattooed goodness is on display for my eyes and they drink him up as if he’s water, and we’re stranded in the Sahara.

Behind him, Angel is dressed in much the same as his boyfriend, only whereas Jax’s sweats are grey, Angel’s are navy. Angel wraps his arms around Jax from behind and I take the time to appreciate the differences in their appearance.

While both men are in incredible shape, Jax is slightly taller than Angel, standing over him by no more than two inches. Jax’s naturally tan skin stands out against Angel’s pale cream. And along with the obvious differences in their hair color—Angel’s a golden blonde and Jax’s match my own inky locks—the most obvious difference in the two of them is the tattoos. Or in Angel’s case, lack of tattoos.

When I first met Jax that day behind Corrupt, he looked to be every part the biker that TV leads us to believe in. His black jeans and matching leather jacket wrapped him up in a perfectly delicious, tall, dark, and dangerous sundae.

Angel was a completely different kind of shock. His flawless beauty is not to be rivaled, even by some of today’s hottest Manhattan underwear models.

Needless to say, each man is sexier than sin. Nearly too much to handle on their own. But adding them together like they are now?

Let’s just say I hope this apartment building has a defibrillator on hand because it might just be too much for this ticker to handle.

Jax spots me over his shoulder and flashes me a roguish grin. My heart stutters in my chest, proving my defibrillator theory. I pull in a deep breath, preparing to grovel for the hot mess